He didn’t drop his spear at first; the soldier grabbed at his calf, whistling through the pain. Rhode and his attackers watched him hopping on his good foot until he dropped his weapon and fell over.

“I want to just say it now, in case it matters,” Rhode stated, “none of y’all presented any form of official document, or announced you were cops. For the record, that was self-defense.”

The homunculus lifted his remaining crutch two handed like a club and hefted it menacingly. The goblins’ spears wavered.

“Well, my meds are wearing off, and my feet hurt,” Rhode warned. “So let’s either do this, or y’all can take me to your leader. I come in peace. Or I came in peace. Or we’ll be at peace. Whatever man, don’t make me hit you.”

Nine goblins raised their spears. The three-eyed captain shared a look with his second, and then squinted up at Rhode. Like his fellows, the man wore a padded, pale gold corn-silk gambeson, embroidered with the sigil of a padded, corn-silk gambeson, which had a symbol in its center, which was a padded –

Well, you get the picture.

“Hold on, which Hero?” squawked the sliding skirmisher.

“Oh, that seems like an important question to consider,” wept the goblin on the floor, between his gasps of agony.

“I thought we was fightin’ a monster,” said another as they raised their hand. “Nobody said nothin’ ‘bout a Hero to me. Boss-man, can we’s all get some clarity upon our present objective, here?”

“Every one of you soft-skulls shut yer lips!” barked the captain as he pulled his helmet off. Long, luxuriously silky hair fell like curtains, and almost drew attention away from his mutant extra peeper. “You’re the Dreadlung, then. I heard you was below. I’m Handsome Fent, and these be my crew: the fearsome, the affordable, Maize-Well Fields Textiles Presents: Spear Squad 2.”

“Uh, I’m gonna be honest,” Rhode demurred as he lowered his prescription hitting stick. “I’m a little overwhelmed tonight, and I might not remember all that.”

“Eh, usually, we’d have a collectible pin to give you. Brand recognition, and all that. But we’re all out. It’s an honor to meet ya’, Ser Hero.”

“No, no. I guess the honor’s all mine. Hey Corn Shirt Squad and Captain Handsome, I’m looking for another two of me. Do you think that y’all can help?”

----------------------------------------

The staid, planked ceilings of copper hall were flashing by – which Rhode mostly noticed on account of how close his head was getting to them. He leaned back further into the huge ornate couch which carried him, even though it meant he could not see ahead.

It was a little uncomfortable. He had two goblins on top of him, one a fishmonger’s second son turned soldier, and the second was an Eintirp. The page sat on his leg, and whooped as she dared the gobs below to greater speeds.

“Careful, ya’ little spit!” called out Big Mouth.

Rhode cradled the man uncomfortably in his arm, so that he wouldn’t fall off. “Sorry for hitting you, man. I just don’t take well to getting stabbed. How’s your leg?”

“Oh it’s broke real bad!” laughed the goblin cheerfully. “Hoo, you sure got an arm on you!”

The mercenary raised the lid off a flat wooden box, about the length of his hand. A soft and wobbly fungus with a webbed, mesh skin sat inside. Big Mouth raised the blobby thing to his lips and squeezed it, just enough to wring a dribble of carrot-colored fluid out.

His squared pupils dilated wide, and Rhode had to pin the goblin down to keep him from jumping off their perch.

Eight mercenaries of Maize-Well Fields jogged below. Their spears crisscrossed between the legs of the makeshift palanquin they were hustling. The low clearance of the ceiling forced them to heft from underhand, and they swapped insults and complaints between them as they went.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Central comms! This is Team Quality Textiles at Bargain Rates, no word on the Hero, but we have collected the Hero. No, not the other Hero. The other one. No! The first one! Whaddya mean that’s classified, ya booger-digger? Everybody knows!”

The captain wore his helmet again, and held his [Relay] tuning fork to his ear like a radio as he argued with a cacophonous and uncertain number of other parties.

The rooms of copper ring were dark and empty. Few staff were left in that century to administer the sprawling, partitioned desks and workshops within these retired halls of industry; and that had been true even before the Project had claimed Four Ring Hill and expelled the most of their remainder.

A single flickering lit window appeared ahead and on the left. “What’s going on?” cried a sleepy looking ancient gob from the cracked-open door beside it.

“Nothing to worry about!” the mighty [Greater Brawn Homunculus] bellowed from his most regal conveyance. “I’m a Hero! Look at how big I am, everything’s gonna be okay!”

“Oh, good! You are pretty big!” hollered the old man as he disappeared behind the curve.

“Hey, does anybody have some water,” Rhode called out. He patted at his pocket, which was full of pills and unctions that he was overdue to take. A skin of wine landed in his lap, but he frowned as he sniffed it, and handed it to Big Mouth instead. “I can wait, I guess,” he sighed.

The mercenaries of Maize-Well Fields huffed and sweated, but they shouted eager questions up at Rhode as they went.

“Did you fall out of the sky like the stories say?” asked a squat, younger gob with rosy cheeks.

“How come you’re all stitched up everywhere?” observed a gaunt older creature, whose spearhead was shaped with a hole just like a needle.

“Do you wanna smoked gecko?” offered a third. “I only ate half. You can have the guts.”

Rhode politely waved away the burned hindquarters of a lizard on a skewer. “It’s because I had all my bones cut open and metal put into them,” he explained.

“Whoa,” chorused the squad in respect.

“Did it hurt?” asked the boy with the gecko.

“I’m in a constant state of mind-numbing agony”, Rhode smiled sublimely. “It’s pretty terrible,” he chuckled as he closed his eyes.

Spear Squad 2 fell reverently silent, and they nodded in satisfaction to each other. “Cool,” a gob whispered.

Boots tromped along, until an exasperated cry burst out ahead. The Captain brought his fork up to his face, and snarled. “What do you mean, this isn’t a secure channel? What’s it not secure for? Well you didn’t tell ME how it worked!”

The man slid to a stop. Rhode lurched as his couch tipped unevenly on its loose supports. while his bearers stumbled to a halt behind him.

“Bad news everyone!” Captain Handsome cheerfully announced. “That was a fancy knight grand-master lord elf on the dingly-dong, and I’m in trouble for revealin’ secrets of national security! Good news everyone! Set the Hero down, and hitch your britches, we’ve got suppression duty ahead!”

Rhode felt the impact through soft cushions as his ride hit the floor. Spears slid out from under him, and he swung his legs off onto the ground.

“Waaah!” cried an Eintirp as she rolled off onto the rug.

“My shin!” cried a Big Mouth, as Rhode tried to shift the man into a comfortable position.

Rhode rose to his feet, and pushed a low, hanging copper chandelier aside. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well,” though the captain as he scratched under his chin. “If you get hurt, I think they’ll hang me. So don’t do that. You could always throw something heavy though.”

----------------------------------------

The local chapter boss of the carpenter's union roared. With a heavy block-hammer in one hand, and a blood-soaked chisel in the other, he raised his arms above his head.

"Our contract clearly stipulates limits to service rotations!"

His muscles bulged with the power of his levels, and he fell upon the defenders and arms-men of The Project like a rolling boulder. A dozen gobs in working aprons, bore finely lathed chair legs, or sharp, hand-held planers, or dainty finishing hammers as they charged behind him.

One of them carried a saw, that one was nasty.

Rhode and Spear Squad 2 crashed into the exhibition hall which joined three of the palace's four rings together. A high ceiling, and a long, comfortable lounge stretched out ahead of them. But the grand couches, shelves and tables had been knocked down to form hasty barricades of refuse.

"Any time on project deployment beyond agreed upon limits shall be counted as paid daily work overtime, regardless of whether members are utilized!" howled the one-man army.

The guards were falling back and failing, bloodied and breaking. Few of them wore the Prince's black and orange, or Illuminance's gold and chartreuse. Small-town gobs, who'd never seen battle were overwhelmed by the organized fury of the unstoppable [General Strike].

Rhode stared in confusion, but the gobs of Maize-Well Fields charged on ahead. The homunculus hesitated, unsure of what to do. Then a calm descended over his heart, as he remembered his past life, on the world called Earth. The couch he'd ridden was stacked with soft padding, and Rhode stripped it bare.

He waded into battle throwing pillows. But let's be clear: he did throw them pretty hard.