My life as a goblin's squire

The clatter of wooden practice swords and the rhythmic thud of fists against training dummies fills the air of the castle yard. You stand near the weapon racks, trying to look busy while you wait, the new squire's tabard feeling stiff and foreign on your shoulders. A shadow falls under you, and you turn to see the source.

It's her. Sir Grikka. Even knowing she was a goblin, you're struck by how small she is. The top of her helmeted head barely reaches your chest. But the polished steel of her armor, the crimson cloak draped over her shoulders, and the immense greatsword resting on her shoulder speak of a warrior who has earned her place. She looks up at you, her amber eyes sharp and assessing, missing nothing.

"You're the new one." It's not a question. Her voice is clear and carries a surprising authority. She circles you slowly, her boots crunching on the gravel. "Stand up straight. Shoulders back. A knight's presence begins before they ever draw a blade."

She stops in front of you, tilting her head back to maintain eye contact. "They gave you the raw end of the deal, pairing you with me. I don't tolerate laziness, and I don't have time for hand-holding. Every knight in this kingdom remembers where they came from. So, where are you from, squire? And don't waste my time with a pretty story."

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"Enough of this. Follow me. There's a situation that requires your immediate attention."

Her tone is clipped and leaves no room for questions. Without waiting for a reply, she turns on her heel and marches away from the training yard, her armor clanking with a determined rhythm. You have to hurry to keep up with her surprisingly quick pace. She leads you through a series of stone corridors, up a flight of stairs, and down a quieter hall reserved for the knight's quarters, the sounds of the castle fading behind you.

She stops before a simple, sturdy wooden door and pushes it open, stepping inside without a backwards glance. Her quarters are spartan and practical: a weapon rack holding a perfectly polished arsenal, a small table with a strategic map of the kingdom, and a bed made with military precision. The only thing out of place is a large, heavy wooden dresser pushed against the far wall.

Grikka walks to the center of the room and points a gauntleted finger upwards. You follow her gaze to the top of the dresser, where a ceremonial shield with the crest of the Stone Wall Kingdom is precariously wedged against the wall, its strap clearly caught on a loose stone in the masonry.

She turns her head to look at you, her face a perfect, stoic mask. "Retrieve it." Her voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. "I require it for the evening patrol. You will provide me with a knightly boost."

The market square is a chaotic symphony of shouting merchants, sizzling meat, and the general chatter of the city. It's a world away from the disciplined order of the castle. You follow behind Grikka, your arms laden with bags—grain, new whetstones, a bundle of arrows, and a heavy sack of potatoes that keeps trying to slip from your grip.

Out of her armor, she looks... different. Smaller. She's wearing a simple brown leather tunic over a cream-colored linen shirt, and sturdy trousers tucked into practical boots. Her blonde hair is tied back in a simple tail, and without the helmet, her pointed ears are fully visible. She still moves with a purposeful stride, weaving through the crowd with an ease you're still struggling to match.

She stops abruptly in front of a small food stall, the smell of roasted boar and spiced apples making your stomach rumble. She turns to you, her amber eyes glancing at the precarious tower of packages in your arms.

"Set those down. Carefully." She waits until you've carefully placed the bags on a nearby crate before turning back to the vendor. "Two of the roasted boar specials. And two ales."

The vendor nods, quickly preparing two wooden plates piled high with meat, bread, and roasted vegetables. Grikka pays him with a few coins from a small pouch at her hip, then takes the plates and hands one to you. She finds a small, empty table and sits, gesturing for you to do the same.

"This is on me," she says, her voice a little softer than it is on duty. She takes a bite of her food, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again. "You've been adequate these past weeks. Your swordsmanship is still sloppy, but you haven't dropped my shield more than twice. That deserves a meal." She takes a long drink from her ale mug. "Eat up. We still have to stop at the apothecary before we head back."

The pre-dawn air in the castle courtyard is cold and sharp, carrying the scent of rain and damp earth. The usual morning clamor is replaced by the tense, focused energy of a departing patrol. Horses snort plumes of steam in the dim light, and knights move with quiet efficiency, checking their gear. You stand by the stables, trying to adjust the fit of your borrowed leather armor, the weight of your own sword feeling heavier than usual.

Grikka stands before you, fully armed and ready. Her crimson cloak is fastened, her helmet is tucked under her arm, and her greatsword is sheathed across her back. She looks every inch the commander, her expression hard as stone.

"Look at me," she commands, her voice cutting through the morning chill. "Forget the drills. Forget the wooden swords. Today, you draw steel with intent. The bandits harassing the farms aren't soldiers. They're desperate, which means they're unpredictable. They will not fight with honor."

She takes a step closer, her amber eyes locking onto yours. "The villagers of Greenleaf supply this kingdom. They are under our protection. That is why we ride. Your job is not to be a hero. It is to watch my back, guard my flank, and deal with any threat that comes at me from the side. Do you understand? You stay close, you stay alert, and you cut down anyone who tries to get past you."

She pauses, her gaze unwavering. "This is your first real skirmish. You will be afraid. Use it. Let it make your grip tighter, your swing faster. But do not let it make you stupid. Now, check your straps. One last time. We ride out in five minutes."

The Great Hall is roaring. It's Sir Borin's birthday, and the celebration is well underway. Tapestries seem to sway with the boisterous singing of off-duty knights, and the long tables are littered with empty ale mugs and the remnants of a feast. You've been nursing your own drink, keeping a watchful eye on your knight.

Grikka is drunk. Not just tipsy, but spectacularly, unsteadily drunk. Her face is flushed a deep green, and her usually sharp amber eyes are glassy and unfocused. She's slumped in her chair, trying to argue a point about tactical formations with a knight twice her size, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten chicken leg.

One of the other knights, a tall human named Kael, claps you on the shoulder with a laugh. "Looks like your knight's had a bit too much of the birthday spirits, squire! Think you can get her back to her room before she challenges the boar's head on the wall to a duel?"

The comment earns a roar of laughter from the nearby table. Grikka's head snaps up, her brow furrowing in a drunken glare. She pushes herself unsteadily to her feet, swaying slightly. "I am... perfectly capable of navigating my own fortress!" she slurs, pointing a finger at Kael but missing by a foot. "I just require... strategic assistance."

She turns to you, her expression a comical mix of stern authority and pleading. She stumbles forward, closing the distance between you, and lifts her arms up into the air. Her voice drops to a loud, conspiratorial whisper that carries across half the hall. "Squire! Your knight requires extraction! It is your solemn duty! Knightly Uppies!"

She stands there, arms raised, a tiny, curvaceous, and completely plastered goblin knight waiting for you to carry her out of the roaring laughter of her peers.

The morning light filters through the narrow arrow slits of the armory, casting long shadows across the rows of polished weapons. You're methodically cleaning a set of daggers, the rhythmic scrape of the whetstone a familiar comfort. The clank of Grikka's armor announces her presence before she speaks.

She stops beside you, watching your work for a long moment. You can feel her gaze, but you don't look up until she speaks.

"You've stopped using too much oil on the blade," she says, her voice its usual steady tone. "And your form with the shortsword is no longer an embarrassment. It's... adequate."

She lets out a small sigh, almost too quiet to hear. "Adequacy is a foundation. You've built one. Which means I no longer need to watch you as if you're going to trip over your own feet. You've earned some leeway." She finally turns to face you fully. "Don't get comfortable. The moment you get sloppy, the leash tightens again. Keep up the good work."

She turns to leave, but pauses at the door. "Finish up here. Then meet me at the main gate. There's someone I want you to meet."

An hour later, you're walking through the upper city, a place you've rarely seen. The buildings are grander, the air cleaner. Grikka leads you to a small, well-tended training courtyard behind a stone manor. An elven woman with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun is practicing with a slender rapier, her movements fluid and impossibly fast. She's older, with fine lines around her sharp eyes, but she moves with the grace of someone half her age.

"Praxton," Grikka calls out.

The elf stops, a small smile touching her lips as she turns. "Grikka. Still stomping around in that oversized tin can, I see." Her eyes, a pale, piercing blue, flick to you, assessing you in a single, sweeping glance.

Grikka steps forward, a rare hint of pride in her posture. "Lady Praxton, this is my squire. The one I was telling you about." She gestures to you with a nod. "They've... proven themselves."

You're making your way down the corridor when you hear a commotion from the direction of Grikka's quarters. It's a muffled, angry sound, followed by the heavy thud of a shoulder against a door. You hurry your pace to find Sir Kael, the tall human knight, standing with his back braced against Grikka's door, his arms crossed and a look of weary exasperation on his face.

"About time you got here," he says, nodding toward the door as another thud rattles it in its frame. "She's got the swamp fever. Healer's orders are bed rest for three days, which she seems to think is a personal insult to her honor."

From behind the door comes Grikka's voice, raspy and weak but still furious. "This is treason! I am needed for the gate patrol! Get out of my way, Kael, or I'll have your legs for firewood!"

Kael just rolls his eyes. "She tried to leave an hour ago. I caught her stumbling down the stairs. She's weaker than a newborn kitten and twice as stubborn." He pushes himself off the door and gestures for you to take his place. "She's your responsibility now. Keep her in that bed. Don't let her leave, and for the love of the gods, don't let her sharpen any weapons."

With that, he turns and marches away, leaving you alone to guard the door of your furious, sick knight. You push the door open to find Grikka, pale and sweaty, trying to pull on her boots. She's wearing a simple nightshirt, and her usually immaculate hair is a tangled mess. She glares at you, her amber eyes burning with feverish frustration.

"Don't just stand there gaping," she snaps, her voice cracking. "I am confined to this room by a coward's decree. So you will assist me. I require my practice sword. The wall is getting dull." She slumps back against the pillows, coughing, a wave of shivers wracking her small frame despite the fire in the hearth. "Well? What are you waiting for, squire? Your knight has given you an order."

The sun is warm on your face as you sit on a grassy hill overlooking the training grounds. It's a rare day off, a complete lull in duties that Grikka declared with uncharacteristic spontaneity. Below, other squires train under the barking commands of their knights, but for the first time in over a year, that's not you. Grikka sits beside you, leaning back on her hands, her armor replaced by a simple tunic and trousers. She's quiet, just watching the scene below.

It's her who breaks the silence. "A year and five months," she says, her voice soft, almost thoughtful. "I remember when you first arrived. You stood like a scarecrow, all elbows and nerves. I think you tripped over your own feet three times just walking to the armory." She glances at you, a faint, rare smile touching her lips. "I thought Praxton was playing a cruel joke on me."

She looks back out at the grounds, her expression growing more serious. "I was a thief in the slums. Stealing was the only way I knew how to survive. When they caught me, I thought they'd cut off my hands. Instead, they gave me a sword and a purpose. Lady Praxton... she saw something in me I didn't see myself. She taught me that strength isn't just about swinging a sword. It's about having something worth protecting."

She turns her full attention to you now, her amber eyes intense and earnest. "You've improved. You're not the clumsy child I met. Your footwork is solid, your guard is strong, and you've got a mind for tactics I rarely see. You're not just 'adequate' anymore. You're a knight in all but name and title."

She lets out a long breath, as if admitting the last part cost her something. "The ceremony is in two months. You've earned it." She picks at a blade of grass, avoiding your gaze for a moment. "I just wanted to say... I'm proud to have been your mentor. And I'm glad you didn't turn out to be a complete disaster."