Chương 60: Chapter 45: A Lieutenant's Work

The following morning, nearly the entire tribe moved into the forest. Grub and the Medics divided them into gathering parties and led them toward the nearest patches. Builders, Hunters, and children carried woven baskets and hide sacks, while Throk and the Warriors remained close with spears ready. Kesh and the Scouts ranged ahead and along both flanks, watching the forest while everyone else searched the ground. Only Dravak and a handful of Warriors remained behind to guard the cavern.

It was also the first time the young wolves had been allowed outside since they were brought back from the den. They padded beside the children, noses working constantly as they investigated frost-stiff brush, unfamiliar tracks, and every scent moving between the trees. Grub watched them closely at first, half expecting their training to vanish the moment the cavern was out of sight. The wolves wandered to sniff at roots or circle nearby trees, but they never went far.

When one caught a scent and started eagerly toward the deeper forest, a sharp command from its child brought it back after only a moment's hesitation. As the morning passed, the Warriors stopped reaching for their spears every time one disappeared behind a bush. A light snow began before midday, scattered flakes drifting between the branches and melting wherever they touched the ground. Several of the children stopped working to stare upward. One of the wolves lifted its muzzle as a flake settled on its nose.

The young beast was broader through the shoulders than most of the others, with patches of ash-gray fur around its paws. It held perfectly still until the snow melted, then sneezed so violently that it stumbled backward into the girl beside it. She burst into laughter. The wolf shook itself, barked once at the empty air, and began snapping at the falling flakes.

The girl scraped a little snow from a fallen log and scattered it over the wolf's head, sending it springing backward before it charged her and knocked them both into the brush. The other children laughed and joined them. Soon wolves and goblins were bounding between the trees, chasing flakes they couldn't catch and tumbling through the thin white dust beginning to gather across the dead leaves. One of the Medics drew breath to call them back.

"Let them," Grub said. The Medic turned toward him.

"There is work."

"There will always be work." Grub watched the girl wrestle her gray-pawed wolf away from the basket it had nearly overturned.

"They only get a short while to be children. Let them have it." The Medic grunted, but said nothing. The game lasted only a little longer. The girl with the gray-pawed wolf was the first to stop. She lay among the leaves for a moment with the young wolf standing over her, then pushed its muzzle aside, climbed to her feet, and retrieved the basket she had abandoned. Her wolf followed without being called.

The other children noticed, and one by one, they left their game and returned to the plants the Medics had shown them, their wolves settling nearby or wandering in close circles while they worked. Grub watched the girl kneel beside the nearest patch of Mistbloom, her wolf standing close with melting snow still clinging to its muzzle, then returned to his own gathering.

The Medics directed most of the work, leading the tribe between damp hollows where Frostvein grew, shaded streambeds favored by Mistbloom, and the scattered patches of Quickleaf they had marked earlier in the season. They showed the others which leaves to take, how much each patch could spare, and how to avoid tearing out the roots beneath them. Grub led one group to the Nettleroot patch he remembered.

The Medics wrapped their hands before touching it, sealed the gathered leaves inside doubled hide, and marked every bundle with blackened cord so no one could mistake it for medicine or food. Elsewhere, bark, needles, and resin were taken from the Aldren trees without stripping any one trunk too heavily. Blackthorn berries filled basket after basket, while the Hunters led smaller parties to old beehives where smoke and heavy wrappings made stealing honey merely painful rather than impossible.

Throk stood and laughed when one Hunter fled from a cluster of angry bees. He stopped when the Hunter changed direction and came for him. The light snow came and went throughout the next day, but the forest offered them no other trouble. By the time the final parties returned, Frostvein, Mistbloom, and Quickleaf covered the Medics' drying racks in broad, carefully separated layers. Bundles of Aldren bark and needles hung nearby, while the Nettleroot occupied a marked hollow well away from everything else.

The Blackthorn berries and honey went elsewhere. Processing the berries consumed most of the following day. Goblins worked around broad stone bowls, crushing the Blackthorn until their hands and forearms were stained purple-black. Juice ran between torn skins and pulp, gathering thick and dark at the bottoms of the bowls. Grub tasted a little from the edge of one finger. His face scrunched up immediately. Still awful.

The first proper Thornbrew had been drinkable, maybe even something approaching good, especially after the first cup or two, but the Blackthorn itself remained viciously bitter. Diluting the berries had helped considerably. So this time, he wasn't guessing. Water was drawn from the stream and boiled in large pots, then set against the cavern wall to cool. While they waited, two Builders approached carrying a hollowed log between them. Grub looked up from the bowls. The second pair followed with another.

They lowered both beside the barrel used for the first batch. He looked at one, then the other, then up at the Builders.

"When did you make those?" One Builder shrugged.

"After the first drink."

"You made two more without asking?" Another shrug.

"We thought you would make more." The other Builder tapped the side of the nearer barrel.

"The first showed us how. These were easier." Grub crouched to examine them. They were still crude, but noticeably better than the original. The interiors had been scraped smoother, the bases sat without rocking, and fitted lids rested inside shallow lips carved around the openings. Grub ran his hand along the inside of one.

"You made these quickly."

"We worked together," one Builder said.

"And we knew what we were making this time." Grub smiled faintly.

"Good. Thank you." Before anything went into them, the barrels needed cleaning. The Builders brought torches from the fire and lowered them carefully inside one at a time, turning each barrel as the flames passed across the inner wood. Grub watched closely, stopping them whenever the fire lingered too long in one place. He wanted the inside scorched, not burned through. Once the wood had darkened evenly and the barrels had cooled, they rinsed away the loose soot, then scalded the interiors with boiling water.

Only after the wood had cooled again did Grub let anyone bring the berries near them. He divided the crushed fruit as evenly as he could, sending bowl after bowl of juice, pulp, and torn skins into each barrel until all three held roughly the same amount. The cooled water came next. Grub added it a little at a time, moving from barrel to barrel and keeping count of each pot. One for the first. One for the second. One for the third. Then again.

He stopped once the mixtures had thinned to something close to the proportions of his successful batch. Then came the honey. The thick golden syrup went in by measured portions as well. One scoop into the first barrel, then the same into the second and third before he began another round. Kesh sat nearby, drawing fresh cord through the worn strap of her quiver. Throk watched from beside her.

"You're staring again," Kesh said without looking up.

"I'm making certain he does it correctly." Grub looked up.

"You didn't complain while drinking the first batch."

"I complained before."

"And afterward?" Throk considered.

"Afterward, I was busy."

"You were singing," Kesh said. Her hands paused as she glanced up at him. Throk turned toward her.

"I was not."

"You sang about a rabbit." Throk huffed and folded his arms.

"It was a battle chant." Kesh lowered her eyes and pulled the cord tight. Grub stirred the first barrel, then moved to the second. The honey disappeared quickly into the dark liquid. He wasn't trying to make the Thornbrew sweet. They didn't have enough honey for that even if he'd wanted to. More importantly, he wanted the three barrels to come out roughly the same: the same amount of berries, water, and honey, or at least close enough. If the tribe kept making Thornbrew, consistency mattered.

Goblins should know what they were drinking and what to expect from it, rather than discovering that one barrel was twice as strong as the previous one. Throk nodded toward the barrels.

"Make these stronger."

"I'm trying."

"You know how now."

"I know more than I did."

"That means yes." Grub stared at him. Throk stared back. Grub sighed and returned to stirring.

"More honey might make it stronger. Or it might ruin it. I still don't know exactly what I'm doing."

"Then learn." Grub gave him a flat look.

"Very helpful." A faint smile tugged at Kesh's mouth. When all three barrels were ready, one of the Builders reached for a lid.

"Loose," Grub reminded him.

"And cloth over the top." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The Builder nodded. Each lid was settled into place without being wedged tight. Freshly scalded cloth was stretched over the openings and tied securely around the barrels, keeping out ash, dirt, and insects while still allowing whatever gas formed inside to escape.

Grub had them moved toward the warmer part of the cavern, near enough to the hearths that the liquid wouldn't freeze as winter deepened, but far enough away that the barrels never grew hot. Then he stood back and looked at them. Three barrels. Not long ago, he'd been crouched over four stone bowls, trying to figure out whether any of them would become alcohol at all. Now there was enough Thornbrew changing in the back of the cavern to make those first experiments feel very small. Grub smiled.

"Progress." That night, the first hard snow of winter began to fall. By morning, steady snowfall had become a white blanket that swallowed stones, roots, old tracks, and the lower trunks of fallen trees. Grub watched the drifts gathering outside the wall and brought another suggestion to Dravak and the others.

"If we wait to clear the path until we need to leave, we'll spend half the morning digging out the door." Throk looked toward the entrance and gave a small shrug.

"Then we dig."

"Every time?"

"We have before." Throk rested an arm across one raised knee.

"You want goblins moving snow every day so other goblins don't have to move through it. Sounds like wasted effort."

"I want us to clear it while it's loose instead of fighting through it after it freezes into banks." Grub held his gaze.

"Trust me." Throk's mouth pulled slightly to one side, but Dravak answered first.

"Try it." The next time the snowfall eased, Warriors and Builders went outside carrying broad pieces of bark, flat boards, and shoulder blades taken from large animals. They cleared the door first, then pushed the snow away from the base of the wall before it could settle and harden there. A broad path was opened toward the stream and continued into the forest beyond, with smaller branches leading toward the routes most often used by patrols and hunting parties. Short stakes were driven along the edges.

When wind or fresh snow erased the trail itself, the markers would still show where the ground beneath was safest. The work drew complaints until the first Hunters returned from using it. They came back near dusk dragging a heavy boar on a sled. The cleared trail had carried them out through the snow that morning, but its real value showed on the return. Instead of stopping every few steps to wrench the sled free from deep drifts, they hauled the carcass straight across the clearing and up to the wall.

By the time they reached the cavern, they were only tired from the hunt rather than from fighting the ground beneath them. One Hunter slapped the boar's flank and looked toward Grub.

"Keep the path." After that, the work became routine. Whenever the snowfall weakened, a group cleared the door, the wall, and the most heavily used trails. Returning Hunters and Scouts stamped the paths firmer beneath their feet, while the Builders adjusted the sections where drifting snow gathered too quickly. A biting cold wind entered whenever the heavy door in the wall was opened, but it no longer swallowed all the warmth behind it.

Smoke continued to rise through the vent rather than crouching above the hearths, and sleeping goblins no longer woke with eyes raw from breathing beneath it. Then the first hard storm found a weakness. Grub woke to coughing. Not the wet, fevered cough that sent Medics moving through the alcove, but the harsh sound of smoke catching in sleeping throats. He sat up. A gray layer had begun spreading beneath the cavern ceiling. It wasn't as thick as it had been before the vent was built, but it was growing.

One of the Builders stood beside the central fire, staring upward. A cold drop struck the stones at the edge of the pit and hissed. Another fell directly into the flames.

"Something's wrong with the vent," the Builder said when Grub approached.

"It worked yesterday."

"It isn't yesterday." Grub opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it.

"What do you think happened?"

"The vent is blocked," the Builder said. He glanced toward the ceiling again.

"Or something is stopping the smoke from rising." Another drop fell into the fire. The Builder watched it hiss against the coals.

"Snow," he said.

"It covered the opening outside. The heat melts some of it, and the water falls through." Grub looked toward the door. Wind pressed against the wall hard enough to make the heavy wood creak.

"Can it wait until the storm passes?" The Builder watched the smoke spreading overhead.

"No." By then, the other three Builders had gathered around them. One glanced from the ceiling to Grub.

"Do you know how to fix it?" Grub looked between them.

"I have an idea." They waited. He said nothing. The first Builder frowned.

"What is it?"

"What would you do?" The four goblins looked at one another.

"You said you have an idea. Why not tell us?"

"I won't always be here when something breaks." The Builder's frown deepened, as though the possibility had never occurred to him. Grub gestured toward the smoke overhead.

"Waiting for me to find every answer wastes time. You're Builders. Look at what's wrong and tell me how you'd fix it." For several moments, none of them answered. Then the first Builder looked upward again.

"We need to see the opening." Grub nodded.

"Let's go." They wrapped themselves in the heaviest furs they could find, pulling them tightly around their shoulders and heads before approaching the entrance. Dravak allowed the door to remain open only long enough for Grub and the four Builders to slip through. The storm struck them immediately. Wind drove snow against their faces hard enough to sting, and the clearing had vanished beneath shifting white.

The path they'd cleared last night was already almost gone, with only the tops of a few stakes still visible above the drifts. They climbed carefully toward the vent, leaning into the wind. The opening had disappeared beneath a thick mound of snow. Heat rising from the cavern had melted a narrow hole through the center, but ice was already closing around its edges. Water dripped steadily down the shaft.

They scraped away the snow with their hands and pieces of bark, but fresh flakes began filling the space almost as quickly as they cleared it.

"If we only uncover it, it will fill again," one Builder shouted over the wind.

"We need to raise the opening," another yelled.

"Not in this storm," Grub called back. He turned his shoulder into a sudden gust.

"We only need something that will hold until it passes." Two of the Builders found thick stones and placed them on opposite sides of the opening. Grub and the other two dragged over a broad, flat slab, and together they rested it across the top. The fit was poor, and the slab sat almost level, but it formed a rough roof over the vent. Snow struck the stone instead of falling straight down the shaft, while smoke escaped through the open sides.

They packed loose rocks around the opening to keep the nearest drifts from collapsing inward, then hurried back down the slope before the storm buried their tracks completely. By the time they returned inside, snow clung thickly to their clothes and the furs wrapped around them. The door was forced shut behind them, cutting off the howl of the wind. The Builders remained beside the central fire and watched the ceiling. Slowly, the gray layer began to thin. The drops falling into the flames grew farther apart.

"It works," the first Builder said.

"For now," Grub answered. The Builder nodded.

"We'll build the rest when the storm ends." The snow continued through the night and much of the following day. When the wind finally weakened, the temporary roof still stood, though frozen snow covered the slab and drifts had pushed past the loose stones around the opening.

"Still don't want to share your idea?" one of the Builders asked, glancing at Grub. Grub smiled.

"No. I want to see what you come up with. If I notice a problem, I'll tell you." He clapped his hands together.

"So, what comes first?"

"We raise it higher," the first Builder said. They uncovered the opening and stacked stones around it more carefully, forming a crude chimney that rose a little above Grub's knee. Mud was pressed into the gaps around the lower half to keep rain and melting snow from seeping through. Once the base was sealed, they placed the broad slab back across the top. Grub watched, stayed silent, and followed their lead. Next, they dug three shallow rings around the chimney.

They set large, flat stones into the innermost ring, leaning them against the chimney until their upper edges reached close to the broad slab above. Two more rows followed outside the first, each made from smaller stones tucked beneath the edges of the larger ones. The overlapping stones formed a sloping shell around the chimney, much like scales. Water striking them would run outward instead of collecting against the mud-sealed base.

"Done," one Builder said. The others nodded. Grub walked around the vent and studied the nearly level roof.

"Raise the uphill side." They looked at him. One lifted an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"So the roof slopes toward the clearing. Snow and rain will run off instead of gathering on top." They considered the idea, then began moving again. Taller supports went beneath the rear of the slab, leaving the broad stone tilted gently downhill when they lowered it back into place. Grub set a handful of snow near the raised edge. Warmth from the vent and the thin winter sun slowly melted it, and the water ran down the slab before spilling from the lower side, well away from the opening. The first Builder nodded.

"Good. Anything else?" Grub looked toward the clearing below. A gust swept loose snow up the slope and pressed it against the outer shell of stones.

"Build a short wall on that side," he said, pointing.

"Far enough away that it won't block the smoke. A few paces should do. It only needs to break the wind before it reaches the chimney." The Builders nodded and began gathering more stone. Then one of them looked uphill. Snowmelt was already trickling down the slope toward the vent.

"Water comes from above too," he said. The four of them studied the ground for a moment before deciding to start a second low wall uphill from the chimney. They curved it around the vent so water and sliding snow would be guided toward either side before reaching it. When they finished, the chimney stood between the two barriers. The lower wall broke the wind coming up from the clearing, while the curved wall above turned runoff and sliding snow away.

Anything that passed between them still had to cross the overlapping stones protecting the base, and the tilted roof kept snow or rain from falling into the opening itself. Grub walked around the finished work and nodded.

"This seems like a lot for one vent." One of the Builders shrugged.

"Better to do too much once than keep coming back whenever the weather finds another weakness." The others grunted their agreement. Grub looked over the raised chimney, its sloping roof, the overlapping stones, and the two low walls protecting it. He couldn't argue with that. When they returned to the cavern, smoke rose steadily through the shaft, and water no longer fell into the fire. The Builders remained beside the hearth for some time, watching the ceiling as though expecting their work to betray them.

Nothing changed. At last, the first Builder gave a quiet grunt of satisfaction, and the four of them walked away. After that, their work inside the cavern changed. They still brought their plans to Grub for final approval, but unless a problem truly stumped them, they found their own answers and handled the work themselves. Firewood came first.

The Builders raised it off the damp stone on broad racks, then built another set of racks closer to the warmer side of the cavern where branches brought in beneath snow could dry before being fed to the fires. They reinforced the old meat-drying frames and shifted them into places where warmth and moving air could reach the strips without leaving them coated in smoke. Finished meat went onto raised shelves farther from the cavern walls, and farther still from the curious noses of the young wolves.

Weapons gained a place of their own near the entrance. Taking inspiration from the Thornbrew barrels, the Builders hollowed several shorter logs to hold spears, spare shafts, and bundles of javelins upright. Axes were stacked beneath a low rack instead of being left wherever their owners dropped them. For the bows, they asked Grub to carve a shallow channel into the wall with Stone Chip. A sturdy branch was fitted into the groove, and wooden pegs driven along its length gave each bow a place to hang.

None of it was complicated, but the tribe no longer had to search along the walls or across the floor whenever someone needed a weapon. The Builders gave the same attention to their own work area. Bone awls, stone flakes, pegs, rope, hide strips, and shaped branches were divided between rough shelves, racks, and hanging loops. Broken tools were kept in a separate pile from those still fit for use, ending several arguments before they could begin. Little by little, the cavern began to feel larger.

The walls hadn't moved, no new chamber had opened, and Grub had carved away only a few narrow channels where the Builders needed them. There was simply less clutter beneath everyone's feet, and fewer things left wherever they happened to fall. The same change had already taken root in the wounded alcove. The Medics had handled most of the work there even before the System named them.

Their new designation hadn't given them an entirely new purpose so much as deepened the instincts and habits they had already begun developing. Grub still helped when the injured returned faster than four pairs of hands could manage. He carried water, ground bark, warmed resin, and held down goblins who objected to having their wounds cleaned properly. Most days, however, the Medics didn't need him. They examined wounds themselves.

They decided when a bandage needed changing and when disturbing it would do more harm than good. They took turns watching fevers through the night and sent for Grub only when an injury behaved in a way none of them recognized. The herbs gathered before the snowfall had long since been dried and put away. Only the Nettleroot remained conspicuous, sealed in bundles marked with blackened cord and stored high at the rear of the alcove, apart from both food and medicine.

One of the children reached toward it while searching for Mistbloom a Medic had sent him to fetch. Another Medic noticed and struck his hand away.

"Black cord." The child stared at him.

"Poison." His hand dropped at once. Grub watched from the entrance and said nothing, something he found himself doing more often these days. Sometimes the Medics still looked toward him before trying something unfamiliar. Sometimes the Builders came to him because a plan required his magic, or because they had reached a problem they couldn't solve alone. But more and more, the work Grub had once needed to guide simply happened without him. The Medics treated wounds. The Builders found problems and fixed them.

Things that had been strange only weeks ago were becoming ordinary parts of Ironfang life. That pleased him more than praise ever had. The three Thornbrew barrels remained near the warmth as the days passed. The Builders checked the wood each morning, watching for leaks and pressing fresh resin into any cracks that appeared along the outside. Grub inspected the cloth coverings and fitted lids, making sure nothing had shifted enough to let ash, dirt, or insects inside.

About a week after filling the barrels, he strained out the crushed skins and pulp, pressing as much liquid from them as he could before returning the dark Thornbrew to the cleaned barrels. After that, there was little to do but wait. The bubbling gradually slowed over the following weeks. Throk developed a habit of appearing whenever Grub checked them. He crouched beside the nearest barrel one evening and sniffed near the edge of the covering.

"Is it ready?"

"No."

"You said that yesterday."

"It wasn't ready yesterday either." Throk reached for the lid. Grub slapped his hand away. Throk stared at him, then at his own hand, before looking back up.

"Careful."

"You keep trying to open it."

"I was smelling it."

"You can smell it without touching it."

"The lid weakens the scent."

"That means the lid is doing its job." Throk looked toward the other two barrels.

"What about those?"

"No."

"You didn't even check."

"I filled all three on the same day." Kesh sat nearby with her slate balanced across her knees.

"He asked the same questions this morning." Throk turned toward her.

"I was checking whether the answer had changed."

"It hadn't."

"It might have." Grub settled the covering back into place.

"You're going to ruin it if you keep bothering it." Throk rose with a dissatisfied grunt.

"Then make it finish faster." Grub looked up at him.

"That isn't how this works."

"It should be." Kesh didn't look up from her slate.

"Go bother someone else." Throk grumbled something under his breath and walked away. Grub waited until he was gone before leaning closer to the barrel and lifting the lid. A bubble rose through the dark liquid and quietly broke against the surface. He exchanged a grin with Kesh before replacing the lid. Beyond the wall, another storm gathered strength. Wind battered the wall hard enough to make the door groan against its braces.

Snow hissed across the clearing and piled against the stones protecting the vent, but smoke continued to rise through the shaft. Outside, winter spent itself against wood and stone. Inside, the Ironfang kept something for spring.