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

He was late for the gathering. Again.

It was the Codex, he thought as he sprinted down the road. His robes billowed behind him. The ogre mask hung off his sash. Night had fallen, and the cool bite of the wind foretold the end of summer. Fields of rye whispered their solitary tune as they bent with the breeze to reveal a hill ahead, and the lighted windows of the crooked farmhouse that crowned it.

Farther still the silver haze of moonlight slipped through a break in the clouds, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of the floating limbs of Gravanus affixed to the aerial city of Nefili. It would be sailing east with the wind, and come morning the Sky Anchor would be nothing but a distant vessel on the horizon.

I was busy reading our sacred texts and mistook the hour. It was the Codex, I was busy reading our sacred texts and mistook… he rehearsed, around and around.

In truth it had been the teleportation. It always was. But if he admitted his casting had taken him a dozen leagues off course, his climb from Initiate to Seeker might take twice as long. Or worse, he'd be shadowbanned before ever earning his first glimpse of Shekago.

Because even he, Brother Onion, lowliest of the Order, was burdened by great expectations.

I was busy reading our sacred texts and…

He doubled over outside the farmhouse door and caught his breath. When his heart steadied he flattened his robes, wiped the sweat from his brow, and straightened.

His knock killed the hushed chatter within.

A tense quiet followed, in which he imagined his brethren were whispering about who might be disturbing them at this strange hour. Finally, heavy footfalls sounded through, and lamplight spilling beneath the door flickered at the passing of a shadow. Locks were turned, cranks were cranked, and a thin metal hatch slid open.

A pair of yellow eyes narrowed at him from behind a pig mask.

"I was busy reading our sacred—"

"Words?" said Master Pig, a Seeker of their Order.

"Sorry? Oh…" Onion fumbled with his ogre mask, which he'd removed in his sprint. He set it over his face and made a "satisfied?" motion.

"Brother Onion. Pleasure to see you."

Onion had never been sure why he received the name. He was well acquainted with both onions and ogres and found that they looked nothing alike. "Now, like I was saying. I was reading—"

"Words," repeated Pig, more seriously.

"Oh, this isn't… You know me."

Locks and bolts began to clink back into place.

"Alright, alright," Onion caved. He exaggerated a sigh. "His is the wisdom of ages."

"Long since past?" said Brother Pig, skeptical.

Another sigh. "And still yet to come."

"Verily, we are blessed with His sight."

"Of lands beyond lands, in steel and in glass." Onion leaned to one side to peer through the hatch, but his inquisitor readjusted to block the view.

"Wherefore is our vision granted?" Pig challenged.

There was an awkward beat of confusion before Onion spoke. "Wasn't it 'Lo, His works and majesty transcend'?"

"That was last week. Today it's 'Wherefore is our vision granted?'" said Pig, offering no sympathy on the matter.

"Well, you know I know wherefore. Let me in, will you?" Onion reached for the door.

Pig appeared to grip the handle tighter. "Wherefore?"

Brother Onion kissed his teeth. "In trust and reverence of the breaker of worlds and slayer of gods," he said hurriedly.

"He is the ohpee."

"He is the emsee."

The hatch squealed shut. A rumble of sliding bolts preceded the door swinging open. "You're late, Brother," said Pig, in the doorway.

Brother Onion stepped inside to the warmth of a hearth and rubbed his chilled hands together. "It was the Codex—"

He faltered at the sight of the assembly before him. Standing barely beyond the flicker of firelight, at the far end of the farmhouse, was a robed figure wreathed in shadow. His arms were aloft as if he'd been interrupted in the process of a holy reading, and the pedestal and open tome before him confirmed Onion's suspicions.

Seated in front of the figure on rickety benches were nearly a dozen members of the Sect of Cartala, one of the many branches of their Order. Wood creaked as they turned to judge the Brother who'd disrupted their session.

"Apologies," said Brother Onion. He stepped around them with a sheepish bounce, offering friendly nods to the faces following his every step. No one nodded back.

Why are there such high ranking members here? he thought, noting the many painted masks of creatures and figures from Shekago's sacred pantheon of demigods. Their presence does not bode well.

He slunk into an empty seat in the front row and prayed he would be forgotten.

But the one leading the congregation dashed his hopes against the barn wall. "Brother Onion," he said tersely. "Shall I begin anew, or is your mind quicker than your feet?"

On closer inspection Onion realized who was addressing him. The man was a Supreme Visionary, one of the highest attainable ranks of the Order. His heart-shaped mask was a blend of bleeding colours around two bulging orange and green eyes and speared by yellow spikes.

Brother Onion licked his dry lips. In that moment he was thankful for the mask. "No, Supreme Visionary. It was the Codex, you see. I was busy reading…"

The Supreme Visionary regarded him with a stern, unblinking look.

...Never mind," Onion finished. "Carry on. I'll keep up."

After a long, petrifying silence meant to shame, their superior lowered his gaze to the pedestal and the great tome atop it—the Prima Codex, their most sacred of texts.

He cleared his throat. "So sayeth He to the wretched maiden who'd scorned Him, 'Bitch, do you know who I am?' " He paused to scan the crowd for anyone not paying attention.

They all were, it seemed.

But Brother Onion, beyond simply listening, was mouthing the next verse to himself under his mask. And the maiden dared scorn Him again upon the second night. Upon the third night He sayeth to her…

" 'Listen, I saved you from those orcs," continued the Supreme Visionary. " 'If you're not gonna reward me, there will be consequences.' And thusly, on the fourth night, that ghastly wench turned from His love yet again, and sealed the fate of herself and her kind. From whence came the expulsion of the elves of Aubany. To the skies they beseeched, 'Lo! Why have you forsaken us?' And He sayeth nothing, for they did not know the error of their ways."

He looked up from his reading, but waited for the simmering silence to boil over into awkwardness before he ambled around the pedestal with the restrained anger of a disappointed father.

"Which of you understands the story as I've read it?" he said.

A number of heads turned. Brother Onion sank deeper into his seat.

"No one wants to speak?" the Supreme Visionary went on, but didn't wait for an answer. "Must I parse the meaning of the words for you? Which of you understands why I read it? No one? Not a soul has the faintest idea why I've called all of you creatures here today, of all days, here in this damp, squalid corner of the world?"

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The bench squeaked when someone shifted uncomfortably.

The Supreme Visionary kicked over an unlit brazier. "Speak up!"

A timid hand raised above the crowd.

"Yes?" he said.

"Uh… well…" their willing sacrifice began nervously. "Because we've lost another one?"

"And how many is that now? Hm?"

The hand lowered.

Forty nine, thought Brother Onion, but was too afraid to speak.

"Forty nine!" said the Supreme Visionary. "Forty nine of His line, hand-plucked from Shekago like grapes! But they've all spoiled. None have lived up to Him. None!" He found a second brazier to flatten, then pointed to one of the gathered. "Yours was reincarnated as a goblin, was he not?"

"Uh…" someone trilled.

"And where is that goblin today? Dead, isn't it?" He jabbed his finger at another. "And yours? Reincarnated into a sword, wasn't he? Well, turns out he was a damned mute! Tell me the purpose of a talking sword inhabited by the soul of a mute! And tell me how you find such an instrument amongst a collection of regular, non-talking, non-mute, bloody swords!" Someone else was speared by his indignant pointing. "And you! Yours was promising. He was brooding, he was dark and mysterious, yet snarky at the best of times. He made pointed and timely references to the demi pantheon. And yet! And yet! What happened?"

"Oh, uh.. well..."

"Stand up!"

The addressed Brother bolted upright. "I, uh... he, uh... um..."

The Supreme Visionary thrashed his arms hard enough to swell his robes above his ankles, revealing a pair of sandals worn over threaded stockings. "He was murdered! Killed in a tavern brawl! Stabbed through the throat because he couldn't stop smirking at everyone! Sit Down!"

The one who was called fell into their seat as if thrust by an unseen force.

The Supreme Visionary spent a frantic moment searching for a third brazier, but came up short and turned his ire to them all at once. "You butchered a planar shift and summoned him into a field of grass, naked, with no knowledge of how to build a fire! He died of exposure that very night! Yours shirked their responsibilities as the emsee altogether and ran off to refurbish an abandoned inn and saw some modest success! Yours was swallowed by the dragon he foolishly attempted to tame! Yours, reincarnated into an orc, decided he didn't like violence! And what does the bastard do now? He transmutes beans into lukewarm water! And people drink it and rave about its wonders!"

He picked up a chair and lobbed it at the wall. "Brooding! Snarky! Clever! Equally cruel and forgiving! Traumatic past! No concern for the life he leaves behind! An eye towards optimized builds, and a desire to fight! Is that so difficult?" The Supreme Visionary loomed over the congregation and roared through his mask. "WHICH ONE OF YOU WILL TELL ME WHY I RECITED THAT PASSAGE?"

"Power!" Brother Onion blurted.

The Supreme Visionary relaxed his shoulders and stepped in front of Onion. He glared down at the timid Initiate.

"Go on," he dared.

Brother Onion swallowed hard. He realized he'd made a terrible mistake when he glanced over his shoulder to find everyone watching him with held breaths. You better get this right, they seemed to say.

"Well. Uh, power," he began, trying and failing to steel his nerves. "He, the Godslayer, was powerful. He did what he wanted. He took what he desired, and he punished those who refused him. I… well, if I understand you correctly, I think that's what you're saying about the forty eight who have come since. None possessed that same power."

Before Onion could be admonished or praised for his insights, the farmhouse door was besieged by a series of heavy raps.

Pig groaned to his feet and wandered over. "Alright, pace yourself," he told the ceaseless knocking. He worked the locks and slid the hatch open. "Words."

A voice on the other end returned a muffled scolding.

"Words, I said."

More incomprehensible speaking. Whoever it was, they were angry.

"If you're not going to say—"

Pig tumbled to the floor as the door crashed open. The hearth dimmed at the sudden rush of wind, or maybe it was the cold presence of the one who swaggered in that caused the flames to bow.

Several of the assembled gasped. The Supreme Visionary took a step back. "You…" he breathed.

The hearth brightened again to reveal the wide toothy smile of her mask. The enormous bulging eyes, blue pug nose, and curved silver horns only compounded the fear of those who looked on it.

Brother Onion was new to the whole secret sect business, but even he recognized the Blue Beast. She was not of the highest ranks, she was the highest rank, a Prime Wyfoo, canonical soulmate of the Godslayer himself and one of the few inducted into the innermost circle of secrets—the Haruhm. It was an achievement unattainable through normal avenues of study and devotion. It was given only by Jaessun himself, and she held a personal, ongoing relationship with their lord that transcended the bounds of space and time, or so it was said. She may even have known his fleshy form, over a hundred years ago.

She stepped over Pig without a word and strode into their gathering, where she lingered behind the assembly.

"I… I wasn't aware of your attendance," said the Supreme Visionary, with a nervous bob of the head.

"You wouldn't be." The words slithered off her tongue. "Don't let me interrupt. Continue."

His posture had fallen precipitously. "Yes. We were just discussing the recent difficulties concerning our planar ventures," he said diplomatically, as if he hadn't only moments ago raged against his pupils. Two horizontal braziers could attest to it.

"Failures," she said.

He gulped. "Failures. Yes, of course. I was reading to them verse twelve chapter fifteen of First DPSalms. It was meant to be a lesson on strength."

She shook her head slowly, like a predator weaving between trees. "Apocaloot. Chapter four. Verse nine."

He started for the pedestal.

"No," she hissed. "Recite it."

He spent a hapless moment looking from her to the book and back again. He offered a timid chuckle. "I don't have that one memorized."

She moved around the crowd, stepped up to the pedestal, and shut the book. "May I?"

It was not a question.

He sputtered agreement, then awkwardly shuffled to the bench where he struggled to sit on the end next to Brother Onion.

She surveyed the masked and silent faces before her. "Who can recite it?" she said.

Mumbles. Mutterings. Nothing comprehensible was forthcoming.

Brother Onion tapped his foot in a nervous rhythm. He knew the verse. He knew the ones before and after. He knew the whole chapter, beat by beat and line by line. But she was a Prime Wyfoo, the godliest form a mere mortal could take. What if he forgot a word? Or mispronounced one of the many old Ingilish phrases? Or got the cadence all wrong?

"I very nearly brought a fiftieth into our world," she said. Her throat was cracked and raw, her voice like shards of glass. "I was near Aubany, in seclusion. I had tethered the temple of Umbralanus there to Shekago, and found one who was nearly perfect. He had all the values, all the stats of a man meant to bring about a true Second Dying. Not a fifth level goblin slain by his own mutinous tribe. Not an eighth level orc with delusions of grandeur. No. The Jaessun I found would have brought our world to its knees and handed us the reins. Power is good. Desirable. But power is cheap. If you bestow on the lowest beings a class of great strength, they will wield it as a child wields the broadsword."

She gave another slow, deliberate sweep of her eyes over the sect. "Is there none among you who knows our Codex well enough to recite to me the passage I speak of?"

Brother Onion's foot tapping had slowly graduated into the bouncing of his entire leg, and eventually the shaking of his whole body. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Steam gathered behind his mask.

You know it, he told himself. Speak up. You know it.

"Uh…" he squeaked. Like bees to honey his whimper drew all heads his way. " 'Hark, yo! I am the Exalted One. I am the Chosen One. I have slain your false gods,' so sayeth He to those who gathered to hear His words. And they who had doubted Him gnashed their teeth and took to their knees to beg His forgiveness. And He granted it, because He is kind and powerful and supreme, as well as humble. 'How will we know thee from those who claim thy name?' They asked, fearing their mistake. He looked on His followers and sayeth, 'You'll know, trust. I'm the emsee. I'm the ohpee. If anyone comes for my throne, they'll need more than my powers. They'll need to be Chosen.' "

Conversing through masks was difficult, but he'd learned to read others not through their facial expressions but by their movements, or their stillness. Their silence. And judging by the rapt quiet that followed his reciting of the verse, Brother Onion knew he'd done well.

Heat rose to his face. "Uh, that's the end," he stammered.

The Blue Beast leaned forward. "He is the ohpee, the emsee. Chosen. Exalted. Power is only one dimension, but there is another. Destiny. We must find this Jaessun the fiftieth, and show him who he is. Who he can be. We must show him the Codex, and the history of His name."

Heresy, Onion wanted to say. Chapter ten verse eighteen of the Book Of The Solobadi clearly stated their tenet of non-intervention—Forsooth, they who walk in His footsteps from the land of steel and glass must tread a path of their own. They must grind alone, as He did. They must level alone, as He did—but before he could work the courage to air his doubts, she was already stepping around the pedestal and coming his way.

"We must teach him the ways of his forebears!" she went on. "We must grant him visions of his future! Visions of the end times! We must show him his destiny!"

Whether through genuine conviction or simply a desire to follow the will of the crowd, all those gathered began to echo her words. Brother Onion mouthed them, so as not to be singled out, but he did so with less certainty.

The Blue Beast came to a stop before him. "And you must find him," she said.

Onion pointed to himself. "Me?" Out of the corner of his eye he caught an envious look from the Supreme Visionary.

"You," she confirmed. "What is your name?"

"Uh, it's On—Brother Onion," he said, awestruck by her proximity.

"No, you were. You've shown you know our sacred texts. Our tenets. Who better to visit Shekago with the will of the Haruhm, to find our next prodigy?"

By now the room had erupted into chant. "He is the ohpee! He is the emsee!" they roared.

"Shed your lowly title as Brother," she went on, "And rise as Master Onion, Seeker of the Order."

He did so in a daze. Master Onion? It had a ring to it, a bounce. It held power. Authority. "I...I... I am honoured. But am I ready?" he said.

She leaned in close and whispered over the theological fervour, "No one ever is." When she could see that instilled in him fear and pride in equal measure, she cupped his chin and directed his gaze to her eyes. "You will show him. You will bring him to us. And you will prepare him as the second Godslayer."

His eyebrows gathered conspiratorially over his nose. The second Godslayer? It was not a prophecy he'd ever heard before. It didn't even really make sense. "But... the gods are already dead. Are they not?"

He couldn't see it, but he knew by the tone of her reply that she was smirking.

"You are thirsty for knowledge, I see it in your eyes," she said. "Complete your task and you will be rewarded with all the hidden cloisters and forbidden scrolls you could ever dream of. Find him. Take him. Thrust his destiny upon him, and make him see. Our next emsee. Our next protagonist."