Chương 49: Chapter 36: Strength Replacing Weakness

When the warband had left at dawn, the cavern suddenly felt too large. The echoes of thirty-five sets of footsteps faded quickly into the mist, and a heavy silence rolled in to take their place. The fires popped softly. Somewhere in the wounded alcove, one of the three remaining sick goblins coughed, the sound thin but no longer wet. A child whispered a question and was met with a tired shush. Grub stood near the main fire and watched Dravak's broad back disappear into the gray light beyond the cave mouth.

Being left behind should've felt like safety. Instead it felt like being handed something fragile and being told not to drop it. The Chief had left him with the ten children, the four freed slaves, and the three Warriors still recovering from fever and wounds. The ones who couldn't march. The ones who couldn't fight. The ones a hungry pack would wipe out with ease if it ever reached the cavern. Grub understood Dravak's decision, from a logical standpoint. That didn't stop the irritation rising in his chest.

Out there, goblins were dying so the tribe might live. In here, he had been left behind like something weak to be coddled. Being upset about it wouldn't change the reality of his situation, though. He noted how many of the departing goblins wore fresh bindings, resin sealed and dark paste staining the cloth. It meant he'd done everything he could to make sure they were strong enough for the battles ahead of them, before the first wolf had fallen. He held onto that as the last figures vanished into the mist.

Then he turned back into the cavern. He worked in a comfortable silence with the four ex-slaves, making more of what they needed. He kept his hands moving while his thoughts stayed where they needed to be. They started with the water. Always the water. He set three separate beaten up iron pots to boil and watched carefully as one of the four dropped strips of bitter bark and a pinch of sharp needles into one of them. Into the next, they added Frostvein, and in the third one went the Mistbloom.

While the pots steeped and darkened, the five of them moved on to the rest of the work. Grub warmed more of the resin near the fire until it softened into something spreadable, then let the others mix some it with charcoal into a separate smear until it turned thick and sticky, a glue that clung to cloth and skin alike. When everything was finished, they gathered it all up and headed to the alcove. Grub stayed back as the four took charge. Old wrappings came away.

Skin beneath was wiped clean and checked with practiced pressure. He leaned close once, double checking their work. Nothing wrong. They were slowly but surely becoming competent caretakers. They washed wounds with the bitter bark water while it was still hot enough to sting, then cooled cloths with the last of it and laid them against swollen flesh to pull heat down.

They pressed resin-smeared cloth over torn skin and sealed the edges with the charcoal paste, binding it all tight enough to hold and loose enough not to choke blood. For the fevers, they carefully measured out Frostvein tea and fed it in small amounts. For the coughs, Grub watched as they took the Mistbloom tea and made the three goblins drink it even when they turned their faces away, grimacing at the taste.

He watched the alcove and listened, not just to the sick goblins' breath, but to the way the four freed goblins gently spoke to them, to the way a body tensed when it thought pain was coming. He stayed and watched them working until he was satisfied, then moved on. There was more work to be done. Days passed. The three goblins who'd been half conscious and sweating when the warband left improved slowly. At first they could sit without help. Then they stood, leaning heavily against the wall.

Soon they were walking slow laps around the fire, each circuit steadier than the last. Color slowly returned to their faces, and the glassy film of fever faded from their eyes. They were still weak, still stiff, but they were no longer slipping away. By midday of the second day, all three insisted on staying upright.

"We are Warriors," one growled when Grub tried to guide him back down. His breath rasped, but his eyes were clear.

"If we can stand while the tribe bleeds for us out there, we will stand for the tribe." Grub didn't argue too much, but he had to speak his mind at least once.

"You stand too long and you will tear yourself open again," he said.

"Then you aren't brave. You are just another problem I have to fix." The goblin bared his teeth.

"Better to be a problem than dead weight." Grub exhaled through his nose. Irritation and understanding tangled together.

"Fine. Then you stand on my terms," he said.

"No lifting. No running. No trying to prove anything. If you reopen your wounds, you listen when I tell you to rest again. I won't have Dravak return to find the three of you dead because of pride." The goblin's jaw worked. Then he gave a single, grudging nod. The other two followed suit. The four other goblins meanwhile had taken up watch without needing to be asked.

They rotated near the entrance and along the edge of the firelight, spears in hand, settling into the rhythm of guard duty as if it had always been theirs. When the children grew restless, it wasn't subtle. They hovered too close to the entrance, peering into gray light as if they could see the warband through mist and trees. They jumped at echoes. They whispered about wolves and teeth and whether Dravak and the warband would come back. Their games turned more aggressive. Small shoves became fights.

One boy started crying in the middle of the cave, then clamped his mouth shut like he was ashamed of the sound. Grub watched it build for half a day before he decided it was enough. Fear in children didn't sit still. It leaked into everything. It made them stupid. It made them loud. It made them easy to break. They needed a distraction, something to take their minds off the situation at hand. He walked to the four freed goblins and caught their eyes.

"Teach them," he said. One of them blinked.

"Teach them what?"

"Basic spear work," Grub replied.

"How to stand. How to hold the weapon. How to listen. Just keep them moving. Keep them focused on something besides reality." They hesitated for only a moment. Then one nodded and called the children over with a barked command that made their small heads snap around. They began to drill them in spearwork. The children thought it was just a fun game at first, but they quickly learned to take it seriously. Their drill sergeants' shouts echoed through the cavern. Feet wider. Knees bent. Weight forward. Grip here.

Hands spaced properly. Thumbs along the shaft. The children hurried to obey. They wanted to be Warriors, wanted to stand tall and make the tribe proud. When a child's spear wobbled, one of the goblins snapped his fingers.

"Again." The half-healed Warriors joined in despite themselves, barking corrections, snapping at flinches, drilling the Ironfang way. Thrust. Withdraw. No wasted motion. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. Grub watched from the edge, hands still stained dark from charcoal paste that had seeped into his pores. The training made each child quicker, stronger, harder to catch alone. But it also taught them to fight as if they would always be alone.

To win their own fight and trust the goblin beside them to win theirs. It left openings to be exploited, placing them in more danger than needed. He said nothing though. This wasn't the time to critique spearwork. Among the children, one female moved differently. She wasn't the biggest or the loudest, but she learned faster, corrected herself without being told, and when another child faltered she shifted instinctively, placing herself where the line broke.

Once, when two children tangled spears and started to shove, she stepped between them without looking back at the instructors, wrenched the shafts apart, and shoved both of them back into place with a glare that made them go quiet. After that, when the line formed, the others began to drift closer to her without realizing they were doing it. They glanced at her feet when they were unsure where to place their own. They matched her pace. They steadied when she steadied. Grub noticed.

He didn't interrupt the lessons, just stored it away like another tool. The children stumbled, their lines tangled, and someone cried once when they fell hard to the stone floor. But their eyes stayed bright. Being treated as something more than mouths to feed filled them with a fierce, unsteady pride. Soon enough, they forgot to be scared and anxious. Grub moved among them, checking hands for blisters, steadying shaking grips, murmuring when the fear crept back in. When drills paused, he set them to other work.

Hauling water in pairs. Scrubbing hides. Chopping up bark. Crushing charcoal into powder. Simple work. Necessary work. Work that kept their minds busy. Each night, the howls came again. At first they were loud and wild, carrying confidently through the forest. Then there were fewer of them, and the calls grew thinner. By the fourth night, they sounded wrong. Long, mournful notes lingered between the trees, waiting for answers that never came.

Grub listened in silence, a strip of cloth stretched between his fingers as he smeared softened resin along it. Each howl meant the pack still lived, but each missing voice meant blood had been paid. He thought of Dravak somewhere in the forest, axe raised. Of Throk bracing himself behind his shield against something heavier than himself. Of Kesh alone in the trees, watching and waiting for the right time to strike. He pressed harder.

The resin soaked through the cloth he was holding, and he placed it aside, grabbing the next small strip with sticky fingers. The cave endured. The coughs grew fewer, ghen disappeared. The three formerly sick goblins made another circuit of the cave without swaying. The children's spear lines bent a little less each day. Slowly, steadily, the cavern felt less like a hole where they waited to die and more like the heart of a tribe again.

On the fifth morning, when the children were set to hauling water and the freed goblins had taken their places guarding the entrance, Grub slipped toward the back of the cavern. The crevice remained cool, dark, and easy to overlook. Only two bowls waited behind the jut of stone. Grub crouched and pulled the first forward. Bowl Two was still changing, though far more slowly than before. He dipped a clean strip of bark into the dark liquid and tasted a few drops. His mouth puckered immediately.

"Still terrible." It was stronger than the diluted batch. He was reasonably sure of that much. It was also so bitter and sour that that strength hardly seemed worth the trade. Bowl Three tasted better. Not good. Definitely not good. But the extra time had given it more of the familiar warmth he remembered from alcohol without bringing back the concentrated misery of the undiluted berries. Grub looked between the two bowls. He already knew which one he wanted to keep.

"Well. At least you taught me something." He covered Bowl Two, carried it outside, and dumped the contents well away from the cavern entrance. When he returned, only one of his experiments remained. That felt strangely satisfying. The four ex-slaves noticed the bowl in his hands almost immediately when he carried it back toward the fire. Their eyes followed him as he approached. Grub motioned them closer.

"I made something." One frowned.

"Medicine?"

"Not unless being miserable counts as an illness." That earned him several uncertain looks. Grub sat beside the fire and uncovered the bowl.

"Take a small drink." The nearest goblin eyed the liquid suspiciously.

"You first." Grub shrugged and took a swallow. It was still sour, and still quite bitter, but it was drinkable. Mostly. He handed the bowl over. The goblin sniffed it first, recoiled slightly, then finally raised it to his mouth. He swallowed. His face twisted.

"That is vile."

"It gets better." The goblin looked down at the bowl.

"The taste?"

"No." Grub took it back and handed it to the next. They passed the bowl between them, each taking a careful swallow. One muttered that chewing bark would probably taste better. Another rubbed his tongue against his teeth as though he could scrape the bitterness away. Then they waited. Nothing happened immediately. A little later, the bowl made another circuit. This time, no one needed encouragement. Shoulders that had remained hunched for days began to loosen.

One goblin laughed at something that hadn't been particularly funny, then looked vaguely surprised to hear himself doing it. The smallest stared into the fire with a faint smile, watching the flames fold around one another. The bowl went around again. By the fourth circuit, one of them was explaining far too loudly how he intended to strangle a direwolf with his bare hands.

"You would die," another informed him.

"No."

"Yes."

"I am very fast."

"You fell carrying water yesterday."

"That was different."

"How?" The goblin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he started laughing. The others joined him. Their words thickened. Movements became looser and less careful. One leaned too far backward, caught himself against the stone, and laughed harder as though the near fall had been the funniest thing he'd ever experienced. The fear that had followed them since the howls began didn't disappear. For a little while, though, it stopped owning every part of them. The wounded Warriors noticed.

One paused midway through his slow circuit of the cavern and stared as a former slave nearly stumbled over a child, caught himself, then accused the ground of moving. His eyes narrowed.

"What did you give them?"

"The berries." The Warrior frowned.

"The rotting stuff?"

"It wasn't rotting." He looked toward the four goblins around the fire. One was swaying slightly while arguing that wolves couldn't climb trees. Another was arguing back that this didn't matter because goblins could.

"Is that what it does?"

"Mostly."

"Makes them stupid?" Grub considered the four.

"Stupider." A laugh came from one of the Warriors resting against the wall. The first almost smiled.

"Does it last?"

"No."

"Good. I'd hate to be next to one of them in a fight like that." Another Warrior nodded toward the bowl.

"Give me some." Grub picked it up and tilted it toward him. A dark stain clung to the bottom.

"Gone." The Warrior clicked his tongue.

"When you make more, then."

"Sure." Grub glanced toward the children.

"Not them, though. And when the others come back, none for the pregnant goblins either." The Warrior frowned.

"Why not?"

"Because it's bad for them."

"So?" Grub stared at him. The Warrior stared back.

"Right. Goblins."

"Because I said so, then." That earned him a longer look, but no argument. The other Warrior nodded toward the empty bowl.

"Can you make more?" Grub followed his gaze.

"Yes." He thought about Bowl Two. Then Bowl Three. The watered batch had been weaker, but it was the only one any sane creature might willingly drink more than once. More berries would only bring the bitterness back. More water would make it weaker still. What he needed was the dilution without losing so much sugar. Grub frowned. Then his eyes narrowed.

"Honey." Of course. Yeast ate sugar. Honey was almost entirely sugar. If he could dilute the berries enough to take the worst edge off them, then replace some of the lost sugar with honey... He had no idea whether it would work. A grin tugged at his mouth. The Warrior was still waiting.

"If I can get enough berries," Grub said. He paused.

"And honey."

"Honey?"

"For the next batch." The Warrior glanced toward the four goblins, one of whom had now begun explaining to the others why he could definitely beat Throk in a fight if Throk agreed not to use his arms.

"Make a lot." Grub laughed.

"That depends on finding enough honey." The Warrior shrugged.

"Then find a hive." Grub looked at him.

"And when the bees object?"

"Kill them." Grub sighed.

"Maybe let me handle that part." That night, the howls came again. Thinner than before, and farther away. Grub sat beside the fire while the last effects of the berry drink wore off around him. Around him, the cavern had settled into its uneasy nighttime rhythm. The ten children slept beneath layered furs near the rear wall, huddled together for warmth. Two of the three Warriors rested nearby with their spears within reach, while the third stood at the entrance watching the darkness beyond.

The four goblins who had once shared Grub's cage had changed too. It wasn't anything dramatic, but somewhere during the last few days, they'd stopped waiting to be told every little thing. One sorted Frostvein from Mistbloom beneath the firelight because the stores were getting mixed together. Another checked the resin cloths stacked beside the wounded alcove and replaced one that had fallen onto the floor.

The remaining two sat near the entrance with spears across their knees, speaking quietly with the Warrior on watch. They'd learned. More importantly, they were beginning to use what they'd learned without Grub standing over them. He watched one of them rise, cross to a sleeping child whose fur had slipped loose, and pull it back over her shoulders before returning to his place. A howl drifted faintly through the cave mouth. The Warrior at the entrance shifted his grip.

One of the freed goblins stood without being asked and joined him. Grub watched them for a moment. A few days ago, all four had looked to him before doing almost anything. They still did sometimes. Not for permission exactly. More like confirmation. A glance before changing a bandage. A question before using one herb instead of another. The quiet expectation that if something went wrong, Grub would know what to do next. He didn't. Not always. That was the part nobody in the cavern had figured out yet.

He was guessing far more often than any of them realized. The difference was that when one guess failed, he tried to understand why. Four bowls had become three. Three had become two. Now there was one. And somewhere in the forest was a hive full of what might improve the next version. Grub smiled faintly. Maybe that was enough. The smallest of the four nudged his shoulder.

"You should sleep." Grub looked at him. The goblin nodded toward the entrance.

"We can watch." Grub's attention moved across the cavern. Toward the children sleeping beneath their furs. Toward the wounded Warriors, now standing upright and holding spears as they kept eyes on the darkness outside the cavern. No one was waiting for him to tell them what came next. For once, they already knew. Grub nodded, lay down beside the fire, and pulled a fur over himself.

His last thought before closing his eyes was of berries, honey, and a drink that hopefully wouldn't taste like someone had fermented tree bark.

"Next batch." Then he slept.