He wasn’t wearing any personal protective equipment besides an apron over his shorts and shirt. I guessed whatever race he belonged to enjoyed high resistance to cold and disease. Or he was desperate enough to risk the elements and the fear-inducing plague he was shouting about.

  Our eyes met again, and he seemed on the verge of breaking into tears. If he didn’t look so terrifying and the cart wasn’t a vehicle for plague-corpse disposal, I would offer him my sympathy, but maintaining a wide berth was probably for the best.

  Then, a trio of armed goblins in rough leather and metal armor appeared from out of the alleys. Their spears had strange, bulky contraptions below the spearheads, and similar but mismatched attachments stuck out of their shields as well. I guessed they were products of goblin tinkering.

  “There ain’t no plague in Grog’s Table, boyo,” the shortest and stockiest of the guards said. “Yer scaring our citizens. If ye don’t stop, I’ll put ye in lockup.” One of the other guards whispered a few words into their leader’s giant, pointed ear. “I mean, the lads will have to kick ye out of town.”

  “I’m sorry, boys.” The troll-man looked embarrassed. “I’ve been following the Champions of Pestilence around the lands. I was sure Grog’s Table was their next destination. I guess I’m early.” His shoulders slumped as he looked at the rocky ground, disheartened. His feet were bigger than mine; Instead of tufts of hair, tiny scales covered him. “Not to worry, lads. I’ll get out of your hair, maybe return in a few weeks after they’ve passed through. It’s not an easy trade, ye know, can’t always predict where them lords are heading.”

  The guards paled, listening to the troll-man speak. Eavesdropping hawkers and stall owners started closing shop, even though most of them hadn’t finished setting up. If his claims were true, I needed to speed up my plan, defeat the shaman, and get out. I didn’t want to meet any entities with titles along the lines of “Champions of Pestilence.” Putting together an escape plan now took priority.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know a good apothecary, would you?” he asked. “There’s a parasite going around in Bracken Swamp. I might as well provide them with some aid in the meantime.”

  “Why don’t ye stick around a while?” One of the other guards spoke up. “We could use yer help to safeguard against the coming plague.”

  “And risk bumping into the Champions of Pestilence?” He shuddered at the idea. “I clean up after them, not get in the way of them doing their job. Besides, what good is a cemetery troll against a Champion? No, thank you.” The corpse collector clapped the guard’s shoulder. He winced at the force and then quickly scurried out of the bigger creature’s reach. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here for the aftermath. You’re alright for a goblin, mate. If you’re not dead by the time I get back, how about we get a drink?”

  I watched the guards back away from him before breaking into a run toward Grog’s Throne. I guessed they were off to report to their seniors. For a moment, I felt sympathy for the poor troll. He looked back and forth as everyone stared daggers at him. Most looked at him in fear, others with hatred, and a handful had pity in their eyes.

  Was it his race? Why was he stuck in such a thankless and hated profession? I imagined the world lacked modern medicine and sanitation. The service he was offering was an essential one. Probably because of misinformation, he had arrived in the Blacknail Mountains ahead of whatever disaster was about to befall the city. Historically, heralds of misfortune and omens were never welcome appearances.

  I stayed out of the troll’s way as he pushed his cart away from the market street. He looked like the sort who might strike out in anger or grief. I waited until he moved on before looking for some way to make money.

  fifteen

  Space turned out to be a commodity nobody wanted to share. Whenever I got close to a workable spot, a nearby goblin shooed me away from their ongoing hustle. Not like I had anything to collect coins with anyway. The idea of walking around with cupped hands felt entirely degrading. Perhaps it was time I saved my tips for a hat to collect my earnings.

  Then I spotted a trio of face-painted goblins and my heart fell into my stomach. Gurk had warned me about them. They were the shaman’s close circle. Their jobs involved ensuring the tribe didn’t stray too far from their spiritual path and the sacrifices remained on track.

  “If you see them, run and hide,” Gurk had told me.

  Their robes and the blue-orange patterns on their faces set them apart from the other goblins. None of it made them more attractive but made them stand out nonetheless. It was for the best, since avoiding them would now prove easier.

  Even though Grog and Cook had officially declared I had the freedom to move around the fort, the shaman likely didn’t want his sacrifice having a good time during work hours. I could foresee drama and trouble and didn’t want to take the risks. So I ducked behind a pile of crates.

  The mushroom seller who owned it tried to shoo me away, but sticky-fingered capper children kept him too busy. Whenever one of the acolytes got close to a stall, the goblin shopkeepers would fawn over them, bowing and showering them with praise. In return for service and goods, the acolytes gave them coins alongside small charms of bone and wood. Some of them vaguely resembled the many pieces hanging from the shaman. I focused on my Mana Sense and caught glimmers of green or purple lights pulsing within them.

  If the shaman and his acolytes truly relied on the bone ornaments to make their lives in Grog’s Table easier, their hatred of Ozman made sense. I noted, though, the acolytes gave merchants selling alcohol a wide berth, focusing their patronage on food and tobacco vendors instead.

  My heart fell into my stomach when I sighted one of them coming my way. My pale hillfolk skin and the curly locks hanging from my head made me stand out like a sore thumb. As they got closer, I fell on my stomach and pulled my new cloak’s hood up, hoping the acolytes wouldn’t notice me.

  Who knew Sneaking would come naturally to a little person?

  I almost chuckled at the notification. Many on Earth would find it offensive. The system probably had no way of knowing what was politically correct back home and what wasn’t. But the thought that it did but refused to give a damn amused me.

  Sneaking mastery unlocked!

  No, the shadows aren’t ready to embrace you quite yet, but improved instincts when trying to remain hidden are always a bonus.

  Sneaking: Novice Rank 4

  “Huh.” Unlike , the mastery didn’t start at rank zero. The system did say it would take my natural skills into account. Maybe a childhood filled with hide-and-seek wasn’t a waste of time after all. Curious whether it would unlock another mastery, I stuffed my pockets with what were either cave or chestnut mushrooms. Much to my disappointment, no more notifications appeared.

  Maintaining a low crouch, I worked on putting as much distance between the acolytes and me as possible. Unfortunately, they were everywhere. Maybe they’d just finished their post-waking prayers. It didn’t matter; I needed some place to hide.

  Sneaking mastery has progressed to Novice Rank 5!

  The notification made me look up, and I found an acolyte standing right in front of me. Fortunately, a bouquet of mushrooms hanging from the stall had his attention. I rolled to the side, away from his feet, toward a pile of large burlap sacks. After waiting a couple of moments, I rose onto my hands and knees and crawled rapidly, moving away from the crowds toward a nearby alley.

  Then my heart skipped a beat as I spotted a familiar face ahead on an adjacent street. It was Klinkle. She walked up to a crooked stone building with a barrel hanging above the front window. She unlocked the door and headed in. The she-goblin didn’t like me, but I hoped my Charisma and Facts Begin With Fiction would convince her to give me shelter until the acolytes passed. If my observations were correct, they’d stay away from the tavern—assuming that was what the barrel signified.

  As soon as all three of the face-painted goblins were occupied at a stall, I rose into a crouch and scurried forward. The hood and cape hid my face and pale forearms; however, my calves and feet remained exposed. I hoped the dark hair covering them would look like fur at a glance and keep others from spotting me.

  Once on the less-populated street, I stood upright and walked at a brisk pace, hoping the acolytes would see me from the back and mistake me for another goblin. To make myself less recognizable, I shifted the guitar to hang in front of me. Then a fourth acolyte turned the corner ahead and our eyes met.

  At first, we both froze. He looked me up and down while my eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape route. As soon as he took a step toward me, I took off down an alley to my left. I didn’t know what good running would do. Thanks to my face and guitar, there was no mistaking my identity. Fortunately, the acolyte gave chase without raising an alarm. If I managed to get him alone, perhaps a short story would convince him to keep sighting me during work hours a secret.

  Besides, since most prisoners and sacrifices were supposed to be on work duty, there’d be fewer people looking out for the likes of me. As a result, it was likely my only opportunity to check the city’s perimeter and observe the security around the bridges.

  The Trial of Brawn had lasted a handful of minutes at the most, and by the end, I could barely breathe. Now, after perhaps fifteen minutes of running and weaving through pedestrians, I was in just as bad a shape. The additional points in Vitality and Dexterity appeared to have increased my stamina, but it wasn’t nearly enough. I peeked over my shoulder to find the sneering acolyte closing in on me. His face paint made the expression even more sinister.

  I broke line of sight for a brief moment, turning onto another side road. Compared to the last two streets, it was mostly deserted and the stone buildings standing with no gaps between them covered it in shadows. Instead of sticking to it, I turned into another alley, got behind a pile of discarded furniture, and fell onto my bottom.

  Stitches stung my sides as I covered my mouth. The loud breathing echoed in the narrow, unoccupied alley. My lungs complained and threatened to collapse on me, but I silently urged them to stay strong. The chase was far from over.

  It surprised me that the acolyte hadn’t yet raised an alarm. He skidded to a stop on entering the deserted street. I hoped he’d run through it, but he slowed, scanning his surroundings with a pair of beady, murky-green eyes. Unlike the others, the acolyte didn’t carry a staff. Instead, he pulled a wood-and-bone scepter from his waistband. The crystal sitting atop it glowed with a green glow, and it gleamed with a luminosity similar to the stone that had empowered Sasha. I knew then that escaping the acolyte wasn’t enough. I needed to embrace the new world’s ways, incapacitate him, and steal the scepter. It wasn’t personal. His master intended to sacrifice me. And by policing for the shaman, the acolytes were complicit. Getting rid of them felt natural.

  In fact, if one of the shaman’s acolytes went missing, he’d get suspicious and there’d be a power imbalance within his inner circle too. So, I gave up on caution and made a daring move. I whistled. The acolyte’s eyes darted to my hiding place. Two emerald motes broke off from his crystal and darted toward me.

  “There you are!” he hissed, marching toward me. “The shaman will brand you for this.”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong though,” I replied. “Chieftain Grog and Cook insisted I celebrate my new potato creation, so they gave me the morning off.”

  As the acolyte got closer, his expression softened. “The double-baked potato was you?!” he asked, eyes widening, pausing at the mouth of the alley I was in. “Where in the world did you learn to make that?”

  “Have you heard of Ireland?” The acolyte shook his head. He continued his approach, but much slower now. The scepter now hung from his relaxed arm instead of pointing at me. “My mother came from a hillfolk village far to the north, you see. The winters were harsh there, making it tough to grow much besides potatoes and cabbage. They suffered famines and droughts, which often killed the cabbages, but the potatoes never failed them. As a result, her people taught her to do all sorts of things with potatoes.”

  A soft smile spread across the acolyte’s face as I continued to speak. It was my Charisma and Facts Begin With Fiction. They were relaxing him. My eyes remained focused on the goblin as he lazily approached me. I just needed him to cover a couple of meters before making my move.

  “When she married my father, they bought a tavern together,” I said. “In case you don’t know much about hillfolk country, our hills are full of taverns. We never seem to have enough to fit them all. Well, we needed something to compete. So, my mother came up with the twice-baked potato. We filled them with whatever was seasonal. Sometimes we just did herbs, other times we added some bacon.”

  “Did you do some with cabbage too?” the acolyte asked, swallowing audibly.

  “Of course!” I exclaimed, smiling. “Colcannon is my favorite. We’d have bits of shredded cabbage, carrots, and lots of charred onion in there.”

  “I’d like you to make that for Grog’s hall. My brothers and I—”

  Then I sprung my trap. There was no telling whether the trait’s abilities were powerful enough to make the goblin lie or ignore my supposed transgression altogether. Avoiding suspicion was my top priority. So, I pushed the pile of furniture that had served as my hiding place toward him. It creaked loudly but didn’t budge. The acolyte’s brows furrowed straight away as his eyes darted between me and the tower of scrap wood. Whatever goodwill I had won with the trait and my Charisma went with my attempt to harm him.

  The acolyte raised his scepter once again and pointed it at me. If I were in his place, I would’ve gotten physical. His mumbling incantation gave me time to continue my attempts. This time, instead of continuing to push, I grabbed a protruding chair leg and pushed it up as a lever. The pile of furniture shook, making the acolyte pause.

  “How—”

  The wood collapsed on top of him. No notifications appeared informing me of Cowards’ Brand activating. A relieved sigh escaped me. The acolyte screwed up by underestimating me. Standing in place after figuring out my plan was stupid.

  Then the sound of grating wood and groans made my breath catch in my throat. I backpedaled nervously as the wood shifted and a green tree of light grew out of the ground. It shifted the rubble, revealing the crouching acolyte. The snarl on his now-bloodied face sent shivers down my spine. I, once again, turned and ran.

  Riding lessons were for the privileged where I grew up. Horses were expensive to keep, and Central London was a twenty-minute ride away on the train. The beasts needed more space than the meager parks and playgrounds provided, so no one kept them. I had well-off equestrian friends who competed though, and they all came from well-off families. For the first time in my twenty-something years of existence, I envied them.

  The acolyte didn’t just come at me on foot anymore. My failed attempt at disabling him had pissed off the painted goblin, and ethereal vines had wrapped around his arms. Now, whenever he waved his arms, weeds peeking out of the cracks in the ground rapidly grew and grabbed at me. They swung violently, cracking like whips and shattering discarded wood.

  On the bright side, the violent movements caused a cascade of rubble behind me. It created obstacles for my pursuer and helped me stay ahead of him. My lungs and sides still screamed from all the exertion. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to slow down. The violent flora kept me on my toes.

  “Maka,” I mumbled between ragged breaths. “I could use some help.”

  It didn’t surprise me when no one came to my aid. I needed to get used to the fact that I was alone and relying on a support system or assistance was stupid. If someone lent a helping hand like Maka’s enhanced perk, it was a boon and nothing more. I had created the issue by biting off more than I could chew. Perhaps thinking a pile of collapsing furniture was enough to defeat a member of the shaman’s inner circle was a stupid move.

  “Get back here, you soft-fleshed coward!” the goblin called. His voice sounded ragged and strained. Either the trap had done some damage or prolonged use of magic was putting a great deal of strain on him. Hopefully it was a bit of both.

  I skidded to a stop at a T-junction. To my left, the alley exited on to a crowded street. Losing my pursuer there wouldn’t be a problem at all. However, he could just as easily gather a rabble of guards and civilians to run me down. So I turned right and continued down another deserted alley. My body wanted to quit and collapse, but the chasing goblin’s pursuing eyes suggested he was in a similar state.

  Turning to violence wasn’t an option. I had suffered the halved vitality before, and it wasn’t something I couldn’t deal with; however, my Charisma would prove vital for dealing with the aftermath, and it was a commodity I couldn’t sacrifice.

  When I turned a corner again, I saw the wall and one gate in the distance. Besides guards, warg riders stood around the exit with their mounts. If the acolyte got his attention, no amount of running would save my pale skin. So I skidded to a stop. The ground behind me rippled and boiled, letting me know that the goblin and his magic had almost caught up to me once again. So, I put my enhanced Dexterity to good use and climbed once again.

  Despite my tiredness, scaling the crooked stone building proved easier than scrambling up the ruins during the first trial. I felt more in control of my body and sure of myself. My eyes observed more as well and highlighted a possible victory move. Once at the top, I paused to catch my breath and swiftly scanned my surroundings. Fortunately, there were no eyes on me, and I sighted a possible tool of victory not far ahead.

  By the time I got to it, the acolyte had turned the corner and was in the alley below. He stopped at the junction, wheezing. The goblin leaned against the wall and his beady eyes darted back and forth. Blood had warped the face paint, giving him a more horrifying visage. The look on his face suggested he wanted to put me down. Given his position, I was sure the acolyte would have no trouble convincing his superiors that it was an accident or that he had no choice.