Chương 18: Chapter 15: Gideon/Dravak - It's Time To Q-Q-Q-Quarantine!

Gideon The next day was a lesson, but not for him. He'd decided it was time to try and help the last four slaves, to bring them around to his way of thinking. The conversation the previous night had shown him that they weren't beyond helping. But first the lesson had to be hammered home. They spent the day as they usually did, with small acts of defiance against their captors. They snarled when ordered to haul wood. They spit when told to move faster.

One tried to shove a Warrior when a spear butt prodded him too hard, earning a punch to the gut. Every act of defiance was met the same way. Spear hafts jabbed ribs until breath left lungs. Backs were struck. Faces split. By midday, all four had fresh bruises, bleeding lips, and the kind of deep weariness that went beyond being tired. Gideon said nothing as he continued his daily tasks. He scrubbed the dried blood off the stone where the dead slaves had been dragged away.

He hauled waste, brought back clean water, and tied clean cloth on wounds. That evening, when the slaves were shoved back into the cage in a heap, he finally spoke.

"You bled again today," he said. The tall one glared through his one less-swollen eye.

"We aren't you." Gideon just shrugged.

"Is your resistance worth it? Do you want more of this tomorrow? The next day? Until something eventually breaks inside you or they hit you too hard and you're just dead?"

"We aren't tools," one muttered. Grub looked at them, really looked. At the split skin, the purple bruises blooming along ribs, the way their shoulders slumped.

"No, you aren't. You're prisoners, slaves, just the same as me. But you have a choice." They sneered at that, but he continued.

"You can keep fighting like this and bleed until there is nothing left, then die and be thrown into the forest like the two from the other night. Or, you can work and keep your strength, stay alive, and live to see another day. Live to see your situation change." He paused, gauging their reactions. They weren't looking at him, but he could tell they were listening, so he pushed forward.

"How about this? Tomorrow, work with me, without resistance. Fetch water and haul waste with me. Watch me as I bind wounds, and learn what I do. Learn to move in ways that do not draw spear shafts to your ribs or fists to your face. At the end of the day, you can tell me which way is smarter if you want to live long enough to see another season." They still said nothing, so he decided to press his luck a little more.

"I don't plan on remaining a slave for much longer. Work with me, and you will earn your freedom too." They just stared at him as if he had suddenly grown a third arm out of his forehead. Gideon turned away, and lay down to sleep. He let them sit in the silence. But this silence was different than most nights in the cage. It was less hostile, and more uncertain. The next morning, when the guard came to wake them and kick them until they moved, he was surprised to see them all already moving.

The four slaves reluctantly followed Grub out of the cage, glaring at the goblin. They dragged their feet, scowled at his back, and flinched whenever a Warrior passed too close.

But, they followed, and did as Grub did. They fetched water. They hauled waste with scrunched up noses. They tore cloth into strips, clumsily at first, then more evenly as Grub corrected their hands with quiet words. They scrubbed the stone clean where old blood and filth had dried, muttering curses under their breath. The tribe watched, unsure of what to make of it.

"Slaves following a slave," one Warrior jeered.

"What next, they form their own warband?" Laughter broke out, but it was not as loud as it normally was. Eyes around the cavern flicked toward Dravak. He sat on his stone seat as he usually did, with his chin resting on one fist, watching Grub and the others as they moved. His expression was thoughtful, not amused. He didn't tell them to stop. That alone was a kind of shield. One female Warrior grumbled something under her breath and spat on the ground, anger clouding her face.

By day's end, when they were all herded back into the cage, Gideon sat closer and studied them.

"You aren't bleeding today," he said plainly.

"No fresh bruises or cuts to speak of." One of them snorted a dry, humorless laugh.

"True, but we're lower than dirt. Cleaning their shit."

"Maybe," Gideon said, shrugging.

"But you aren't broken. You stood all day. Your arms still work. Your legs still work. Tomorrow, you will stand again. Tell me what matters more to you. Your pride, or the chance to make it through this alive." They didn't answer. They didn't need to. He could see the words settling in, even if none of them were ready to admit it. Gideon shifted toward the center of the cage and began his nightly stretches.

Slowly, carefully, he worked the stiffness from his shoulders, legs, and back, holding each position despite the aches the day had left behind. One of the slaves watched him for a while, then awkwardly copied the stretch he was doing. Another followed soon after. Gideon didn't comment. He only adjusted the first goblin's footing with a quiet word and continued. By the time he lay down to sleep, all four had moved a little closer. The next step in his plan was finally underway.

When the cage door opened again the next morning, they rose without being kicked. By midday, their rhythm had settled. The four handled most of the water and scrubbing. Gideon meanwhile arranged the cloth, tended wounds, checked feverish foreheads, and began to see patterns: which goblins healed faster, which ones hid injuries out of pride, which corners of the cave grew mold quicker. That was when the shadow fell across him.

"Slave." Gideon looked up. Throk stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the four slaves work. His expression was hard and unreadable. His gaze moved over their hands, their buckets, the rags, the scrubbed stone where grime usually lived. Then it settled back on Gideon.

"You gather them," Throk said.

"They linger. They watch you."

"They work," he replied carefully. Throk's eyes narrowed.

"Slaves don't work together unless someone makes them." Gideon swallowed nervously, but kept his voice low and careful.

"I didn't force them to follow me." A pause, as the large goblin stared down at him. Throk exhaled slowly, and his gaze drifted to the sick and wounded that he was tending to.

"You interfere with the test. They should prove their strength on their own. You weaken the tribe."

"The wounded recover," Gideon replied.

"How does that weaken the tribe?" Another pause, longer this time. Throk stepped closer, just close enough that Gideon could smell old sweat and smoke. He braced, thinking Throk might hit him for his question.

"You scrub filth from the floor and walls," Throk said instead, a hint of anger in his voice.

"You kneel beside Warriors who should prove their strength alone, disrupting the natural way of things. And now slaves stay near you without ropes pulling them. All of it is not natural." He practically growled the last words. Gideon swallowed again, keeping his eyes low.

"I'm simply working to help the tribe. The others aren't forced to follow me or do as I do."

"And yet they do."

"Because, they learned what happens when they keep moving. They learned what happens when they snarl and spit. And now they've learned that if they work, they are beaten less." Throk's jaw tightened.

"Pain teaches important lessons," he growled.

"Pressure makes Warriors strong. Comfort softens them." He glanced back at the wounded laying on bedfurs nearby.

"You soften them." Gideon nodded once, and met Throk's eyes.

"If the Chief says I should stop, I will stop immediately. Until then, I will continue my work." Throk held his stare for a moment longer.

"I follow Chief Dravak," he said at last.

"If he allows this, I will not be the one to stop it." Then his voice hardened and he leaned in close.

"But do not mistake that for my approval. Goblins do not drift together without cause. If your ways weaken the Ironfang, if Warriors soften, if slaves forget what they are, I will be the first to stand against you." He turned and walked away. A female Warrior standing nearby watched him go, then looked at Grub with open contempt.

"A Chief who listens to slaves," she muttered.

"Strange times." Throk stopped just long enough to glance back.

"Mind your tongue." She laughed bitterly but said nothing more. The words lingered anyway. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Gideon stared at the female Warrior. She'd been one of the most outwardly expressive about her displeasure with his "strange methods" as the tribe often called them. He remembered her angry muttering from earlier. Then, with nothing else to do, he got back to his work. Eventually Dravak's voice cut through the noise.

"Grub. Outside, with me. Now." The four slaves froze. Gideon turned toward them and gave a small nod.

"Keep working," he said.

"I'll be back." The same female Warrior from before scoffed, muttered something, and stormed off, fists clenched. Gideon lifted the half-full bucket in his hands and walked toward the cave mouth. Dravak fell into step beside him, and they passed the guards outside without a word and climbed the slope toward the stream. At the top, sunlight caught the water. It sparkled in cold flashes, bright enough to make him squint. Dravak folded his arms across his chest and studied him.

"Throk was right earlier. Slaves do not lead," he said after a long pause.

"They are tools. Tools don't gather other tools to work. Yet those four follow you. Why?" Gideon kept his gaze on the current.

"Because I told them the truth. If they fight back, they bleed. If they work, they don't. They eventually learned that they prefer keeping their blood inside." Dravak grunted.

"You're using them as extra hands so you can work on things you deem more important. Fine. That I can understand. But what I don't understand is why those hands are scrubbing stone instead of hauling wood or helping with cooking meat for the tribe? I've let it continue until now because you've produced results so far. Don't make me regret that decision. The tribe is watching me, and they're starting to ask why a slave is 'giving orders'." Dravak leaned in closer, until his face was close to Gideon's own.

"So, tell me why." Gideon's voice steadied and he met Dravak's gaze.

"Because, Chief, filth spreads sickness. Sickness weakens your Warriors. A clean floor, clean waste pit, clean rags to bind wounds, it all means fewer infections and fewer goblins falling sick. That means fewer of your injured goblins die. And your tribe is stronger for it." Dravak's eyes narrowed.

"You are a strange one. But I have seen my Warriors rise since you began." He took a step back and studied Gideon once more. After a moment he spoke again.

"What else is hiding in that head of yours, Grub? Speak it." Gideon hesitated. His mind flicked through memories that didn't belong to this world. Roman field camps with latrines dug downwind. Medieval accounts of plagues ripping through cities. Modern hospital diagrams he had glanced at in textbooks. Disease spread anywhere people slept piled together without care. He was a goblin in a cave in a different world, but the rules were the same. This was his opportunity to begin truly handling the sick goblins problem.

Another step in his master plan to earn his freedom.

"The sick shouldn't mix with the rest of the tribe," he said slowly.

"They shouldn't share the same bedfurs, or eat and drink from the same bowls. They should be kept apart from the tribe until they're no longer sick." As he spoke, his mind ran through what he had watched all week. Coughing goblins wandering freely through the cavern. Food passed from filthy hand to filthy hand. Water dipped from the same bucket by the sick and the healthy alike. It was a miracle the tribe had not already gutted itself with disease. If it were up to him, he would change all of it.

But he knew he couldn't yet. Not all at once. Too much change would draw too much attention. Too much resistance. He couldn't afford that. One step at a time. Slow and measured. Let the results speak for themselves. Dravak meanwhile was considering his words.

"They are tribe," he said, glancing at Gideon.

"They have always slept among us. Ate among us. Why should I change that now for words from a slave?"

"Because what you've always done is killing more of them than it should. Sickness spreads easily. Put the sick together, away from the healthy, and fewer of the healthy will fall sick. The sick will recover faster. More Warriors will stand. In the end, isn't that what matters most?" Dravak's gaze focused on him.

"And if they do not work, who does? Who carries their wood? Who drags their meat? Who fills their water? If they are confined to a corner of the cave, who will bring them their food and water?"

"I will," Gideon said. He felt the weight of the words even as he spoke them. Dravak just raised an eyebrow at him, so he continued, "I will carry their share of the work on top of my own. Let the four others keep doing what they're doing, but the burden for this idea is mine. If it fails, it fails on me, and me alone." Dravak let silence stretch between them, weighing the cost. Gideon maintained eye contact the whole time, not blinking, not looking away.

"How long should they stay apart?" Dravak asked at last. He thought about it. He had no proper data, no charts, no experiments to draw on. Just instinct and stolen knowledge. He needed them to stay apart until they were healthy, an indefinite period of time, but that wasn't the answer Dravak was seeking. He decided to compromise, to ask for enough time that results would show. More time could be granted later.

"A week," he said.

"By then, if it works, you should see the difference." Dravak nodded once.

"Okay Grub. You will have your week. They will sleep apart, eat apart, touch nothing the rest of the tribe uses. You will tend them and carry their weight. At the end of the seven days, if I see more strength in my tribe, it continues. If not, you will answer for the wasted effort."

"Understood." He felt the trap snap shut tight around him, but it was one he had stepped into willingly. The two of them stayed at the top of the hill for a few more minutes, just staring into the water or the forest, both of them thinking. Eventually Dravak turned and walked back toward the cavern, and Gideon followed close behind. Dravak By dusk, the change had begun to take shape inside his cavern.

Dravak had issued the command to the tribe from his stone seat, and he had watched as the sick and badly wounded were dragged to an alcove near the far wall of the cavern. They muttered curses the entire way, some directed at the guards, most at Grub. They called him carrion-lover, traitor, filth-licker, and any other names they could think of. One tried to stand and stagger back toward the main fire. Dravak's voice rolled through the cave like distant thunder.

"Stay." The goblin froze midstep, then turned back to the alcove, grumbling to himself. Dravak rose from his seat. His gaze swept across the entire tribe.

"Hear me now, because I will not say it again. No one is to share their food with them," he said.

"No one shares bedfurs. They will eat apart, sleep apart, and stay apart from the rest of the tribe. Any goblin who breaks this answers to me." The protests died before they could fully form. A few goblins grumbled. Others muttered under their breath. But no one dared move toward the alcove again. One female Warrior stared openly at Grub, anger plain on her face, as if the entire disruption of the cavern had sprung from him alone. Dravak noticed. Her glare shifted. For just a moment, it landed on him.

She didn't speak. But the question was there all the same. This had been his command. Dravak met her stare without blinking. After a breath, she looked away first, muttering under her breath. The four slaves meanwhile still followed the runt. They carried buckets of water, stacks of cloth, strips torn from old garments that Dravak's stores had grudgingly yielded. They watched as Grub knelt by one feverish goblin, pressed a cool damp cloth to his forehead, and checked the wound along his ribs.

They watched him change dressings, carry filthy bedding away, scrub it half clean, then drag it back again. They watched him move like a machine that couldn't stop. Whispers slowly filled the cavern, a low, uneasy murmur as the tribe watched something they didn't have the words for. Dravak leaned back in his seat, hands resting loosely on his knees, his eyes focused and considering as they followed every movement Grub made.

"Strange ways," he murmured, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

"Strange results." He drummed his fingers idly on the arm of his stone seat, then called out for his Lieutenant. He needed another perspective.

"Kesh." She appeared at his side a moment later, quiet as a shifting shadow.

"Yes, Chief?"

"What do you make of all this? Am I doing the right thing, allowing Grub to do as he does?" Kesh didn't answer immediately. Her eyes tracked Grub as he moved between the alcove and the water buckets, the four slaves trailing him in an uneven rhythm. One fumbled a strip of cloth and Grub corrected his grip without looking up.

"He gathers them," she said at last.

"Slaves shouldn't gather like that."

"No," Dravak agreed.

"He changes how the tribe moves," she continued.

"Where it sleeps. How it acts. That is not a small thing." Dravak grunted. Their gazes drifted naturally toward the alcove where the sick and wounded now lay separated.

"But…" she continued.

"But?"

"The wounded rise faster," she acknowledged.

"Hunters' wounds are healing faster, and they return to the forest to bring more meat to the tribe. Warriors who should have stiffened still grip spears." She folded her arms.

"I don't trust him," she said plainly.

"Not his thoughts. Not how quickly he shifts the tribe's habits." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched the small goblin rinse a cloth and wring it out with careful hands.

"He is much smarter than he pretends to be," she continued after a moment.

"He lowers his eyes. He keeps his voice small. But he watches everything. He plans." Dravak's jaw tightened.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"He does."

"And what is he planning?" Kesh asked.

"He strengthens the tribe. Yes. The wounded rise faster. But the cavern shifts in his direction. Slaves follow him instead of shrinking away." Her gaze flicked back to Grub.

"But to what end? Others in the tribe are wondering if he is leading you along. That's dangerous, Dravak." Dravak watched Grub for a long moment before answering.

"He has told me what he wants," he said at last. Kesh's eyes shifted to him.

"To live." Silence settled between them.

"He says he strengthens us because if we fall, he falls," Dravak continued.

"He says survival is all he cares about."

"And you believe him?"

"I believe that he believes it." That earned the faintest tilt of her head.

"But," he added, "a goblin who thinks as he does rarely thinks only one step ahead." Kesh's expression hardened slightly.

"Survival is always the first step," she responded.

"Yes."

"And what comes after? What is the next step?" she pressed. Dravak didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained on Grub, who was now adjusting bedding in the alcove while one of the other slaves hauled away a bundle of soiled fur.

"Intelligence is not a weakness," he said at last.

"It is a blade. Useful, if held correctly." He turned his gaze back to Kesh and grinned, showing his metal teeth.

"You are proof of that."

"And it is deadly, if it turns," Kesh replied. A low rumble of agreement left his chest, almost a laugh.

"For now," he said, "his blade cuts in our favor. And his hunger to live binds him to the tribe."

"For now," Kesh echoed.

"If that changes, I will put an arrow through his throat before he finishes whatever plan he is building." Dravak nodded once.

"You'll have to race Throk for the pleasure," he said.

"Keep watching."

"I already am." Her eyes never left Grub as she stepped back into the flow of the cavern. Not far from the firelight, that same female Warrior watched as well, jaw tight with anger and frustration. When another Warrior muttered that the wounded might rise faster now, she spat and answered under her breath, "Strength means nothing now. Even slaves make rules." Throk was close enough to hear. He didn't repeat her words, but he didn't stop her either.

He only stared ahead, expression flat, watching Grub as if weighing something only he could see. Gideon When the day's work was finally done and the fire burned low, Gideon staggered back to the cage with every muscle aching. His arms felt like lead. His back screamed from hauling bodies and bedding. He could still feel the glares from the alcove following him as he lowered himself into the first stretch of his nightly routine. They blamed him for their isolation, and he couldn't exactly fault them for that.

Dravak had given the order, but it wasn't hard to trace it back to him. Around him, the other four slaves began stretching as well. They didn't speak about it. They simply found what little room the cage allowed and worked through the motions he'd taught them last night, stiff and exhausted but no longer as clumsy. One rolled his shoulders. Another stretched out a trembling leg while the goblin beside him steadied his balance with one hand against the bars.

Gideon corrected a bent knee, then returned to his own aching muscles. When they were done, he sank against the bars and let his head rest back. The cage was cramped, cold, and reeked faintly of straw and sweat, but it was familiar. The tribe was quieter than usual tonight. No one was chanting his name as an insult anymore. No one was laughing. The silence felt heavier than the mockery had ever been.

For the first time since the System had stripped his human name away and stamped Grub in its place, he felt something unfamiliar stirring inside him. Not safety or peace, but something closer to belonging. The cavern no longer felt entirely foreign to him. The rhythms of daily life here were becoming predictable. The work made sense. The tribe's survival was starting to feel tied to his own in a way that went beyond simple calculation. A dangerous thought followed close behind.

"Maybe this is who you are now." He thought about it. Maybe he should stop clinging so tightly to Gideon. Stop treating this new body, this name, and this tribe as something temporary. Stop waiting for something he couldn't even put a name to that might never come. The idea unsettled him more than the insults ever had. It scared him. How far would he go to protect that growing sense of place? How many goblins would he watch die?

How many would he help live, not because he cared about them, but because their strength kept him breathing? And at what point did his calculated survival turn into something else? If he ever found a way back to Earth, if he ever stood in front of his parents again, stood in front of Max, would they recognize him? Would they still see Gideon? Or would they only see Grub, a strange goblin who counted lives and treated them all like pieces to be moved on a board? He didn't know. What he did know was simple.

He pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and breathed slowly until the shaking in his chest eased.

"I will survive," he told himself in the dark.

"Whatever it takes." As he did most nights, he repeated the mantra to himself. The System said nothing. The cavern settled into uneasy sleep. Water rushed by outside, the sound of the stream cold and clear, carving its own path through stone and silence.