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“’Kathy, I’m lost.’ I said, though I knew she was sleeping. ‘I’m empty and aching, and I don’t know why.’”

— Paul Simon

From the song Look for America

Children from mannerly households rarely experience survival situations. Most kids grew up with bullying or domestic friction but seldom fended for fundamentals like a bed, hot meals, or shoes that fit.

I grew up defending and excusing my mother’s behavior, and I think it’s natural for children to forgive their parents’ shortcomings. We adopt the philosophies of those we depend upon. Good or bad, parents serve as role models.

No one held me whenever I skinned my knee. Instead, mom matter-of-factly declared that’s what I got for playing in abandoned buildings. Mom’s indifference prepared me for a callous schoolyard and a dangerous neighborhood. Life with her taught me the world wouldn’t soften to my expectations.

Life didn’t revolve around playdates, birthday parties, and child-safe outlet covers. Instead of confronting my Mom’s addictions, we blamed the world, and I dutifully did what it took to survive. She approved of shoplifting and stealing unattended things. My education involved learning when to appear pitiable or defiant to landlords at the end of the month. I learned to ignore loud neighbors and give evasive answers. Among these dubious lessons, I learned how to fight for a home.

In a warped way, Hawkhurst felt the same.

As someone old enough to acknowledge my crazy upbringing, I could see both sides of the argument. Anyone growing up in air-conditioned suburbs never learned how to bend the world to their will. I could understand why Fabulosa bailed when things got ugly. Leaving was easier and the smarter play, but something kept me here.

For reasons beyond my understanding, I resolved to protect this little town and clean up the relics or die trying. To an outside observer, it made no sense that I’d risk losing the Great RPG Contest over something so trivial as a nonexistent village, but I didn’t always understand my motives.

The morning of the goblin’s defeat, I returned to the town hall with dew-soaked boots. I joined the townspeople for our first meal without the specter of a relic-bearer hanging over our heads. My studies of our goblin culture assured me a power vacuum would preoccupy them with internal conflict for years.

Thrashing our neighbors to the north gave us cause for celebration. Rocky orchestrated volunteers for the spontaneous breakfast feast. People crowded the bakery to supply the kitchen with fresh bread. Others cooked potatoes with chopped vegetables or stuffed links with seasoned meat.

Everyone exchanged hugs and consolations about Greenie’s undoing, but he died saving his home. It seemed fitting to celebrate victory over Rezan more than to mourn our loss.

The activity drew Beaker to his customary perch over the doorway. He presided over the busybodies with fascination.

Whenever he lifted his wings, I cautioned him to stay put. “No, no, you big turkey. You don’t need to be the center of attention today. You fought bravely, but Rocky doesn’t need griffons flying around, blowing around dust, and dropping feathers. If you want to stay indoors, you need to behave.”

Beaker clucked to himself, content with my attention. Occasionally, he erupted with screeches, but his brief outbursts seemed appropriate for the festive mood. Though we’d lost Greenie, Fletcher, Sami, and Val, the settlement survived.

Before we ate, I conveyed my appreciation to Hawkhurst with a public address. People applauded and softly knocked their mugs before I spoke, and I let them release the extra energy. “I’m declaring a two-day holiday in honor of our absent friends. Besides, we’ve been burning torches so long that adjusting to a daytime routine might take time. Tomorrow, we’ll add Greenie to the rock garden. I’m sure Maggie can find the time to commit his name to stone.”

Maggie stood, cupped her mouth, and shouted. “Anything for Greenie, Guv. You name it!” As the quarry chief sat down, more knocking sounds showed the room’s approval.

“We need the colliers to build a pyre. I want to burn the goblin corpses before they attract dinosaurs or monsters. Is Gunny around?”

A dwarven voice from the crowd answered for him. “Gunny and Freya are with the caravan across the river.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot they moved. If they’re busy, I’ll assign pyre duty to someone else.” I pointed to one of the Arlington humans, a strong-looking farmer unequipped with armor. “You and the farmers take the torodon cart around and see to the job? The colliers will make the pyre. Good?”

Several unarmored around him nodded in affirmation.

After settling that unpleasant matter, I caught Yula’s eye behind me in her usual spot by the town hall’s door. She usually lingered there as if proximity to the doorway maintained a connection to nature—or perhaps having a quick exit outdoors set her at ease.

“Commander, rest the scouts for 24 hours before issuing patrol orders. I want to talk before sending anyone else out on recon.”

The orc curtly nodded.

“And I hereby promote Ida to permanent lieutenant governor.”

A round of supportive applause and table pounding ensued.

Ida acknowledged the supportive noise with a slight lift of her chin but otherwise remained motionless.

“If you need to talk to me or the L.T., please withhold long-term questions until tomorrow. I want to recon the town and set priorities before arbitrating private issues.”

I turned to Lloyd. “Can Otto and Gretchen retrieve the caravans from the Eastern inn? The merchants have been waiting for too long already.”

“Aye, Cap’n. If the youngins haven’t lost their sea legs, it’ll be no problem to ferry them across the river. I’ll watch them from the docks. It’s a fair day for sailing.”

I stepped down to loud applause and shouts of support. I didn’t deserve it, but I encouraged the noise with nods and fist-raises, letting everyone bond.

After weeks of trials and errors with the goblins, our victory came from a communal effort. Ally and her crew built the barbican. Greenie saved our skins. Rory and Fin crafted our arms, and Dino trained everyone.

After grabbing a breakfast sandwich, I turned to the door, prompting Beaker to plop to the floor and push his way outside first.

While stepping aside for my griffon, Yula crossed her arms. “What wrinkles governor’s brow on zees glorious day?”

“Oh—nothing in particular. I’m just figuring out why everyone is cheering me. I haven’t contributed much to the town these days, and certainly not to our recent victory. We’ve had wins before, but none have inspired so much approval.”

Yula stepped in my path and gently thumped my chest. “You make great contribution. You are chief.”

“But I’ve given up governorship and reinstated myself several times. No one cared before.”

“It ees small matter to be governor. But you are not just governor. You are chief.”

“Thanks for that. I’m going to get some shuteye. Wake me if something happens. Otherwise, get some rest. We’ll worry about the orc emperor tomorrow, so prepare for more regicide.”

Yula nodded as I passed. “I focus on emperor every day, Chief Apache.”

Without looking back, I walked through the barbican. Last night’s events displaced the twine, rocks, and stakes Greenie and Ally strung together to demarcate the castle’s walls. I made a mental note to prioritize their arrangement. Desecrating the castle’s designs offended me more than goblin corpses littering the meadow.

As I veered toward the manor, Beaker launched himself off Hawkhurst Rock. He undoubtedly intended to fly through the bedroom window and beat me to my mattress.

I made no effort to deter him from doing so. The last thing the office needed was for Beaker to extend or pump his wings. He’d blow parchment out the windows, knock over ink wells, and scatter our paperwork. Ida would barbeque him, or worse, me, if Beaker disturbed her desk.

No matter how fast I moved through the manor, I’d need to push his bulk to one side of the bed to make myself room. His size made moving him difficult, and he never took the hint.

I resisted the temptation of sacking out in the nest we made for him in one corner of my bedroom. It looked comfortable, and it would be much easier to give in and sleep in the framed pile of straw, but maintaining a semblance of a pecking order seemed more important.

I avoided looking at Greenie’s drafting table as I passed through the office. The work waiting on everyone’s desks would wait until tomorrow.

Alone in the manor, my thoughts drifted toward Greenie and Charitybelle. Memories of their contributions dominated my meditations. Afterwards, sleep came easily. I awoke only a few hours later in the afternoon beneath the feathered canopy of Beaker’s outstretched wing. My griffon’s soft hoots ceased, so I knew he wasn’t sleeping. Perhaps it would have been a welcome comforter on a chilly night, but in the midday heat, I sweltered.

After rolling out of bed, I cooled off, leaning out the window overlooking Otter Lake. Otto and Gretchen ferried merchants beneath me. When I grew bored watching them putter across the surface, I scanned the shoreline until it disappeared.

The manor stood on the corner of Hawkhurst Rock, standing thirty feet above the waterline. I craned downward at the water’s surface. The lake’s cheerful ripples and reflections advertised none of its murky depths.

The fourth relic awaited in that body of water. The first three focused on the schools of arcane, nature, and light magic, leaving the two I feared the most—primal and dark. I could not say which lay in orc country and which rested at the bottom of the lake, but both locations posed unique hazards.

Two relics rested in submarine settings—one recently lost, one yet to be found. Rezan’s light magic crown would likely remain lashed to his body, many fathoms down in the muddy estuary’s undertow. I’d tried investigating the bottom of the lake before, but the environment proved too claustrophobic to survey. Even with my Amphibious swimming powers, the dark currents proved too chaotic to navigate—especially when blinded by mud. And without Creeper, I had no infravision.

Despite my desire for languor, hunger drove me from my apartment. The smell of delicious turnouts meant the bakery had been busy all day. When Beaker saw me donning equipment, he stretched, climbed to the windowsill, and waited until I reached the door latch.

His telepathic question reached my brain. “Fish time?”

“Yeah, it’s as good as any other time to get chow. Schedules might be a bit off over the next few days.”

“Fish time!” My griffon enjoyed showing off, and his disappearance out the window started our race. He liked to present his catch before I entered the town hall, where Rocky forbade him to eat. I dawdled to give him more time if it took him longer to find something. Whenever he appeared with a flopping fish between his talons, I praised him for his hunting prowess.

After going downstairs and exiting the manor, I found my Familiar picking apart his latest conquest on the grass. “Good boy, Beaker. That was a fast one. It’s hardly a race anymore. And what a big fish you have!”

He trumpeted a reply, announcing to everyone in town that the catch belonged to him and that they had better keep their distance.

I saw no goblin bodies outside. A thin veil of smoke rising from the river’s eastern bank testified to the pyre’s location, thankfully downwind.