Chương 76: Chapter 57: A Decisive Duel (Part 2)

For a moment, the hollow held still. Then Dravak stepped forward and took command.

"Disarm them. Bind them and line them up." His gaze swept across the defeated Duskroot.

"No rough treatment. They yielded clean. Treat them clean." The Ironfangs moved immediately.

"Kesh, secure the hollow. Throk, strip the den of anything worth carrying. Rika, the prisoners are yours." Dravak's eyes found Grub and lingered briefly on the blood running down his left arm.

"Grub, get your stone out of Hask. Then let the Medics look at you." Grub glanced down at himself. The shallow cuts across his ribs, hip, shoulder, chest, and cheek were beginning to sting now that the fight was over, but the wound through his upper arm was in another category entirely. Blood had soaked through his sleeve and continued to creep down toward his fingers, while every attempt to move the arm sent a deep pulse of pain through his shoulder.

"Sounds reasonable." Dravak grunted. Spears, knives, and axes were taken from the Duskroot where they stood and carried away into a growing pile. Rough cords followed, wrists bound in front before the prisoners were gathered into a line across the hollow. One Hunter approached Hask with a length of rope.

"Not him," Dravak said. The goblin stopped. Hask looked toward Dravak, surprise flickering briefly across his face. Dravak gave no explanation, and the rope went elsewhere Rika brought the wolves down from the rim a moment later. Ashpaw padded beneath her while the other ten direwolves spread around the captives in a slow patrol, ensuring that anyone considering whether surrender remained optional had plenty of teeth to look at. The Riders dismounted and began helping with the work.

Some joined Rika around the captives while others moved toward the growing piles near Throk, already sorting what could be carried and what would need to be left behind. Kesh took six goblins and disappeared toward the gullies. Throk clapped his hands once.

"You heard him. Empty it." Several Ironfangs followed him into the Duskroot den. The four Medics had already claimed one of the weak fires. Two knelt beside it, feeding dry wood into the embers until a stronger flame began licking beneath three scavenged blackened pots. Water went in first, followed by Aldren bark and crushed needles for the wash they used on open wounds. Frostvein and Mistbloom were prepared separately for the fevers and coughs Kesh's Scouts had reported among the Duskroot.

The other two Medics began examining the prisoners immediately. Grub whistled, and Sable came to him at a run. She reached him hard enough that he had to brace himself, then immediately shoved her muzzle toward the blood soaking his left sleeve.

"Easy." She sniffed furiously along his arm, then his ribs, his chest, and finally the cut along his cheek before letting out a low, unhappy whine. Grub chuckled weakly.

"I know." Sable pushed her head against his side. Grub winced when the movement shifted his wounded arm.

"I'm glad I survived too." She licked toward the blood on his fingers. Grub pulled the hand away.

"Please don't." Sable stared at him.

"Sit." Her ears flattened.

"Sable." She huffed dramatically and settled onto her haunches, though she remained pressed close enough against Grub's leg that he could feel every breath. Grub opened the pack strapped across her back one-handed and pulled out a waterskin, bandages, and resin cloth. The movement was considerably more awkward than it had any right to be, and by the time he straightened again, his left arm was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Hask remained where he had yielded.

The Stone Spear still protruded from his shoulder, and blood darkened the furs around both that wound and the deep puncture in his thigh. His eyes tracked the Ironfangs moving through the hollow, lingering longest on the Medics working beside the fires. Several of the bound Duskroot were watching Grub instead. A low murmur moved through the line when he started toward Hask with Sable beside him.

One goblin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like Shaman, while another leaned away as Grub passed, eyes dropping briefly to the pouch at his right hip. Hask noticed. His mouth tightened, but he said nothing. He stiffened slightly when they stopped before him. Grub held out the waterskin.

"Drink." Hask took it with his good hand. His attention drifted past Grub again.

"What are they doing?" Grub followed his gaze. One of the Medics was washing an infected cut on a Duskroot Warrior's forearm while another crouched in front of an older goblin, listening to the wet rasp of his breathing.

"Keeping your tribe alive." Hask looked back at him. Grub nodded toward the Stone Spear embedded in his shoulder.

"This part is mine." He crouched carefully. That proved to be a mistake. The sudden change in height made the hollow tilt for half a heartbeat, and Grub steadied himself with his right hand against the frozen ground. Hask noticed.

"You look worse than you did a moment ago."

"I feel worse than I did a moment ago." Grub waited for the dizziness to pass. The Quickleaf was still holding him together, but the focus it had given him during the duel was beginning to fray at the edges. One of the Medics came over with a cup of steaming Aldren wash and strips of resin cloth. Grub pointed toward Hask's shoulder.

"I need to get the stone out. Be ready." The Medic nodded. Hask glanced between them.

"This going to hurt?"

"A lot." Hask snorted.

"Good warning." Grub placed the fingers of his right hand against the Stone Spear and fed a careful thread of Mana into it. A few voices rose behind him. Rope creaked as several of the Duskroot shifted at once, and Grub heard someone suck in a sharp breath. Hask looked past him toward his tribe.

"Stay where you are." The movement stopped. Grain Shift answered. The stone softened beneath Grub's fingertips, its surface crumbling into coarse earth as the shaft narrowed enough to loosen its hold on the torn flesh. Hask's jaw clenched. Grub glanced at the Medic, who gave him a small nod.

"Now." Grub pulled. Hask hissed in pain as the spear slid free, but the Medic was already pressing folded cloth against the wound before the blood could do more than spill across Grub's fingers. Grub tossed the stone aside. The world shifted again when he straightened. Not enough to knock him over, but enough to make his stomach turn. The Medic gave him a suspicious look.

"I'm fine." The Medic looked at the blood running down Grub's arm. Grub reconsidered.

"Fine enough." Together, they cleaned Hask's shoulder. The hot Aldren wash drew a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, but he remained still while the Medic pressed softened resin cloth over the torn flesh and wrapped the shoulder tightly. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The thigh came next. Grub helped where he could, though by then his left hand had become nearly useless and the right had begun trembling from a combination of exertion and something deeper.

When the final wrap was tied, Grub sat back on his heels. The strange clarity from the Quickleaf vanished almost at once. One moment the hollow still seemed unusually crisp around him, every voice and footstep easy to separate from the rest. Then it all dulled. Exhaustion hit him like someone had dropped a wolf across his shoulders. Grub closed his eyes. His stomach rolled.

Every cut Hask had left on him seemed to discover itself at the same time, the thin lines across his ribs, cheek, hip, chest, and shoulder beginning to burn while the wound through his left arm settled into a deep, miserable throb. One of the Medics touched his shoulder. Grub opened his eyes.

"Sit."

"I am sitting."

"Sit better." The Medic pointed toward a flat patch beside the fire. Grub sighed and moved. Sable immediately followed and planted herself against his uninjured side. Hask watched Grub lower himself onto the ground.

"You ate something that makes you feel like this?"

"It was useful before this part." Hask looked unconvinced.

"Very useful," Grub added.

"If you say so." The Medic cut Grub's damaged sleeve away. Sable growled softly when the puncture wound beneath it was exposed.

"It's fine," Grub told her. The Medic gave him a look. Grub amended the statement.

"It will be fine." The shallow wounds were dealt with first. Each one was washed clean, checked, and covered where necessary. The cut across his cheek needed little more than cleaning. The ribs and hip had bled more than they deserved to, while the line across his chest stung fiercely when the wash touched it but proved shallow. Then the Medic reached his arm. The spear had punched completely through the flesh of his upper arm without striking bone, which was apparently the good news.

It didn't feel like good news while the Aldren wash ran through it. Grub sucked air between his teeth and grabbed a fistful of Sable's fur with his right hand. She leaned harder against him. Once the wound had been thoroughly cleaned, resin cloth was pressed over both sides and the entire upper arm wrapped tightly from above the elbow toward the shoulder. By the time the Medic finished, Grub felt wrung out. Across the fire, Hask was still watching him.

"Strange tribe you belong to." Grub let his head rest briefly against Sable's shoulder.

"Dravak did tell you." Hask frowned.

"We do things differently." Grub closed his eyes for another moment as he took a deep breath.

"He wasn't lying." While Grub recovered, the four Medics continued down the Duskroot line. They worked quickly, but not carelessly. Each prisoner was examined as they went. Active wounds were washed. Infected cuts were cleaned as thoroughly as possible and covered. Frostbitten fingers and toes were checked. Those burning with fever received Frostvein tea, while Mistbloom went to the goblins coughing weakly into their hands. Old wounds that had healed badly were left alone for now.

The Medics noted them, but no one was interested in opening old flesh immediately before a two-day march. The treatment itself confused the Duskroot almost as much as the surrender had. The first goblin offered a cup of steaming tea stared at it suspiciously.

"Drink," the Medic said. The goblin continued staring. A direwolf growled nearby. The cup disappeared remarkably quickly after that. The same pattern repeated down the line. They drank because they were told to, and because refusing something handed to them by a goblin while enormous wolves paced nearby seemed like a questionable hill to die on. As each captive was examined, the Medics quietly sorted them. Most were returned to the line once their immediate problems had been treated, but two weren't.

One had a badly torn thigh from an old hunting injury and could barely place weight on the leg. The other wheezed with every breath, his ribs apparently damaged weeks earlier and never given enough time to heal. The Medics seated both beside the fire. They wouldn't be making the march easily. Meanwhile, Throk's goblins began emerging from the den, arms full with anything worth taking.

Bundles of furs came first, followed by hides, crude tools, spare weapons, coils of cord, baskets, dried food, and whatever other supplies had survived the winter. The Riders sorted the haul as it appeared, adding what they could to the loads already strapped across the wolves and distributing the rest among the goblins.

By the time Grub felt steady enough to stand again, Ashpaw had a bundle of hides tied behind his shoulders and several of the other wolves carried scavenged supplies alongside the gear they had brought from home. Standing proved unpleasant. The Quickleaf crash had settled into a dull heaviness behind Grub's eyes, and his stomach still felt slightly uncertain about the continued arrangement between itself and the rest of his body. His arm was worse.

The bandaging held it firmly, but every step sent a smaller echo of the wound through his shoulder. He could still function. He simply regretted most forms of movement. Hask had recovered enough to stand without swaying when Dravak approached the prisoner line. The Ironfang Chief stopped in front of him and jerked his head toward the den.

"Come." Then he looked at Grub.

"You too." Grub stared at the dark entrance. His body made several compelling arguments against crawling through a hole in the ground, but in the end, his curiosity won out. The three of them ducked beneath the roots and entered the Duskroot den. Smoke clung to damp earth and hanging roots. Cold seeped through every gap, and Grub had to lower his head repeatedly as they moved through the cramped interior. Sleeping pits had been dug into the dirt and lined with thin furs.

A few crude racks remained along the walls, holding broken tools and chipped blades that Throk had decided weren't worth carrying. The place smelled of damp soil, old smoke, and hunger. Dravak walked slowly through it without speaking. Grub followed more carefully. Then he stopped. Something dry and thorny hung in a bundle from one of the remaining racks, deliberately separated from the chipped blades nearby. He recognized it immediately. Nettleroot. Poisonous. Grub frowned and stepped closer.

Several bundles had been tied together, enough that this clearly wasn't something a Duskroot had picked accidentally. He looked toward Hask.

"Why do you have Nettleroot?" Hask glanced at the bundle as though the answer were obvious.

"Traps." Grub looked back at the roots.

"You use it on them?" Hask's brow furrowed.

"Of course." That was interesting. Grub knew Nettleroot was poisonous. Herbal Insight had told him that much. It had never told him what he was supposed to do with it. He looked at Hask again.

"You know how?" Now Hask looked genuinely confused.

"Yes." Grub filed that away. There would be time for questions later. Dravak had reached the far end of the burrow. He kicked aside a cracked clay bowl with one foot.

"This is all?" Hask leaned carefully against the wall, protecting his wounded leg.

"Yes." Dravak's eyes moved over the empty racks, thin bedding, and bare cooking pits.

"You wouldn't have lasted much longer." Hask was quiet for several seconds before answering.

"No." There was no anger in the answer this time. Only exhaustion. Dravak continued looking around. Hask glanced down at his wrists.

"You didn't bind me." Dravak turned toward him.

"You lost clean." Hask said nothing.

"You surrendered clean," Dravak continued.

"You were a Chief. That carries some dignity." Hask studied him for a long moment. Then his eyes shifted briefly toward Grub, but whatever he thought, he kept it to himself. Dravak snorted and turned toward the entrance.

"Come." Grub looked once more at the Nettleroot before following. When they climbed back into the hollow, most of the work was finished. Throk and his helpers had stripped nearly everything useful from the den. The resulting supplies had been divided between wolf packs and bundles carried by the Ironfangs, while the Duskroot weapons were tied separately and secured where none of the prisoners could reach them. Kesh returned from the rim shortly afterward with dirt smeared across one cheek.

"The hollow is clear, Chief. Last traps are broken." Dravak nodded.

"Good. Finish loading. Form the column." Before anyone moved, one of the Medics approached from beside the prisoners.

"Twenty-eight Duskroot altogether. Most can march, but two shouldn't. One can barely walk, and the other's breathing gets worse when he moves too much." He glanced back toward the line.

"Seven of the females are carrying children." Grub followed her gaze. The two wounded goblins were already seated beside the dying fire, while the seven pregnant females remained among the others.

"The wounded ride," Dravak said immediately. Grub nodded toward the pregnant females.

"Them too." Dravak looked at him, then glanced at the Medic.

"They can walk?"

"They can," the Medic said.

"So could ours," Grub replied. He shifted his bandaged arm carefully against his side.

"We left them behind anyway. No reason to make these seven spend two days slipping through cold forest if the wolves can carry them." Dravak considered that for only a moment before gesturing toward two nearby goblins.

"Bring them over with the wounded." They moved toward the prisoner line, and the reaction was immediate. Several Duskroot stiffened when the seven females were separated from the others, one placing both hands protectively over her stomach as they were escorted toward the fire. By the time they joined the two wounded goblins, all nine were watching the Ironfang around them with the same wary expectation. Then Grub started toward them. One of the females shifted behind another.

The goblin with the damaged leg went rigid beside the fire, while another female's attention dropped immediately to Grub's right hand and the pouch hanging at his hip. Grub stopped a few paces short.

"You're not being taken somewhere to die. You're riding back." Nine wary faces stared at him. Grub pointed toward the waiting direwolves.

"On those." Their attention shifted as one toward the wolves. Ashpaw stared back. Their confusion didn't noticeably improve. Grub glanced toward Rika.

"Unload Ashpaw and three more." The Riders moved at once, untying bundles of hides, weapons, and food and shifting them onto other wolves or passing them to waiting Ironfang shoulders. At a quiet word from Rika, Ashpaw and three of the larger direwolves lowered themselves onto the frozen ground. The two wounded prisoners were moved first. Their wrist bindings were adjusted so they could hold on safely, then several Ironfang lifted them carefully onto the waiting wolves and secured them in place.

The pregnant females approached more reluctantly. Ashpaw yawned, showing off his razor sharp teeth. Several of the females stopped at once. Rika sighed.

"He isn't going to eat you." Ashpaw closed his mouth. They remained unconvinced, but eventually one allowed herself to be helped onto his back. When nothing terrible happened, the others followed. The nine prisoners were distributed among the four wolves, Ashpaw carrying three while the others took two each, and Rika walked along the group afterward to check every knot herself. Grub watched from nearby while the last bundles were redistributed.

Now that the Quickleaf was gone and the adrenaline had abandoned him with equal enthusiasm, everything hurt. His cheek stung, his ribs burned whenever he breathed too deeply, and his shoulder, hip, and chest all seemed determined to remind him of every place Hask had managed to cut or stab him. His left arm had apparently decided aching was beneath it and moved on to throbbing. Throk passed with a bundle of scavenged spears balanced over one shoulder, and Grub looked at him.

"If I ever come up with a plan this stupid again, hit me." Throk stopped, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"Why wait until next time?" Grub stared at him as Throk shifted the bundle higher on his shoulder.

"Could start now."

"You've already hit me enough."

"Not according to you." Grub sighed.

"Forget I said anything." Throk laughed and continued toward the front of the column. Once the last loads were secured, Dravak gave the hollow one final look. The fires were dying, and the den beneath the roots stood mostly empty now, stripped of everything the Ironfang considered worth carrying. Twenty-eight Duskroot waited under guard, their wounded treated and their weapons taken, while their former Chief stood among them unbound. Not one of them had died. Dravak turned toward the forest.

"Move out." The Ironfang column began flowing into the trees, most of the Duskroot marching near the center beneath watchful eyes while the wolves carrying the wounded and pregnant kept alongside them. The remaining Fangs ranged across the flanks as the broken Duskroot hollow slowly disappeared behind the trees.