In the bustling Meadowbrook, spirits are so high that most have forgotten they’re at war. The work of building Kara’s empire, broken up by goblin carnivals, dances in the public hall, and heady nights of drinking, seems less like oppression — or even duty — than simply the fact of life. For of course these joys must be broken up by tree chopping or nail hammering or thatch weaving. That’s just how living is — there’s always work.
There’s just one problem, one that nobody left in town has the capacity to understand: Meadowbrook is a tutorial town, and the Level 1 quests are piling up. Every day Lily hears a new complaint about rats in the basement, or a letter that needs delivering to some farmstead half a day’s ride east. These are the sorts of things the Marshal could handle, but the Marshal ran off, so they’ve been building up on her desk because nobody left is quite sure who’s best to get it done in her absence.
As Lily considers yet another request, this one relating to an old family heirloom carried off by some wolf and sequestered in its den, mulling over problems in the chapel’s grand hall, Jaika enters, grinning. “Solution for us,” she says.
“Oh, dear Chieftain, you have delivered us?”
Jaika opens the door wider and four goblins enter. Sizzle leads them, pretty hands on her pretty hips. “Hello, Chancellor. We help save town?”
“Crush,” says the huge goblin behind her, a broad-shouldered woman clad in loincloth and hide bra, stone warhammer in hand. “Crush enemy.”
Jaika stands beside Lily, arms crossed in appreciation. “They give themselves to us. To assign as needed. Three take new names, Common names.”
“But Sizzle still Sizzle,” says Sizzle, twirling a long, thin dagger round her dexterous fingers. “Sizzle’s friends called Wizard, Rogue, Barbarian. Sizzle called Sizzle but sometimes Barb call me Bard.”
It’s not hard for Lily to tell them apart; Rogue’s covered herself in black leathers, obscured herself with a black wool mask that hides all but her deathly black eyes — Wizard wears a blue felt robe shakily embroided with askew constellations and crescent moons, an oversized purple orb in both hands.
Sizzle’s made her own concession to theme, as well — a puffy red hat sits on top of her blonde hair with an absurd peacock feather sticking up like a flagpole.
“Thank you so much,” Lily says, kneeling down before the party of goblins. “Your passion for your community is inspiring; I know the Prophet will be most pleased.” She ignores that Sizzle stares right down the open cut of her dress — it’s just passion, after all. “Here,” she says, holding out one of the written requests, the rats in Cleo’s basement. “This should be any easy one for you.”
“Just one thing, pretty Chancellor,” Sizzle says, “what reward?”
“The Prophet has given me control of the treasury for village improvement — you shall have compensation. And, I will talk with Cleo about a chicken pie for each of you.”
“Pie?!” Barb shouts, slapping her chest with a fist. “We do for pie alone.”
“You have my pie, I have your gold,” Sizzle says, earning a nod. “Okay. We kill rats.” She salutes, and the four file out.
“Jaika,” Lily says, hugging the Chieftain. “You have done so well today. The Prophet would be proud.
“Oh, thank you, pretty Lily. Sizzle is devout of Sayla, and will teach the others.”
“So clever!”
Jaika can’t help herself — praise from Lily always makes her blush. The woman’s just so gorgeous, and so wonderful with her tongue. The blush only deepens when Lily leans in and kisses Jaika’s cheek.
The goblin’s just about ready to say, hey, we’ve both got twenty minutes to spare, especially with Sizzle picking up some of the slack, so why don’t we stir some passion in each other, when Meadowbrook’s bones are rattled by a dragon’s roar.
Silence hangs over the village. And then, again, the throaty, fiery roar — braver than most, Lily and Jaika rush outside. The roar rings out again, from just beyond the south gate. From atop the battlements, they see its source. Not a dragon, thankfully, but perhaps just as dangerous.
A column of glittering steel sits arranged along the road. Its flanks are ringed by short spearmen, shorter than even the goblins. Their long snouts display snaggle teeth poking all directions; the back of their thick plate armour is parted just enough to allow fat, dragging tails of dull scales. Kobolds.
In the centre of the column, supported by an honour guard atop plated mountain goats, rides an enormous lizard, her maw set in grim determination. Her white scales are polished and shining, two red eyes blazing beneath her ornate helm. Two swooping metal wings jut from the back of her banded steel breastplate. In her hands are lance and shield — fear blooms in Jaika and Lily both.
The trumpeters either side the scaled woman lift dragonbone horns to their snouts and blow that same terrible note, the dragon’s roar — she lifts her visor, revealing a face as strangely pretty as it is reptilian.
“I am Queen Sorla Mastich, of the Red Mountain. You sit at the edge of my domain. I offer you the chance to pay tribute and acknowledge me as your monarch — refuse, and I will return with all my strength and put this town to the torch.”
Jaika and Lily look to each other. Even if they mobilised all their soldiers, it would be a hard fought battle against just the host in front of them. Should more return, as armoured as these, there would be no hope. If only Kara were here. Kara would know what to do.
“Meadowbrook is already sworn to another,” Lily calls.
“Yes, so my Steward tells me. But are you truly willing to die for your oath to Lord Eagleclaw?”
“Lord Eagleclaw no longer rules in Meadowbrook. This town is sworn to the Prophet of Sayla.”
There’s a twinge in Sorla’s eye that neither of the women can parse — because Kara hasn’t quite brought them in on the truth of their world. But it’s the twinge of realisation, that another like her reached this place first, and that means Sorla must adjust her plans. Another like her is better off a lieutenant than dead.
“Very well. I would speak to this Prophet. I will enter unarmoured and unarmed.” She waits for no assent from Lily, simply slips off the horse and holds her arms out. From behind, a team of six kobolds scamper forward, two climbing atop stepladders, the six unlacing the ropes and straps securing the Queen’s habiliments.
“The Prophet is indisposed; however, I am her Chancellor. If diplomacy is your wish, I may speak with you. We shall open the gate!”
Lily has no proper office, having conducted all her affairs out of the converted church. She has no choice but to receive Sorla in Kara’s room.
Her resolve falters the moment she’s alone with her. The Queen is near seven feet tall, absurdly muscled, and unafraid of flashing her pointed teeth, flexing her pointed claws. Though unarmoured, her simple linen underclothes seem somehow more intimidating.
“Tell me more of your Prophet,” Sorla asks, drinking deeply from Lily’s proffered goblet.
“She is the most beautiful woman in all the world, gifted divine beauty and wisdom by the Goddess Sayla, who was once worshipped in all the land. The Prophet teaches us to embrace our passions and each other, to love with our whole hearts, and-”
“Your God is false. It is the Goddess Milas, whose domain is Rulership, who once commanded the worship of The Cradle. But I do not begrudge your Prophet for her lie. It was a useful one, to consolidate her control of this place.”
Lily smiles politely, trying not to let the vile blasphemies rankle her outwardly. “You have no place for passion amongst your kingdom?”
“Plenty. But it is incidental. Not to be bowed to. You may continue to worship this Sayla, all of you, so long as you acknowledge the primacy of Milas above her, and my primacy above your Prophet.”
“Any surrender is for the Prophet to decide, my Queen; though I do not expect she will be eager to lay down before you.”
“And where is this Prophet?”
The two sit across a small, round table, close enough to touch, should they wish. “She is away, on a mission of preemptive defence.”
“She sounds like the sort of woman I could make great use of. And clearly she has a mind for this — you are a wise choice for Chancellor; capable in your speech and distracting in your form.”
“Why-”
Sorla stands abruptly, rounds the table and puts a claw under Lily’s chin. “I will speak plainly. There are islands south of the Red Mountain in need of conquest. The campaign plans are well in place; it shall take no more than a fortnight to see them pacified. Once that is done, I return here — as friend or foe. The choice is for your Prophet.”
A scaled hand around her neck wrenches Lily to her feet, shoves her against the wall. The Queen looms over her, tracing her chin with a threatening claw. “Tell her, as condition of her surrender, I want you. You shall serve in my court and in my bedchamber, and find the rewards of service heaped upon you.” Her other hand gropes Lily’s breast, and there is nothing the Chancellor can do to object; perhaps it will be for the best in the end, stirring this woman’s passion to turn her to Sayla. “Otherwise, I will order my men to spare you when we take this town, but you will live as bed-slave, and nothing more.”
Without another word, the Queen departs, and Lily wonders how to reach Kara.