Chương 21: Chapter 18: Gideon/Dravak - The Next Step

Gideon The tribe moved on easily, so Gideon tried to as well. He finished his morning rounds in the alcove because life didn't stop for one dead goblin, because water still had to be carried, cloth still had to be wrung clean, fevered foreheads still had to be checked, and because standing beside a corpse wouldn't change what had already happened. Around him, the cavern had already resumed its rhythm. A pair of Warriors argued quietly over a chipped spearhead. Someone laughed too loudly near the fire.

A child darted past the alcove entrance before being snapped at and shoved away. It was as if the dead Warrior had never existed. Gideon had seen it before. The two slaves who had attacked him and died in their scuffle. Just yesterday, when the female Warrior had foolishly challenged Dravak and paid for it with her life. Those deaths had come in violence, sudden and brutal, and the tribe's reaction had matched what he had come to expect.

Each body had been dragged out of the cave and left in the forest without ceremony, without marker, left for beasts and carrion and whatever else claimed the fallen. His thoughts drifted briefly to his first real kill, the Warrior from Throk's hunting party. After Gideon had struck him down, the others had stripped the body of gear and weapons and left it where it fell, the forest reclaiming what remained. It was brutally efficient and practical. Somehow, he had imagined this death might feel different.

But it didn't. The body had been dragged into the forest all the same. As Gideon was quickly learning, for goblins, death was death. A fact of life, not a tragedy. No ceremony, no lingering. The tribe adjusted and continued, because that was the only way to survive in a world that didn't pause for grief. It was strange.

But as he stood there listening to the scrape of stone and the low rumble of voices settling back into their usual patterns, he found himself understanding it more than he would have admitted a week ago. There was a certain clarity in it. No pretending, no wasted energy on what couldn't be undone. You either survived, or you didn't. The next day came either way. That simplicity unsettled him, and yet, at the same time he felt oddly comforted by it.

He moved through the alcove with steady hands, pressing lightly against resin-hardened bindings, testing swelling, touching throats, measuring heat by instinct rather than guesswork. When he finished and was heading to the stream with a pile of soiled furs, he paused, turned back, and counted. When he had first begun cleaning wounds and re-binding them with nothing more than water, there had been twenty-two goblins laid out on mats around the cavern. Since then, the numbers had shifted constantly.

Wounded Warriors had come and gone, some returning to the main fire with new scars, others taking their place with wounds suffered during hunts or patrols. Some sick goblins had recovered, and a few others had fallen sick after nights spent too close to coughing bodies. Now, a little more than a week later, there were only twelve goblins remaining in the alcove. Four wounded and eight sick goblins under his care. Gideon turned and began hauling the furs up the small rise to be scrubbed, thinking all the while.

The wound treatments worked. That much was undeniable. The bark and needle wash cleaned wounds better than stream water. The resin sealed torn flesh better than plain cloth, and the charcoal paste reinforced it, keeping the bindings from shifting loose. Fewer wounds festered or turned black and wet with rot. But the sickness still remained. The sick lay sweating under thin hides, skin hot and eyes unfocused. Their coughs were dry and persistent, scraping up from deep in the chest.

Fever burned through them in waves, breaking in sweat and returning before the stone floor had cooled beneath their backs. Every few breaths, one of them would jerk upright or spasm with a racking cough that drew irritated looks from any nearby Warriors. To Gideon, it looked like the cold or the flu, or at the very least something similar. Nothing dramatic or violent. Just weakness, heat, and a slow draining of strength. In a strong body, it would pass after a few uncomfortable days.

In a goblin thin and already strained by hunger and injury, it could kill. The Warrior from yesterday had not died from his wound. The binding had held. The flesh had been closing, slow but steady. There had been no spreading rot. It was the fever that had taken him. For a moment, the tightness returned to his chest, and he felt the guilt rise up inside him. He pushed the feeling away, and exited the cavern with soiled furs in hand. He reached the stream and got to work cleaning the first fur.

The cold water soaked into his fingers as he scrubbed, and he focused on the physical sensation. The movements were automatic now. He barely registered them, as if his body was operating on instinct alone. He examined the guilt he'd felt and let it go. He had only introduced the bark wash and resin bindings the day before that Warrior died. His new methods were never meant to undo weeks of sickness in a single night. The goblin had been burning long before Gideon had ever cut himself to test the wash.

That was not his failure, but it was a good reminder. He had gone into the forest to find something for sickness. Instead, he had come back with tools for dealing with wounds. Necessary and useful tools that worked well, to be sure, just not the ones that would affect the sick goblins in the tribe the way he needed. He moved on to the last soiled bedfur, scrubbing the caked-on filth away with steady strokes. As he worked, he reconsidered what he had gathered the other day. What did he actually have?

Could he use any of it to treat sickness? Bark. Needles. Resin. Charcoal. All of it meant for wounds. None of it meant for something already inside the lungs. He finished the final bedfur and dragged the wet furs back down toward the cavern. A few goblins stepped aside reluctantly as he passed. One wrinkled his nose at the smell and muttered, "The slave stinks worse than the sick." Gideon just grinned at him.

Once he had set the furs aside to dry, he stopped near the main fire, where a bowl of the bark wash sat waiting. Several Warriors noticed him lingering there. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. He stared into the yellow-brown liquid, thinking. He dipped a finger in and tasted it. The bitterness hit hard, and he scrunched his face. One of the nearby Warriors snorted a laugh.

"Drinking tree water now?" the goblin teased. Gideon ignored him. It was far too strong. He diluted a small portion heavily with water and tasted it again. Better. Still bitter and unpleasant, but manageable. He lifted the bowl and drank deeply. A few heads turned fully now.

"He's poisoning himself now," someone muttered. Gideon felt the weight of their stares but didn't look up. He noted the warmth spread in his stomach and went back to work. Over the next few hours, nothing happened. No cramping. No dizziness. No nausea. That told him it was reasonably safe to consume. He returned to the alcove and crouched beside one of the sick. The goblin glared weakly when he brought the diluted bowl forward.

"What now?" the goblin rasped.

"Drink this," Gideon said. The goblin tried to turn his head away. Gideon grabbed him by the jaw and forced the bowl to his lips, tilting it carefully but firmly until he swallowed. The sick goblin coughed, sputtered, then wheezed in anger.

"Slave—""Drink. It won't kill you," Gideon repeated, steady and unyielding. A pair of Warriors at the alcove entrance watched the exchange with mild interest. One folded his arms. The other's attention shifted briefly toward the central fire where Dravak sat. Gideon continued the dosing throughout the day, spacing it carefully, watching for rejection. He repeated the process the next day, maintaining hydration, monitoring fever cycles, comparing cough depth and breath rhythm.

The goblin didn't worsen, which was good in itself. The fever broke earlier in the evenings than before, though it still returned. The cough loosened only slightly. The improvement was modest, but measurable. Gideon frowned. It was something. Definitely better than nothing. But it was still not enough. He sat back on his heels and tried to think back to Earth once more. In his old life, he had spent long days reading about how ancient civilizations survived sickness without modern medicine.

They had boiled plants into teas, experimented with leaves and roots and bark, and learned through observation what eased fever and soothed lungs. They hadn't always known why something worked. They only knew that, over time, certain brews helped more than others. He remembered being fascinated by that. The memories came clearly, leaving a bittersweet melancholy behind. How long until he could read another book?

He glanced around the cavern, at the smoke-stained stone and the rough hides and the goblins sharpening bone and stone tools.

"A while," he thought with a faint hint of amusement. He shook his head and refocused. If ancient civilizations had managed without modern medicine, then surely he could too. The forest had given him the bark wash, the resin cloths, and the charcoal paste. Who was to say it didn't also contain herbs that could break a fever or lessen a cough? As he thought of the damp earth and filtered light and the sharp scent of crushed leaves underfoot, something in him leaned toward it with steady certainty.

Herbal Insight would be quite useful here. He mentally berated himself for not using the Skill on the various plants he had seen in the forest as he had gathered supplies previously. He knew that given time to search, he would probably be able to find plants helpful for easing fever and coughing rather than sealing flesh. The diluted wash he had made was only a stopgap. The forest would surely hold something better.

He rose and continued his rounds, retying one loose binding before replacing the damp cloth on a feverish forehead. The alcove was quieter than it had been. Better than before, but still not good enough. Gideon crouched beside the next fur and reached for the bowl of cooled bark water. Dravak Dravak sat in his stone seat before the main fire, one hand resting against the worn arm beside him.

Throk and Kesh stood at either side, their attention fixed on the alcove across the cavern, where Grub moved from one fur to the next with a bowl of bark-brown water in his hands. Throk watched with open irritation.

"The tribe talks about him," he said.

"They watch what he does. They listen. He's a slave. It isn't natural, Dravak." Kesh's gaze remained on the alcove.

"They watch because fewer goblins are rotting. It's hard to miss when so many have returned to the fires." Throk's jaw clenched.

"He stands in the open and orders the other slaves around. He forces Warriors to drink whatever he brews. He acts as though he isn't a slave, and we allow it." His gaze shifted toward Dravak.

"And he isn't merely strange. Have you Identified him?"

"Once," Dravak said. Kesh's fingers stilled against the edge of her slate.

"So have we." Dravak glanced up at her.

"I checked after he began treating the wounded," she continued.

"Throk did the same." Throk's eyes remained on Dravak.

"No designation," he said.

"A name."

"The System has blessed him," Dravak replied.

"And?" Dravak waited. Throk tipped his chin toward the alcove. Grub had lifted the head of a fevered Warrior and was holding the bowl to his mouth, ignoring the goblin's weak attempt to turn away.

"What are you going to do about the System-blessed slave running loose beneath your roof?" Dravak watched Grub wait until the Warrior's resistance faded, then coax another swallow between his clenched teeth.

"For now?" His fingers curled once against the stone.

"Nothing." Throk's eyes narrowed.

"He has kept it hidden."

"So have we," Dravak replied. For several breaths, none of them spoke. Then Kesh looked down at the marks on her slate.

"Our way was losing bodies," she said.

"His way is not. That matters more than what he's chosen not to tell us." Throk shifted his weight.

"You think this is only about wounds? A slave shouldn't change how the tribe moves."

"Only four wounded remain," Kesh said, her voice calm.

"Eight are still sick. Last week there were far more. You count strength in spears. I count it in goblins who still breathe. By either measure, we are stronger than we were."

"The sickness lingers," Throk pressed.

"Eight still burn, as you said."

"Yes," Kesh replied.

"But fewer join them." Silence settled between them. Dravak had counted as well. Before Grub had arrived, the number of sick had risen each day. Cuts that should have closed instead blackened and stank, and Warriors who had walked home under their own strength failed to rise from their furs. Now the sickness held. The wounded returned to the fires sooner. The smell of rot no longer clung so thickly to the cavern air. Whatever Grub had hidden, Dravak couldn't ignore what lay plainly before him.

"Order matters," Dravak said at last, his voice low but firm.

"So do numbers. Ours have begun to rise again. Winter is coming, and I need every goblin who can stand holding a spear." Across the cavern, Grub lowered the bowl and checked the binding on the next wounded goblin. He moved through the rest of the alcove, pausing beside each fur before finally rising. Dravak's gaze shifted from Throk to Kesh.

"You will say nothing of what Identify showed you. Not to him. Not to anyone." Throk's brow lowered.

"Why?"

"Because he still believes the secret is his." Dravak glanced toward the alcove. Grub had noticed them watching and stood there now, uncertain whether to approach.

"Corner him with it, and he'll spend his strength hiding instead of showing us what else he can do." The fire stirred between them, sending a scatter of sparks twisting toward the cavern roof.

"Let him keep his secret," Dravak said.

"We'll keep watching." Grub lingered for another moment, then stepped away from the alcove and crossed the cavern toward them. He stopped at a respectful distance and lowered his head slightly.

"Chief." Dravak turned fully toward him.

"I need to go back into the forest." The timing wasn't lost on Dravak. He grunted in amusement and he glanced at Throk. Throk's jaw tightened again. Kesh tilted her head, studying him more closely.

"Why?" Dravak asked.

"The wounds are improving," Grub said evenly.

"The sickness isn't, at least not at the same pace. What I have helps, but it's not enough. The forest holds more."

"You went just a few days ago," Throk cut in.

"Now you want more freedom?"

"I want more materials," Grub replied.

"If you allow it, Chief, the four others will come with me. I will teach them what to gather. Bark. Resin. Anything useful I may find. If they learn, we don't depend on only one set of hands." Dravak considered that carefully. Long term thinking. Continuity.

"We," he echoed, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"Or you gather five slaves and vanish," Throk countered before Grub could respond.

"If I wished to escape," the slave said calmly, "I wouldn't have asked for permission. I would just run. Telling you before I did so would be stupid." Throk stepped forward half a pace.

"Watch your tone with me, slave." Dravak lifted a hand. Throk stopped, took a breath, and stepped back.

"You would teach them," Dravak said.

"Yes." Kesh finally spoke again.

"If they learn," she said carefully, "then even if he dies, the knowledge remains with us." Throk glanced at her with irritation. Dravak weighed it all. Grub had altered the cave's rhythm. Warriors watched him with open curiosity. They spoke of him when he wasn't around. That could grow into something dangerous. Or something quite useful.

"You will not walk my forest unwatched," Dravak said at last.

"Of course not, Chief."

"You will take the four slaves with you," Dravak continued.

"Throk and two Hunters will go with you. They will watch you. And if any of you stray, you will not make it far." Throk's expression eased slightly.

"And if he teaches them something dangerous?" he asked. Dravak's gaze remained steady.

"Then we decide whether it strengthens us," he said, "or we remove it." He paused.

"You will leave at first light tomorrow and return again before dark." He leaned forward slightly.

"If your forest scraps do nothing, then the next solution will not involve leaves." Grub lowered his head.

"Yes, Chief." He moved away quickly, as if his continued presence might make Dravak change his mind. Dravak watched him retreat. The tribe had been weakening before he arrived. Now it wasn't. Dravak intended to ensure that whatever this change became, it would remain under his control.