Chương 69: Chapter 53: Tribal Council (Part 2)

The excitement around the newly named Fangs of Winter took several moments to settle. Dravak waited until the last overlapping voices had quieted before lowering himself onto the stone seat again.

"When we march east, the Fangs of Winter will surround the Duskroot hollow." He looked toward Rika.

"Keep moving. Keep the wolves loud. I want the Duskroot hearing teeth on every side and knowing there's nowhere left to run." Rika inclined her head.

"We will." Dravak turned toward the Builders.

"If Grub's wager works, we may bring back most of the tribe alive. The old cage won't hold that many. Tear it down and build a larger one. Strong enough for thirty goblins." The Builders straightened.

"We keep the captives there until they submit," Dravak continued.

"Enough food to keep them alive. Enough work to keep them useful. Anyone who fights gets beaten until they learn better." Grub frowned. Dravak noticed.

"What?"

"How long does that usually take?" Throk glanced toward him.

"Depends on the goblins."

"How long?" Kesh answered when Throk didn't.

"A season, perhaps, if they submit quickly. Longer if they don't." Grub's frown deepened.

"And some still die before they ever reach that point?" Dravak nodded.

"Some."

"Beatings, hunger, sickness?"

"All of it," Kesh said.

"Old wounds. Fighting the guards. Some simply don't last." Grub's gaze shifted toward the four Medics standing near one of the hearths.

"Then even if we bring the Duskroot back alive, we could spend months weakening them and lose some anyway."

"They're captives," Throk said.

"Captives resist."

"I know. But eventually you want them to stop being captives." Grub gestured toward the Medics.

"Like me. Like them." The four goblins immediately became the focus of half the cavern. One of them sighed. Grub looked toward him.

"When did you stop trying to fight the tribe?" The Medic scratched awkwardly at his forearm.

"When you told us we could leave the cage."

"If we proved ourselves," another added. Kesh's attention shifted toward them.

"You had something to gain." The first Medic nodded.

"Before that, we worked because we were forced to. When we resisted, we were beaten. That only made us hate the work more."

"And when I asked you to follow me?" The Medic glanced toward the others.

"You said if we did what you did, we could earn our way out."

"And you believed me?"

"Not really." A faint smile touched his mouth.

"But no one was beating you." A few quiet laughs moved through the cavern.

"So we tried," another Medic said.

"And when we worked without fighting, the beatings stopped." Dravak's gaze moved across the four of them, standing freely among the Ironfang now with herbs, bandages, and responsibilities of their own. Kesh followed his look.

"Then, little by little, they stopped being treated like slaves."

"And started acting less like them," Throk added. One of the Medics gave him a flat look. Throk shrugged.

"Eventually." That earned a few more laughs. Grub let them fade before looking back to Dravak.

"The old way works. I'm not arguing that it doesn't. But it teaches captives to resist first, then spends months beating that resistance out of them." His gaze shifted toward the Scout who had reported on the Red Tusk.

"That's time we may not have." The humor disappeared from the cavern.

"The Red Tusk took the Bristlehide and grew stronger from it. Now they're ranging farther through the forest." Grub looked between Dravak, Kesh, and Throk.

"Maybe they keep moving west. Maybe they turn east. Maybe they stay where they are for a while. But we don't know, and we can't count on them giving us a season to deal with the Duskroot." Kesh's expression had gone still. Dravak's fingers curled around the arm of his seat.

"And if half the captives die while we're breaking them," Grub finished, "then we've wasted half the reason we attacked them in the first place." For several breaths, no one answered. Throk finally scratched at the scar along his jaw.

"The old way is simpler."

"It is." His eyes narrowed at Grub.

"So you have another strange idea?" Grub looked toward the old slave pen.

"Probably," he said.

"Give me a moment to think of it first, though." A few goblins laughed, but Grub barely heard them. The Duskroot would arrive knowing exactly what captivity meant. Hunger. Beatings. Forced work. Punishment when they resisted, followed by more resistance when they recovered enough to try again. The Medics had known those rules too, and n othing had changed until Grub gave them something beyond survival to work toward. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere.

Support the author by seeking out the original. His thoughts drifted back to the wager he had proposed only moments earlier.

"A goblin's pride is easy to aim at." He had meant the Duskroot Chief, but m aybe that wasn't the only pride they could use. Grub looked around the cavern. Hunters near the fires. Warriors maintaining their weapons. Builders working along the walls. Medics organizing herbs. The Fangs of Winter standing beside wolves that now towered over most of the tribe. Everyone had a place. His gaze returned to the empty cage.

"What if we don't beat them?" Throk stared at him.

"That's your big idea?" Grub ignored him.

"When we bring them back, what if we don't treat them the way captives expect?" Throk frowned.

"Meaning?"

"Feed them properly. Give them water and good, dry furs. Let the Medics treat their sick and wounded." Throk's expression flattened.

"And put them to work." Grub shook his head.

"No." That made Throk blink in confusion.

"We don't make them work at all." Silence spread outward from the platform. Then Throk barked a laugh.

"You want to conquer a tribe, feed them from our stores, patch their wounds, and let them lie around?" Grub nodded.

"For a while." Throk laughed again and shook his head.

"That may be the stupidest thing you've suggested yet." Several Warriors laughed with him, but Kesh didn't. Her gaze moved slowly around the cavern before settling on the old cage.

"They'd have to watch everyone else," she said slowly. The laughter began to fade. Grub turned toward her and nodded for her to continue. Kesh gestured vaguely around them.

"Hunters leaving. Meat coming back. Warriors training. Builders working. Medics treating people." Her eyes narrowed.

"Everyone contributing except them." Throk's amusement faded into thought.

"They won't like that," he said.

"No," Grub agreed.

"I don't think they will." Kesh looked toward him.

"You want them to ask to work."

"That's the idea." Throk scratched slowly at his jaw.

"So they sit in the cage until pride bothers them more than captivity."

"Maybe." Throk's brow furrowed.

"Maybe?" Grub shrugged.

"I told you I was still thinking." That drew another rough laugh. Grub continued before he could interrupt again.

"The important part is that they choose it. We aren't starving them until they work. We aren't beating them until they obey. They get fed either way." Kesh tilted her head at him.

"Then what do they gain?"

"Freedom." She paused.

"Small amounts at first," Grub continued.

"They ask to work, they come out under guard. Nothing dangerous. Carrying firewood. Cleaning. Moving stone. If they behave, they get more time outside the cage. More trust. Better work."

"And the others watch it happen," Kesh said thoughtfully.

"Yes." Throk looked toward the Medics.

"One goblin gets out, the rest know they can too." Grub nodded.

"Exactly." He turned back to Grub.

"And eventually?" Grub looked at him.

"Eventually, if they're choosing to work beside us, eating the same food, and living the same way we do, the cage becomes the only thing separating them from the rest of the tribe." Throk's eyes narrowed.

"You mean they start thinking like Ironfang."

"That's the goal." For a few moments, only the fire crackled between them. Dravak leaned forward.

"You're forgetting something. If they're fed properly, treated by the Medics, and allowed to recover, they won't stay weak." He gestured toward the old slave pen.

"You're asking me to put twenty or thirty healthy Duskroot behind one wall." Throk nodded.

"Give that many goblins one chance to rush the door together and we'll regret it." Grub looked toward the pen.

"Then don't keep them together. The sick should already be separated from the healthy, and the wounded can be kept apart too." Throk's grin returned.

"Three groups. Eight or ten goblins are easier to stop than twenty or thirty." Dravak considered that for a moment before looking toward the Builders.

"Then build two more cages beside the old one. Strong enough for grown goblins, with enough space between them that one group can't reach another." The Builders straightened. Grub nodded toward the cages.

"Good. That way they can still see what happens to the others." Throk frowned.

"Why does that matter?"

"The healthy need to see the sick and wounded being treated," Grub said.

"Nobody disappears and leaves the others wondering if we killed them. And when someone starts working, the rest should see that too." Kesh nodded as she followed the thought.

"They watch one of their own leave the cage, work beside us, and come back unharmed."

"And see what happens when they stop sitting uselessly behind bars," Throk added.

"Exactly." Dravak gave the Builders a curt nod.

"Do it." Four fists struck chests. He turned toward the Medics.

"The sick and wounded are yours. Treat them as you would Ironfang." Murmurs immediately rose among the Warriors. Dravak's head snapped toward them.

"Did I ask?" The cavern fell quiet.

"They get food, water, and dry furs. No one beats a captive without my order." His attention shifted to Kesh.

"You choose the guards. Anyone who asks to work leaves in small groups, under watch, and touches nothing that can easily become a weapon." Kesh nodded.

"I'll handle it."

"They earn more freedom when we decide they've earned it." Then Dravak looked at Grub.

"This was your idea, so you watch it. If they answer our restraint with blood, it ends." Grub nodded.

"Agreed."

"I won't lose Ironfang because you wanted to be kind."

"That isn't what I'm trying to do." Dravak's eyes narrowed. Grub glanced toward the Medics, then toward the Fangs of Winter and the rest of the tribe gathered around them.

"I'm trying to make them Ironfang quicker than the old way would." The Chief held his gaze for another moment before nodding.

"Good. Then it's settled." He turned and looked out across the gathering.

"We march when enough snow has melted that Warriors and wolves can make the journey east without fighting through drifts every step of the way. Two weeks, perhaps." Anticipation stirred through the cavern.

"Until then, build. Train. Prepare." His iron-capped teeth flashed.

"Use the time well." With that, Dravak dismissed them. The Council broke apart almost immediately. Voices rose around the hearth as Warriors gathered into small groups to argue over the coming raid, while near the entrance, the Fangs of Winter closed around Rika, questions tumbling over one another. Grub remained beside the platform. Throk and Kesh had already begun moving away when he called after them.

"Wait." Throk glanced back.

"What now?"

"I need your help. Both of you." That earned a snort.

"With what?"

"Training." Throk stared at him. Then his laughter carried far enough to turn several nearby heads.

"You volunteer to duel a Chief, swear you'll win, and only afterward decide you should learn how to fight one?"

"Yes, exactly." That only made Throk laugh harder. The laughter faded slightly when Grub didn't join him.

"I have some experience with spears and staffs," Grub continued.

"But that won't decide the duel."

"Your magic will," Kesh said. Grub nodded.

"That's my advantage. Pebble Toss still needs four levels before it evolves, so most of my time will go into that." Throk folded his arms.

"And when you aren't busy throwing rocks?"

"I need to learn how not to die in the first five seconds." Throk grinned.

"A useful Skill."

"I thought so." Kesh's mouth twitched. Grub looked between them.

"If something goes wrong, or I miss or mistime a Spell, I don't want to lose because I can't survive two exchanges with a weapon." Throk scratched at the scar along his jaw.

"You think two weeks will make you a Warrior?"

"No." That seemed to catch him slightly off guard.

"But I think two weeks can make me slightly harder to kill." Kesh gave a faint sound of approval.

"That's more realistic."

"I want sparring," Grub continued.

"Real training. Enough to teach me what another fighter will try, how to read it, and how to stay alive long enough to use my magic." Throk glanced toward Kesh. She gave a small shrug.

"He's right. If he intends to stand alone in front of a Chief, he should at least know what the first few attacks will look like." Throk considered Grub for another moment. Then his grin returned.

"Tomorrow morning. Bring a spear."

"And be prepared to spend most of the morning on the ground," Kesh added. Grub inclined his head.

"That's the plan." Throk clapped a heavy hand against his shoulder hard enough to jolt him forward.

"Good. If you're going to bait another tribe's Chief, we'll make sure you last long enough to regret it." He and Kesh stepped away and disappeared into the moving crowd. Grub remained where he was for a moment longer. Two weeks. Two weeks to drag Pebble Toss through four more levels, evolve it into something capable of killing a stronger opponent, and learn enough from Throk and Kesh that he might stay alive long enough to use it.

Two weeks to prepare for a duel that could determine whether the Ironfang gained another tribe without spilling half its blood into the dirt. He exhaled slowly. Then he followed them down.