Chương 93: Chapter 71: Pride Does Its Work

Grub left the hearth behind and continued across the cavern. Whatever attention his little gathering had drawn was already fading as the Ironfang returned to their work. Builders hauled another sled of broken stone from the storage hall, while Warriors near the far wall resumed drilling with their spears, feet scraping softly across the floor as they shifted through familiar movements.

Beside one of the fires, a direwolf stretched, rolled heavily onto its side, and exposed its belly to a Rider who immediately began scratching through the thick fur. The Duskroot were less interested in getting back to normal. As Grub passed the cages, he found most of the healthy prisoners gathered near the bars, watching the hearth where the seven pregnant Duskroot now sat among the five Ironfang.

Another bowl of food had already been pushed into the middle of the group, and the prisoners' voices carried softly across the cavern. Grub slowed without turning toward them. A weapons rack stood nearby. He stepped over, picked up one of the spears, and found the binding beneath the stone head beginning to loosen. Grub turned the shaft slowly in his hands and started tightening the hide strip while he listened.

"They feed them more," one of the Duskroot muttered. Another snorted.

"They feed all of us more than they should. Strange tribe. I expected scraps."

"They took them out of the cage too." A third leaned against the bars, watching the hearth.

"No ropes."

"They're still watched."

"Of course they're watched." Grub pulled the binding tighter and pressed his thumb against the base of the spearhead. It shifted slightly beneath the pressure, giving him an excuse to keep working. Another prisoner moved closer to the bars.

"They don't even make us work."

"You want them to?" The goblin shrugged, then grunted in frustration.

"I'd rather do something. Any other tribe would have us hauling water by now. Cutting wood. Something."

"Any other tribe might have left half of us in the snow," the other shot back. The first goblin's mouth closed, and for a few moments, only the soft scrape of Grub's fingers against the hide binding broke the silence. Then someone near the rear of the cage muttered, "This tribe lives strangely." Hask answered them from the wounded enclosure.

"They live like they expect to survive." Several of the healthy prisoners turned toward the former Chief. Hask sat near the front of his cage, one leg stretched carefully before him where the wound in his thigh still limited his movement. His injured shoulder rested more cautiously against the wooden bars. One of the Duskroot frowned.

"What does that mean?" Hask nodded toward the storage hall.

"They already have shelter. They're still cutting deeper into the mountain for stores they don't have yet." His gaze shifted toward the hearth.

"Those twelve could work. Haul water. Carry wood. Instead, Grub tells them to sit by the fire, eat more, and grow stronger children." Another prisoner glanced toward the sick cage. Hask followed his gaze.

"And those ones can barely stand. They can't hunt or fight. Most tribes would feed the goblins who are still strong and wait to see which of the sick lived." One of the Medics crouched beside a prisoner, changing a bandage before reaching for a steaming cup resting nearby.

"This tribe keeps feeding them. Wrapping their wounds. Boiling roots and leaves and making them drink whatever comes out." Hask frowned faintly.

"I don't know what half of it's supposed to do."

"That wastes strength," someone muttered.

"Maybe." Hask looked toward the thick wall sealing the cavern from the last of winter, then back toward the unfinished storage hall.

"But they spent strength building that wall. Now they're cutting a room they don't need yet and feeding goblins who can't give them anything back." He glanced once more toward the pregnant Duskroot beside the hearth.

"They keep doing things now because they think they'll matter later." The first prisoner frowned.

"Why?" Hask was quiet for a moment.

"I don't know." His eyes moved slowly across the cavern.

"But they keep being right." He let that sit for a few breaths, then leaned back against the bars and turned his gaze away from the others. The quiet conversation resumed eventually, but more subdued than before. Grub finished securing the spearhead, returned the weapon to its rack, and continued across the cavern. He had nearly reached the opposite side when a voice rose behind him.

"Enough." Grub stopped and glanced back. Several Ironfang had looked over as well. One of the Duskroot Warriors stood at the front of the healthy cage with both hands wrapped around the bars, shoulders rigid and jaw clenched. The goblin beside him had already edged away. Grub changed direction and walked back.

"Is something wrong?" The prisoner stared at him. His mouth opened, then closed again.

"What?" Grub raised an eyebrow.

"You were shouting." The Warrior blinked.

"Yes."

"And gripping the bars like they offended you." The Duskroot glanced down at his hands and reluctantly loosened them.

"That isn't the point."

"Then what is?" He stared at Grub for another moment before jerking his chin toward the cavern.

"This." Grub glanced behind himself, then back at him.

"You'll have to be more specific."

"Everyone here does something." Grub tilted his head questioningly.

"And?"

"And we sit." The Warrior gripped one of the bars again.

"You feed us. You give us furs. Your Medics keep coming through to look at anyone who's sick or wounded." He gestured behind him, toward the other prisoners.

"Then the rest of us sit here and watch." His jaw clenched.

"I've carried spears since I was old enough to fight. I hunted. I guarded our den. I can haul stone or carry water." Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. He slapped a palm against the bar.

"We lost. Fine. I know we lost. But I'm not sick, and I'm not wounded." Grub watched him for a moment.

"What do you want?" That question caught the Duskroot off guard almost as effectively as the first one. His anger faltered again.

"What?"

"What do you want me to do about it?" The goblin stared. Then glanced toward the storage hall.

"Let me work." Grub waited.

"Anything," the Duskroot continued.

"Stone. Wood. Water. I don't care." Several prisoners behind him had gone silent now. Grub looked past the Warrior toward them, then back.

"You know you're still a prisoner."

"I know."

"Working doesn't change that."

"I know that too."

"Then ask." The Warrior frowned.

"For work?"

"Yes."

"That's all?" Grub shrugged and nodded.

"That's all." The Warrior looked toward the Builders hauling another load of stone from the storage hall, then back at Grub.

"You expect me to believe you'll just open the cage?"

"If you ask to work."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you stay in there." The Duskroot narrowed his eyes, still searching Grub's face for whatever part of the bargain he was missing. Grub shrugged.

"Think about it." The Warrior didn't answer. Grub left him at the bars and continued across the cavern. Voices rose behind him almost immediately as the prisoners began arguing among themselves. He didn't turn around. They could figure it out themselves. The rest of the day passed without anyone asking to leave the cage, and Grub didn't press them. There was plenty else to keep him occupied.

The Fangs left to hunt once the morning warmed enough for the trails to soften, Rika leading them through the entrance before the heavy door closed again against the remaining chill. Throk took several Warriors outside not long afterward, declaring that the first tolerable weather in months was too valuable to waste indoors, and Grub joined them for part of the training.

His healing arm complained whenever he moved too suddenly, which only encouraged Throk to find increasingly inventive ways to make him move suddenly. Kesh was somehow worse. She spent half the session correcting his footing, then immediately knocking him over whenever he fixed it. By the time Grub returned inside, bruised, sweating, and thoroughly convinced that both of them enjoyed his suffering far too much, the Medics were making another round through the sick and wounded cages.

He joined them, preparing Aldren wash while one Medic cleaned an infected cut nearby, then helping another check the Duskroot whose fever had worsened during the march. They listened to the change in his breathing together before deciding whether another cup of Frostvein might help. His Mana was full again by the time he finished with them, so Grub headed back to the storage hall.

The Builders had already cleared most of the rubble from that morning, and he emptied his Mana into another section of stone before leaving them to work. Twice more over the course of the afternoon, he returned when he had enough Mana to be useful. By evening, he'd emptied it three times in all, and the rear of the storage hall had crept further into the mountain. The next morning, one of the Duskroot was waiting at the bars. Grub recognized the broad shoulders and the scar across his collarbone.

The Warrior had spent much of the previous evening pacing the cage, but now he stood still and met Grub's eyes.

"I'll work." Grub stopped.

"I won't sit here another day while everyone else works. If you're going to keep me alive, give me something to do." Grub nodded toward the cage.

"Open it." One of the nearby Warriors pulled the door aside, and the Duskroot stepped through cautiously, pausing long enough to sweep his eyes across the cavern before moving farther out. A Builder walked over, pulling an empty sled behind him.

"You can haul?" The Duskroot looked at the sled.

"Yes."

"Good." The Builder shoved the hauling rope into his hands and started walking.

"Come on." The Duskroot followed him into the storage hall. Grub watched them go, then continued with his morning. Before long, the prisoner was hauling broken stone toward the cavern entrance beside the Ironfang. Dust worked into his skin as the hours passed, and by afternoon the rope had rubbed his palms raw. By evening, his arms trembled whenever he lifted them, but he kept working until the Builders stopped. When he finally returned to the cage, the other Duskroot watched him step inside.

Several looked at the dust covering him, then at his reddened hands. One of the thinner prisoners sneered from the back.

"Already trying to make yourself Ironfang?" The Warrior's expression hardened.

"Call me whatever you want. I'm not the one sitting here rotting on furs while other goblins do all the work." The cage went quiet. The following morning, two more Duskroot were waiting at the bars.

"We'll work too." Grub opened the cage, and from there the change in the cavern came quickly. More prisoners began asking for something to do, while Grub spent most of his own days moving between hunting, training, the Medics, and the storage hall. The next several days settled into that rhythm.

He hunted when the tribe needed meat, sometimes riding Sable beside Rika and the Fangs, sometimes going on foot with the Hunters so he could keep improving the skills that had kept him alive long before he had wolves or stronger magic. He spent time with the Medics whenever there were wounds to clean, herbs to prepare, or sick goblins whose condition had changed, and trained with Throk until his muscles ached before Kesh inevitably found entirely different ones to abuse.

Whenever his Mana filled again, he returned to the storage hall. The Builders marked the stone, Grub broke it apart with Stone Fragmentation, and they moved in behind him to clear the rubble, check the newly exposed surfaces, and reinforce whatever needed supporting. Stone Chip handled the smaller ridges and edges that would have taken far longer with their crude hammers and chisels, and section by section, the chamber pushed deeper into the mountain. The Duskroot changed along with it.

By the end of the third day, three prisoners were helping the Builders with the heavier labor, while two others had begun spending their time with the Medics, carrying water, washing bowls, fetching herbs, and listening whenever someone explained what they were doing.

Another group stepped forward the following morning, and soon Duskroot were carrying timber from the piles near the entrance, hauling water from the stream, sorting tools, moving firewood, and dragging sleds of broken stone from the growing storage hall. Whenever one asked for work, the cage opened. By the fifth morning, every healthy prisoner had found something useful to do, and the wounded were becoming increasingly irritated that they hadn't. Several complained whenever Grub passed.

One even tried convincing a Medic that the wound in his leg was "mostly healed," despite fresh blood appearing whenever he bent it too far. The Medic stared at him until he sat back down. Grub enjoyed that more than he probably should've.

"Not yet," he told the wounded whenever they asked.

"Heal first. There'll still be work when you're done." None of them liked the answer, but that didn't change it. The sick improved more slowly. Fevers broke, coughs loosened, and goblins who had barely lifted their heads on the first day began sitting upright for meals. The Medics kept treating them while the rest of the cavern settled into a new rhythm around them, with Ironfang and Duskroot increasingly working beside one another during the day before the prisoners returned to their cages at night.

By the end of the week, he stepped into the storage hall late one afternoon and realized they were nearly finished. A Builder stood atop a low block of stone, driving a final wedge above one of the timber braces. Each hammer strike echoed through the chamber until the wood seated firmly against the ceiling.

Along the far wall, another Builder worked beside one of the Duskroot to smooth the last rough edge beneath a shelf, while two more prisoners dragged a sled of loose rubble toward the entrance with an Ironfang clearing the path ahead of them. Grub moved farther inside. The room barely resembled the side passage they had started with.

The floor had been leveled and worn smooth beneath repeated sled runners, while shelves carved directly into the walls now held tools, coils of rope, folded hides, baskets, and materials that had once occupied every spare corner of the main cavern. Timber braces supported the widest sections of ceiling, and the rear wall sat several strides farther into the mountain than it had before the Duskroot raid. The Builder drove the wedge one final time. Thunk. He stepped down and pressed both hands against the brace.

When it refused to move, he slapped the timber twice, almost affectionately.

"Yep. That's not going anywhere." Grub looked around.

"No more?" The Builder followed his gaze across the chamber.

"For now." Grub laughed.

"That sounds promising."

"It means we'll want another room eventually."

"Of course we will." The Builder grinned and began gathering his tools. Grub understood the problem well enough. Give someone storage and they'd immediately find enough things to fill it. His attention shifted toward the Duskroot finishing the last of the work. One hauled a sled alongside an Ironfang Builder, while two others carried timber between them and listened as another Builder told them where to stack it. A week ago, those same goblins had been watching through the bars.

Now they were tired, dusty, and arguing with the Ironfang over where a piece of timber belonged. Grub left them to it.