(Book One Complete!) Friendly Neighbourhood Goblin (Mercenary Company LitRPG)

The pyre smouldered in the corner. Narrow slants of morning light pooled on unworked stone, but the sudden absence of Stump's explosive glow left his eyes unaccustomed to the dark.

He stood there, strangely comfortable amidst the delighted snarls of a tribal feast—of barbecued goblin, no less—and the cool whisper of cave wind funnelling through distant arteries.

Thrung was dead.

Dead.

Not hiding in the woods, or behind his goblin army. He hadn't fled to fight another day. He was well and truly gone from the world, his kingdom dissolved, his twisted mythology shattered.

Stump allowed himself a long exhale, but it wasn't relief that drew it out. The march had been long and slowed by battle, and the week spent defending Peaktree from his own kind left him with a Knight Inn-shaped hole in his heart, and a whatever-Jin-is-currently-cooking-shaped hole in his belly.

He missed the fungal bustle of Grimsgate, and the musty comfort of his lowly company hall. He missed Reema.

He missed kindness.

"Stump," said Yeza.

The sound pulled him from his reverie. He turned to find her yellow eyes hovering in the darkness, but slowly the shadows peeled away and gave shape to his very best friend, exactly as he remembered her.

"Yeza," he said, and then stood there, paralyzed by all the things he wanted to say. They shared a weary smile. "There's so much I have to—"

She swept in and hugged the words back down his throat.

"Oh," he grunted. Pain wracked his body, but like the waves of Seabrace it receded, leaving warmth in its wake. He wrapped his arms around her and sighed again, but this time he was relieved. He closed his eyes. "This is nice."

Soon the feasting came to an end and the goblins scattered through the cave, seizing its spoils. Many turned their sights to their king's gaudy melted throne, which they pillaged with as much vigour as they'd ripped his limbs apart.

In the chaos Stump slipped outside with Yeza and spotted the mercenaries emerging from the tree line, weapons in hand, like goblins on a wagon raid.

He met Denna halfway down the hill.

"Stump," she said, surprised. She watched Yeza, who remained further up the ascent, with her hand firmly on the pommel of her sword. "Are you alright? Is he dead? Are you hurt? Is that...?"

"That's Yeza," he assured her. "My friend. There are more inside, but they won't hurt us."

Morg, lagging behind her, doubled over and stole a breath. "What was that light I saw? Yer spells?"

Stump opened his mouth to recount the battle, but hesitated. Thrung had invaded his nearly every waking thought for a week, and now that the king was slain and Yeza was safe, all the exhaustion he'd sealed away and dammed behind his determination to rescue her rushed over him all at once. He was tired, he was relieved, he was beaten and burned and scarred and every piece of him screamed for respite.

The story could wait.

"He's dead," Stump said flatly, then added, with some bafflement, "I won. I beat him."

The news landed softly, like leaves on a forest floor. Denna didn't cheer. Morg didn't thrust his weapon skyward in boisterous victory. Like Stump, the end of their quest seemed to usher a somber fatigue, urging her to relax her shoulders and trade her coiled and alert wilderness facade for that of a noble lady pining for the comforts of fine society. Morg adopted the scowl of a man in need of several drinks. They stood in a long, comfortable silence, and dropped their guards for the first time in days, each of them yearning for a different shade of the same thing—home.

"What about the rest of the tribe?" said Denna, breaking the quiet.

Morg's fingers moved to his sheath. He glared sharply at the cave. "No better time to end the threat than now. Say so 'n we'll scatter 'em to the wind."

Stump turned to find Yeza lingering in the shadow of their home.

Stolen novel; please report.

"No. There's a better way," he said.

Fearing a clash of cultures and the bloodbath that would follow, Stump returned to their cave with only Yeza at his side.

Shouts echoed off the walls and through the tunnels snaking between caverns. Tribesmen wrestled over their finds, and all that remained of the throne was a stout husk of metal, having been plundered of its valuables.

And somewhere in the clamour came the padding of blood-soaked feet. Stump turned to the sound and met the eyes of an approaching goblin, followed by six others.

The one who led them scowled and lowered his ears, a clear sign of submission.

"Forgive me," he said, and fell to a knee in the manner of a knightly tall man—no doubt how Thrung had taught them—and raised a battered, leathery tome above his head. "I offer you a gift, Stump, slayer of kings."

Slayer of kings? The title was far too unwieldy for the shortest of goblinkind, but before Stump could say as much he registered the faint red glow of the ruby stamped into the tome.

"For me?" he said nervously.

The one holding the book nodded, then looked over his shoulder and realized no one else was kneeling. He straightened with a grumble of embarrassment.

Stump accepted the book with a shallow bow. Its spine had been poorly resealed with hardened Sticky-Tricky sap, and torn pages stuck out of its covers like tufts of pressed leaves.

- Magic Item Acquired -

Skillbook

A tome imbued with the magic of various skills, conferring basic knowledge to allow for focus point investment.

Value: ???

The pungent stench of dung and beetle guts assaulted his nose when he pried it open. It was the smell of home, or what used to be. Although it was a blood and dirt-stained mess of rearranged and missing pages, he spent a long moment leafing through and getting lost in its scribbled madness.

There's so much to learn. So much to read. Beyond what he might glean from it, Elmee had offered him gold to bring it to Portentous Finds.

A clearing of the throat dragged his gaze over the rim, where he found the assembled goblins blinking expectantly. He turned to Yeza for some direction, and she gave a subtle, encouraging nod.

"Well…" Stump began. His throat was dry.

"You are king now?" said the one leading them. He was wide at the shoulders and possessed the permanent scowl of a jutting brow. Stump imagined his own head would crack like a mimicaw's egg in the goblin's calloused grasp.

"Me? No, I…" Stump faltered, his confidence having left with the end of the battle like a passing breeze.

"You slayed our king. He was a fool. Weak, cowardly, like you said. He had powers from worlds beyond ours, but you have powers, too. Now you are king… Yes?"

Those behind him grunted agreement.

"No, I'm no king… I…" Stump watched the rest of the goblins flit about in an aimless frenzy, and realized he knew none of their faces. All those he remembered from his childhood were gone. The others were the orphans of tribes forged into Thrung's kingdom. And now they were leaderless. Matronless.

Show them strength.

Light filled the cavern again as Stump bubbled a lumen over his head. Goblins in the midst of rifling through the throne's treasures or stalking about the cave for other finds froze and turned their heads. Many of them wandered over, drawn like moths to the glow.

They appraised Stump with wary curiosity, much the same way he used to look on the matrons.

Once they were gathered, he tucked the book under his arm.

"I'm not your king," he began. "You are all free to return to your caves, your tribes, or what's left of them. Or take all the treasure you can carry and start new tribes. Claim this cave as your own, or wander out to find others for yourselves. Or you can come with me to the Shadowlands."

Goblin ears stood to attention. Tribesmen traded whispers of uncertainty.

"It's not a world to be feared," he continued. "You've seen some of it yourselves. The farms. The food. And yes, the tall men. But they don't have to be our enemies."

The whispers swelled.

"There are many creatures that live among them. Goblins, too. I'm one of them. I have a home. I have friends, and food, and shelter. And I have adventure, and fighting, and sometimes treasure. So I won't be your king, and I won't rule your tribes, but if you come with me through the Shadowlands, I'd like to be your leader. And maybe your friend."

It was a pitch pulled from the air, and one Stump was proud of. But none of the goblins responded. They stood in hushed chatter, conferring with one another and waiting for someone to voice their opinion.

The one who'd given Stump the book glanced around, huffed, and slid a brass ring off his finger. He tossed it at Stump's feet.

"This one, known as Ironbone, would like to serve under your leadership, and be your friend. I will follow you into the land of hags." If not for the cannibalized goblin crumbs around his mouth, the earnestness in his tone might've been sweet.

Ironbone fell to a knee and bowed his head. "Stump, slayer of kings."

Another, smaller than Ironbone but with a frown twice as fierce, stepped forward and offered a silver necklace that looked strikingly similar to one Stump had seen at Peaktree.

"This one, known as Frightened-Of-Birds, offers a gift to Stump, slayer of kings. If you allow it, I will found my own tribe called the Bird-Killers, and together we will kill all beasts with wings." He adopted a kneel alongside Ironbone.

More approached, sometimes two or three at a time. There was Knife-Chewer, who vowed to join Stump in the Shadowlands, and Smells-Like-Shit and Dorgul, who pledged their allegiance to the Bird-Killers.

More treasure landed at Stump's feet. Bracelets and coins and buttons glittered in the dirt, while necklaces, carpets and shawls hung from his shoulders. Before he was aglow with magic, but now he shone with the offerings of his people.

"Stump, slayer of kings!" bellowed Ironbone.

And the cave rumbled with the roar of goblins.

"STUMP, SLAYER OF KINGS!"