Adria’s teeth dug deeper into a blazing torch’s handle, whose faint light danced around the walls of the mead dungeon, illuminating a barrel ahead. She cast the shadow of a goblin. A goblin. Still, she couldn’t wrap her mind around it, like the taps of these barrels: after endless tries twisting the top handle, clicking the pin on the side then placing a mug under the tap, nothing came out. One last time, she tried and…

Frustration made her leg kick the barrel on its own. The mead splashed, but didn’t dare leave its hideout.

The customers came to mind. They’d give her a hard time. Nasty looks. Yelling. Whining. She could manage -- she had worked here long enough to master the it’s my first day speech.

But if the head of the inn caught wind of Adria’s streak of failures extending to seven days in a row… The sight of Saint Goblin’s welcoming face souring into a frown, and her wrinkly lips uttering curses and words of banishment, flashed by Adria’s eyes. She shuddered.

Curse me all you want. Nothing’s going to make me even more unlucky. But, please, let me stay, she thought. Working in this inn, among goblins, is a dream come true. I’ll have a day when I don’t make any huge mistakes, eventually. Maybe I’ll even figure out how this damn barrel works.

Where Adria had kicked at the barrel, a crack had formed. An idea came to her.

First, she slid a platter with a dozen empty mugs over to the barrel. Then she kicked at it. The wood creaked, cracked, and splintered. Drops of the liquid joy flowed down the sides of the barrel. Not enough for even a single cup.

Through the stone walls, protests of adventurers, explorers and everyone in between seeped through. Fury at the lack of alcohol.

Adria conjured a powerful kick. Her foot broke through the barrel. Foam erupted and beer flowed. The cups filled. Adria grinned, but her joy couldn’t last -- how would she close the gates of mead, now that they were open?

A few ideas buzzed like flies. One landed. She took off her shoes, plugged the hole with the right one, and put the left atop the barrel. Barefoot, Adria picked up the heavy platter. It swayed in her hand. After balancing for a moment, she slid and juggled her way out of the mead dungeon, past the scathing hot kitchen, and into the dining hall.

The inn lived within the carcass of Gothsin’s Church of the Thirteenth God. The dining hall stood within the nave, its walls and stained glass windows covered in the banners of Gothsin and the Twenty Gods of the First Age. Witless goblins in aprons ran around, cleaning up mess after mess. Waiter goblins swerved around each other with stacks of plates in their hands and on their shoulders.

A hundred eyes turned to Adria as she emerged from corridor to the tavern’s back rooms. For a moment, her breath and her heart stopped. Then, she felt her face. The mask—even if invisible—was still on.

They don’t see me, they see a goblin, she reminded herself.

As she made another step towards the adventurers, explorers and all other patrons of the inn, an explosion of cheers ended the silence. Liquid joy had arrived. To some, the twenty first god. Quickly, she handed out the drinks, not giving it much thought to whom: if they looked like they needed a drink, they got a drink. In half a minute, her platter was empty. She made trip after trip into the mead dungeon and back into the dining hall until the last of the mead-deprived faces were satisfied.

On the other end of the inn, a leather-dressed archer raised a hand. She had messy, long hair and donned unrecognizable banners on her sleeves. Lots of yellows and blacks. From the west, Adria guessed.

Ba’Gan, the shifty waiter whose right ear was far larger than the left, and his army of witless green companions busied themselves carrying over a complex set of meals to a lord who passed through Gothsin. Adria decided to get the archer. She hurried across the inn. A dry, scaly hand grabbed her by the shoulder.

Adria bit her lip.

Saint Goblin.

She had messed up, hadn't she? But... How exactly?

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

The head of the inn was a goblin of at least two hundred years of age. Her green head had long ago lost every last hair, her ears were drooped and dunes of wrinkles covered her skin. Twenty crosses--one for every god of the First Age--hung off her neck. Holy books and scriptures poked out from the pockets of her nun’s clothes.

“What spirits made you take so long to get the mead?” Saint Goblin said dryly.

“I…” Adria bit her tongue, cleared her throat, changed her voice. After all, she was pretending to be a goblin and even though the mask hid her appearance, it didn’t alter her voice. She continued in a goblinish tone, “The tap didn’t work.”

“Once again, you forgot to fill it with pressure?”

Oh shit, Adria’s eyes widened.

“No, I did that,” she objected. “There was something stuck in the tap and nothing came out.”

As the prodigy of the man westerners called Father of Lies, she should’ve been better at this.

“If that’s the case, you still served the wrong folk.” Saint Goblin sighed. “Like Dermoeis said in the scriptures of the First Age, those who do not notice the rodent nibbling away at the stock of a poor merchant will not see the giant coming to crush them. And those who swindle the poor merchant with lies are bound to be cheated by every stall in the market.”

Adria’s heart sank. She hadn’t thought that her careless nature would catch the ire of Saint Goblin. Back home it hadn’t mattered. Back home was the land of cheaters, free people, free chaos.

A place that had to be escaped; else it would’ve consumed her.

“And dear, where are your shoes?”

Adria's teeth sunk even deeper into her lips.

“Feet got too hot from running around so I took 'em off!” Adria spouted the first thing that came to mind.

Frustration collected on Saint Goblin’s face. Adria braced for whatever punishment she deserved. As Saint Goblin opened her mouth, her gaze jumped in the opposite direction. Worry came over her eyes.

Adria spun on her heel.

By the entrance, where Saint Goblin looked, sat Benedictus Lucanus. From his impressive gut, built from a thousand pints and roasts, one could tell he was a regular. His right leg extended far longer than his left so a nameless goblin was wrapped under his left foot for… balance. Seeing the little critter suffer gnawed at Adria. She imagined its pain and felt it. At least it got paid a few coins a week.

Although Benedictus dressed as a layman and left his curly beard and hair unkept, he was far from what his looks let on. He had fingers as long as arrows. Fingers that trapped immense reserves of magic.

The wizard had left his three-course meal untouched. A severely unusual sight. And he was casting a ritual, unable to stay put in his seat. Once the quick spell finished, he took a big gulp of mead and looked at the inn’s steel entrance with a held breath.

Saint Goblin frowned, staring at the door as well. Slowly, she pushed Adria backward.

“To the kitchen,” she uttered and in a sturdy voice: “Now.”

Adria shook her head. Even though she trembled, she’d stand her ground in the name of curiosity. Saint Goblin, grunting, shoved Adria behind herself.

The doors howled open. The inn's midday chaos drowned out the sound: only Adria, Saint Goblin and Benedictus Lucanus noticed them. Then, Ba’Gan, having served a meal, scanned the dining hall. His eyes caught the doors. He scowled.

Half a dozen witless goblins--who’d been taking care of the inn’s outside--burst through, yelping, screaming. They pushed waiters, shattered glasses and jumped over tables and patrons.

Saint Goblin roared in their primitive tongue. Adria--with what she knew of early goblin--made out a few phrases: “stop”, “explain yourself” and “be cursed by god.” But she didn’t share the head of the inn’s rage.

They’re running for the kitchen, she thought. They didn’t come here to cause havoc and they don’t look like their minds snapped. They look… terrified.

Maybe, Adria guessed, Benedictus Lucanus’ spell had spawned an apparition or a haunted illusion -- the sorcerer had a wicked sense of humour. But he didn’t laugh at the chaos. He looked at the frenzied goblins with eyes even more scared than before.

Saint Goblin began to catch the green little critters, asking questions.

A leashed hound entered the dining hall, brushing against the sides of the entrance, dark brown fur sparkling with red. Another of the same enormity followed. Behind the hounds, an expressionless black-haired man stopped. The chaos of the inn calmed. The symphony of sounds vanished. One by one, heads of customers rose, overlooking his black armor and blue scarves that ran around his neck. Adria's eyes dropped and met the banners on the man's sleeves, and her head spun.

He’s from Black Ice Bastion, she gulped. He’s looking for me.

Saint Goblin let go of the witless goblins and scurried over to the new patron.

“Welcome to Saint Goblin’s Inn,” bowing, she greeted him. “What do you desire? How can we satisfy those desires?”