image [https://i.imgur.com/mbZw9xA.jpg]

Beaker landed, softly clucking to himself as he watched me follow this strange hermit to the plateau’s center. My host gave the griffon no second looks. Perhaps they commonly visited high altitudes.

I soothed my pet, telepathically cautioning him to be on his best behavior. “Don’t go after food or make noise. Be a good boy.”

Beaker blared out two loud honking calls, affirming he heard me yet disagreed with the noise-making part. I didn’t press the issue.

Iremont’s mesa measured only a half mile across. Its only topographic features involved a few house-sized boulders. A homestead nestled between the rocks overlooked an unkempt garden of reddish soil. Sune Njal had a shed, a chicken coop, and a small shack. The shed’s door hung askew on an unrepaired hinge, the tools inside rusted save for an amber contraption sitting on the far side. Copper tubes and brass vats formed a miniaturized version of the brewery equipment we hauled from Basilborough—the Pentarch had built a moonshine still.

A campfire lit his habitat, casting tall shadows. The flames burned outside his home’s doorway—or rather the opening to his house, as the only partition to the interior involved a heavy leather hide pulled aside like a curtain.

Sune Njal led me to the fire, where he reclined on a single chair fashioned from logs and hide. Instead of offering me a seat on the stumps ringing the campfire, he snapped his fingers in a gimme-gimme gesture. “How about those biscuits, boy?”

I reached for my inventory and pulled out a loaf of bread, still fresh as the day I’d requisitioned it from the bakery. While I fumbled with a knife, the old man snatched it and bit off a chunk. He spoke as he chewed. “Glory, that’s about the only thing I miss. Freshly baked bread. You know, it’s the simple things that make life bearable.”

“Is it safe to have a fire?” Dusk’s waning light silhouetted the looming summits around us. Iremont stood as the runt of the litter.

“What? You mean goblins? Bah, they won’t bother us here. It’s the only peaceful tract of land in the world, at least, until you showed up.” He spoke with a wadded biscuit in his mouth—his dirty fingers shoved in more dough as he chewed.

At night, the absence of chittering crickets became noticeable. Aside from the wind howling in my ears, the mountaintop had been silent throughout my ascent. “I thought goblins were nocturnal.” Greenie had tempered his nocturnal instincts, living among humans outside Malibar. He avoided the outdoors on sunny days, and when he did, he squinted and shielded his eyes.

The Pentarch laughed, a hacking coughing sound made possible by jamming the dough into his cheeks. When he finished, the bulge disappeared, and he resumed chewing and talking simultaneously. “The goblins own the night. But no, they won’t set foot up here. That’s what makes it so peaceful.” Sune Njal chased his swallow with a burp so violent my hand dropped to my hammer’s pommel. He caught the reflex and smiled. “Oh, how rude of me. If you want some moonshine, my reserves are ample. I can’t offer you a cup, but you can drink from the spigot.”

After giving his still a wary glance, I reached for my waterskin. “No, thank you. I’m sticking to water after a climb like that.”

Sune Njal grunted. “If it weren’t for all your noise, you might have snuck up on me. Usually, you guys come up the western face, although one side is just as steep as the other. Were there centaurs?”

I shook my head. “No—I mean, I fought one. But I came from the south.”

“Oh! So you’re from the village below?”

I nodded.

He grunted again, shaking his head. “I thought I detected the stench of civilization. Tell me, how did you beat the old worm?” The Pentarch watched my expression. He watched me for the first time since sitting down.

“I blew it up with dynamite that I swiped from a goblin mine.”

Sune Njal snorted. “Not bad—although I’m surprised goblins had dynamite. They must have swindled it from the deep elves. Most visitors try to impress me with awards or tournament arms—they think weapons weakened by jewels and filigree would impress me. So you blew up the big worm. I like to see people get their hands dirty.” He turned back to the fire. “I assume you’re here to train or some such nonsense.”

Though questions filled my head, I held my peace. Was he testing me? I didn’t appreciate his attitude but let him lead the conversation. “Yeah, if you’ll have me.”

The Pentarch shook his head. “There’s always someone looking for a father figure—so many pilgrims without a purpose. Everyone wants to build careers, fiddle with projects, or fight in wars.”

“What’s wrong with ambition?”

He flapped his hand. “Bah. It’s a sickness. I caught it, too. I’m guiltier than anybody, and perhaps that’s why I’m immunized. It helps wait out the clock.”

This wasn’t the coming-of-age lesson I’d hoped to hear, and I didn’t know how to respond. What did he expect people to do—roll over and die? Give up on life? I took another look at his camp. I only saw one weapon, a goblin axe, lying on the ground, rusting.

“Do you want wisdom? Find a good woman and listen to her. Raise some kids and prepare them for the world. Make that your life’s project. If my old man had spent time with me, I wouldn’t have wasted my life trying to impress him.” Sune Njal, the only human commander to make headway into goblin territory, stared at the fire as he delivered his monologue. He spoke to himself more than me, as if lost in a distant memory.

Despite his strange headspace, his message resonated. Many people had issues with their parents, even the ones from so-called good families who picked on me for being broke. Perhaps bullying comes from realizing their parents didn’t love them. I remember lashing out in my youth. I directed my ire into vandalism. Even kids who had it made grew up angry if they realized their parents didn’t care about them.

I studied Sune Njal’s face. Was he thinking about his childhood as he stared into the fire? Was he talking about his baggage or mine? His caricature of humanity had all the comforts of a wet blanket, and I didn’t care for it. This pity party wasn’t leading to advantages in the contest.

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Remembering Charitybelle’s lament that she couldn’t raise children in The Book of Dungeons, I wondered what right he had to lecture about parenting. “What if you can’t have kids? What then? Are you saying there’s no purpose in life?”

My question shook him out of his reverie. “If you don’t want a family, be good at something. And I don’t mean fighting or sports—I mean, be good at something that adds value to the world. That’s the key to happiness. Being good at something helps you walk upright and gives you a purpose. Children grow up trusting adults, and nobles take advantage of lads willing to throw their lives away on foolish crusades.”

I gestured to the south. “Well, that’s not me. I’m just trying to protect my people.”

His eyes drifted to the side as if my words were folly. “Mark me well, boy—the wolf and the sheepdog share many qualities. I, too, wanted to protect my home from goblins, but it all went too far. It’s bad enough they own the night. Fighting in goblin country means no reliable lines of contact—goblins tunnel beneath your ranks and attack from behind.”

The subject of fighting goblins appealed to me more than scrutinizing life choices. I encouraged him. “I’ve fought them a couple of times. They’re nasty, especially to their slaves, but not as reckless as stories would have us believe.”

“No—they’re not stupid.” Sune Njal looked at me to see if I paid attention, and I crossed my arms uncomfortably.

“Oh, sure—they’re uncoordinated, but you take one goblin aside and give ‘em time to think, and you’ll never find a more cunning adversary. They play the long game. They’ll establish a pattern to gain your confidence and strike when you turn your back. Goblins know how to survive. Do you know how to spot a goblin hole?”

I shook my head.

“Look for three wooden posts sticking out of the ground.” The Pentarch raised his palm about waist high. “They’re about yay-big. When you’re short as a goblin, it’s not easy to spot a hole in the ground. The posts serve as markers for goblins scrambling from dinos. And they double as spikes, making it harder for monsters to dig them out. I’ve seen hillsides bristling with them. And that’s what makes them so hard to fight. Their dungeons are porous with intersections and connections to the surface.”

I nodded in appreciation.

“Do you know why dinos don’t gobble up Mudmoores?”

Greenie mentioned the Mudmoore tribe, but his teaching focused on tribal power structures, politics, and customs, not military tactics. I shrugged.

“The Mudmoores were big before your time. They gave me my first defeat. Anyway, the tribe wears spiked collars and bracers—even their young. The spikes were so big they looked ridiculous. They hamper mobility and combat effectiveness. We made fun of them, calling them “burrs” until they led us to a valley of dinosaurs. You see, those spikes trained the dinos to stop eating them. Instead of gobbling gobs, the monsters feasted on many a soldier that night. Without bodies to bury, we erected monuments. I’ll never forget the empty gravestones scattered across the hillside. What a waste.”

“I’m not looking to join an army. I’m trying to protect my settlement. We call it Hawkhurst. And there are no nobles around. Everyone pulls their own weight.”

Sune Njal snorted and shook his finger. “It starts that way, but ethics invert. Jackals eat before the lions in the feast of fools you call society. I used to think nobles created all my problems. After years of work, I achieved a position where I wouldn’t have to take orders. Surrounding myself with loyal subordinates seemed a sensible course of action. Anyone I befriended abused the relationship. Those I trained thought themselves superior to those who weren’t. By improving someone’s station, you also change them. Pride eroded my pupils into a motley band of knaves and malefactors—each pursuing personal agendas, pouring rumors into one another’s ears. After decades in the field, I realized my problem wasn’t working for other people—it was working with them.”

How should I respond to such a cynical sermon? My hesitance to agree irritated Sune Njal, and his expression darkened. He wasn’t someone who took disagreement easily.

“Tell me, pilgrim. Do you know the purpose of a monastery?”

The question caught me off-guard. “It’s where monks live.” The response sounded stupid, and I regretted not thinking longer before answering, but it drew a satisfactory nod.

“Monks and nuns are the keepers of the faith. Monasteries protect religion from the ravages of people. Monasteries are like a bank, except they preserve ideas instead of money. A temple’s wall offers no protection from a city’s influence or commercial corruption in a population. The prevailing wind of self-interest never relents—and it blows strongest in growing settlements like yours. From mobs to nobility, everyone imposes their will, deforming and corroding even the purest ideals. The tendrils of greed and fashion leave no institution untouched, including the tenets of faith—hence, monasteries reside far from populations.”

I grunted and shrugged to show I understood, hoping he’d get to his point.

Sune Njal gazed at the moonlight of great green Nassi in the northern sky. “My monastic life on this mountaintop is just that—a sanctuary which others actively subvert. My life is simple, but it doesn’t disappoint.”

His low opinion of Hawkhurst turned me off. Fabulosa left us, but I doubt even she would agree. We’d made bonded promises—so I knew none of our citizens would betray the town. He should just tell me if he knew of other ways to undermine a community.

Was it so terrible that people pursued separate agendas once a town stabilized? It seemed the whole point of being free, and our marketplace facilitated this. It wasn’t easy keeping everyone on the same page, but maybe prosperity would change that. Was he implying that I weakened myself by trying to keep everyone happy? Would prosperity erode everyone’s commitment to the settlement?

I wasn’t buying it. The Pentarch enjoyed an illustrious career, but the man standing before me acted like a burnout. Perhaps those who got high on life long enough eventually developed a tolerance.

Seeing no eyes glowing by the campfire, the Pentarch’s roundabout point became apparent—he trusted no one but himself. Was that the lost wisdom my quest wanted me to learn? I opened up my laughably vacant quest log, an interface feature I’d barely used.

Quest Status

Seeking Enlightenment

Description

The Pentarch is famous for defeating more numerous opponents by training elite troops.

Objective

Learn Sune Njal’s lost wisdom of soldiery. He is on Iremont, a flat-topped mountain peak in the southernmost mountain in the Bluepeaks.

Reward

100 experience, 10 silver pieces

Was Miros trying to get me to abandon my people as the Pentarch had done? To stop trusting the town guards and mercenaries? My original plan in The Book of Dungeons involved looking out for number one, but so much has changed since the contest’s beginning. Abandoning the NPCs didn’t seem like a reasonable, practical, or strategic thing to do. Still, Fabulosa had done it, and she wasn’t a dummy. She might agree with Sune Njal’s philosophy, but the pill tasted too bitter for me to swallow. I wasn’t tired of Miros. I liked it here.

Perhaps the game dropped hints that I should leave the NPCs. Had I gone native, as Fabulosa implied? The contest’s bounty system incited player collision. Perhaps this conversation served as another clue.

Sune Njal raised his arms at the empty plateau. “Alas, I am now accompanied by those I can trust—a constituency acclimated to high altitudes. But I’m afraid your nose looks like it’s about to bleed.”

His suggestion wasn’t subtle, but I wasn’t about to leave empty-handed. Sune Njal still possessed the most valuable commodity—information. Changing the subject seemed a wiser strategy than arguing.

“You said you live here unmolested by goblins. Is that because of your reputation?”

Sune Njal snorted. “Hah! Reputations are a person’s most valuable possession, but for all my battles, they don’t know me from a mountain goat. What they fear is Iremont.” He scuffed the red dirt for emphasis.

“Is it because of the centaurs?”

“Patrolling monsters are part of it. This mountain is sacred. Inside this hunk of rock rests a high-level dungeon unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”