Chương 32: Chapter 27: Is It True? I'm Finally Free?

I'm Finally Free?

The tribe began to stir. Warriors sat up on their mats. Mothers pried sleepy children from furs. The sick shifted under thin blankets. Around them, every fire pit still burned bright and steady. The central fire crackled around a line of ready meat. Gideon and the four others moved briskly between pits, making one last circuit, adding one last piece of wood, nudging one last coal. Dravak rose from his sleeping spot like a boulder shifting from its resting place.

His eyes swept the cavern, taking in the fires, the faces of his tribe, and the five still on their feet, still tending to the fires. He gave a single nod.

"Good." It was all he needed to say. The second test was finished. The tribe gathered again not long after, drawn toward the main fire by a quiet sense of expectation. The goblins formed a loose semicircle. The sick still in the alcove sat propped on their mats to watch and listen. Mothers hushed curious children. The morning buzz faded to a low hush as Dravak rose from his seat in the center of the cavern. He stood in silence for a moment.

Then he raised one scarred hand and pointed toward the alcove where the last of the sick lay, then toward the front ranks where healed Warriors now stood straight and armed.

"Before Grub arrived," Dravak said, his voice carrying easily, "this tribe was weakening. Warriors died of fever and rot. The wounded fell and didn't rise again. We had spears, but not enough hands strong enough to hold them." He swept his gaze across the cavern.

"Now look at us." Heads turned. Warriors who had once been drenched in fever sweat or racked with coughs now stood tall. Scars had pulled tight over flesh instead of splitting open. Eyes that had been dull and sunken were clear and alert again.

"Some here doubted the strange ideas of this small goblin," Dravak went on.

"I was one of them. Some doubted the cloths he made. I was one of them. Some doubted what he pulled from the forest, the way he moved the sick, and the new tasks he gave the other slaves. I was one of them." A few Warriors shifted, uncomfortable. Dravak's attention passed over them, hard as stone.

"But for all my doubts, the results are here for all to see. Warriors standing again, ready to fight. Healed wounds. A stronger tribe." He turned to Gideon and held his eyes.

"I took a chance, trusting you and your ways," he said.

"Your words are strange. Your methods are even stranger. Any other Chief might have killed you for them. I chose to wait and see what they would become." He nodded once.

"And what they became is proof enough of your intentions." A soft ripple moved through the crowd. Dravak waited until the noise died down before continuing, "But intentions alone do not make a goblin Ironfang. Loyalty does. And so, I set you two tests." He raised two fingers.

"First. Stand watch in the night. Alone. No Warriors at your back. No help. You did so, even when two wolves came from the forest, hungry and wild." He looked around at the gathered tribe.

"Any of them could have run, yet all of them stayed. All of them fought and bled to defend our home. Their home. And all of them survived, because they stayed together." Murmurs spread. Some goblins glanced toward the wolf pelts drying against the wall. Dravak's gaze returned to Gideon and the others, standing beside him.

"Second. You were to tend the fires while we slept. Every pit, every ember. All night long. By my own orders, the guards were told not to lift a finger if you five chose to leave." His voice deepened as he looked across the tribe gathered around him.

"They again had the freedom to flee. They didn't. Not only that. They did more than just tend the fires. They cooked for the tribe. They worked together. They showed us that they want to be here." Silence followed. Dravak drew in a slow breath.

"These five, who have shown loyalty with action, not noise, are no longer slaves." He swung his arms out, gesturing at all the goblins gathered before him.

"They are now Ironfang. Brothers of this tribe." The declaration echoed off stone and into every listening ear. The reactions were mixed. Some Warriors nodded, while others remained guarded. A few frowned, still uncertain. But importantly, no one protested. Dravak turned to Gideon and the four other slaves.

"Step forward." Gideon moved without hesitation. The four others followed him, their shoulders tense but lifted. Dravak studied them carefully.

"You have shown loyalty with action. You have bled for this cave. You have guarded our night and fed our fires." His gaze hardened slightly.

"But the Ironfang do not stand alone. The Ironfang stand strong together under a Chief." He stepped down from his stone seat until he stood before them.

"If you are to be Ironfang, then you will swear yourselves to this tribe. To its strength. To its survival." His eyes locked onto Gideon.

"And to me." He paused, letting the words settle in the cavern.

"Do you accept me as your Chief?" Dravak asked.

"Will you stand when I call? Fight when I command? Hold this cave as your home?" Gideon didn't hesitate. He spoke loudly, so his words could be heard by every goblin in the cavern.

"Yes, Chief. I swear my loyalty to the Ironfang. I swear my loyalty to Chief Dravak." The words were simple, but deliberate. Dravak's eyes moved to the others. One by one, they answered the same way. Dravak nodded.

"Then from this moment, you are Ironfang." He straightened.

"You will answer to me. You will defend this cave. You will strengthen this tribe." His voice lowered.

"And I will defend you as my own." He looked over the five of them one final time, then gestured toward the fire.

"Your place is no longer behind bars. Sit with your tribe." Gideon walked to the main pit and lowered himself into place. The four others clustered nervously around him. Whispers rose behind them.

"Strange one, that Grub."

"Strange, but useful." Dravak returned to his seat. His eyes lingered on Gideon with something no longer edged in suspicion. Respect. Or something close to it. Gideon held his hands out toward the flames. The firelight flickered over the scars on his knuckles and the fresh bandage on his leg, and the warmth sank into him in a slow, steady way that made his muscles feel heavier and lighter at once. He was tired. Sore and bruised. But alive. Movement drew his eyes up.

A Warrior he recognized, one of the ones who had been laid out in the alcove only days ago with a wound that had stunk of rot, stepped closer with a cautious, almost awkward stiffness, as if he wasn't used to the idea of approaching on equal footing. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. The Warrior stopped at arm's length, looked down at him for a beat, then reached out and slapped a hand against his shoulder. Not hard, but not gentle either. Just firm, real contact.

"Grub," the Warrior said, like he was testing the word with a different shape in his mouth, then he gave a rough nod.

"You did good." Another came behind him, a Hunter with a thin scar across his cheekbone and a bow slung over one shoulder. He didn't touch, but he crouched briefly and met Gideon's eyes with a steady, appraising look.

"Still strange," the Hunter muttered.

"But you stand your ground." He stood and moved away before the moment could turn into anything else. Two more Warriors drifted past, and one of them bumped his fist lightly against his upper arm as he passed, a gesture so quick it could have been accidental if the goblin's eyes had not flicked down to him with something like grudging approval. There was no longer any insulting laughter, no spitting, no base cruelty wrapped in humor. Just a name, being used like a name. Grub.

He glanced down at his hands again, and really looked. What he saw were small hands that had hauled water until his shoulders burned, that had scrubbed filth from furs until his palms split, that had pressed resin cloth against torn flesh and forced bitter teas down fevered throats, that had gripped a spear in the dark and not run when wolves came out of the forest. They were goblin hands. Stained with sap. Rough. Useful.

His mouth twitched, and he let the smile come this time, small and quiet, as if it might startle the world if he made it too big. He was no longer alone. For the first time in this world, he didn't feel like prey. He wasn't property. He wasn't merely tolerated. He was Ironfang. And that realization pulled him backward, unexpectedly, to the cage. To the hard wooden bars beneath his fingers. To the ache in his shoulders. To the smell of rot clinging to both stone and fur.

To the cold, focused thought that had followed.

"I need a plan." He had built one back then in that darkness.

"Become useful. Become valuable. Make the idea of killing me feel like snapping a tool they still needed. Strengthen the tribe, because a weak tribe meant starvation, predators, and spears turned inward. If the Ironfang collapse, so do I. Work hard. Be patient. Play the long game. Earn the Chief's trust, or at least his tolerance. Freedom will come later." And now, sitting beside the fire while goblins called him Grub without malice, he realized with a strange, dizzy certainty that "later" had finally arrived.

He had earned his freedom. He had earned a place by the fire. He had dragged himself from a cage into the center of the tribe, and the tribe had accepted it, not with familial warmth, but with a certain kind of recognition. And in a place like this, recognition mattered more than comfort. The realization did two things to him at once.

It relaxed something in his chest that had been clenched since the day he woke in this body, because the immediate problem, the brutal one, the one that had dictated every choice he made, that occupied nearly every thought, had finally been solved. Find a way to survive, to earn safety, to stabilize himself in his new reality. But it also left a hollow space behind it.

Because so much of his time, effort, and mental energies had been devoted to reaching this point that he hadn't allowed himself to imagine what came after. He stared into the flames, watching fat drip from the cooked meat and hiss against the coals, and he tried to picture his next move the way he had pictured his plan weeks ago. He didn't have one ready. That should have scared him, and it did, a little, but it also felt strangely calming. He had wanted his freedom so badly that he had shaped himself around it.

Every day had been a series of tasks and calculations and careful risks, every action meant to make him harder to discard, every step aimed toward that single objective. Now the cage door wouldn't close behind him as a rule of his life. Now the word slave wouldn't define him. Now he could choose his next step. The thought of being able to make that choice was heavier than the cage bars had been. He thought of his old name then, the one he had been clinging to so desperately.

"Gideon." The human name that had once felt like a lifeline, something solid he could grip when everything else had been stripped away. It was still there, still his. But it no longer fit the reality of his days. Gideon had been the one who woke up disoriented in a cave. Gideon had been furious. Afraid. Desperate to survive. Gideon had been the one to wander the forest, to get captured and forced into slavery here. And Gideon was the one who made the plan.

Gideon had clawed his way forward step by step with a dogged determination that reminded him of his 16-hour study sessions back in Berkeley. But. Gideon hadn't been the one who'd stood watch against wolves in the dark for a goblin cave. Gideon hadn't boiled bark and needles for fevered bodies. Gideon hadn't just sworn loyalty to a goblin Chief and meant it. The tribe didn't look at him and see Gideon. They only saw Grub, the strange little goblin. He considered it. Grub wasn't just a cruel nickname anymore.

It wasn't something thrown at him in contempt, to make him feel small, weak, and less than. It was the name the Ironfang used when they spoke of him now with interest and caution and, sometimes, something bordering on respect. And he answered to it without hesitation. He exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of the fire sink deeper, letting it fill the hollow space that the uncertainty had opened. Gideon had been necessary to help him survive until this point. But now, Gideon's job was finished.

Gideon closed his eyes and made a decision right then and there. The weight of it settled deep into his being. For better or for worse, it was time to finally let go of his old life. Grub opened his eyes. The cavern slowly returned to its usual rhythm as the gathering broke apart. Meat was divided. Voices rose and fell in low conversation. Warriors drifted back toward their favored corners. Grub remained by the fire a while longer, letting the warmth settle into his bones. Then he rose.

No one stopped him as he moved along the edge of the cavern wall, slipping past stacked hides and weapon racks until he reached the narrow crevice where the stone held the night's chill. The four bowls waited where he had left them. It had been almost five days now since he first crushed the berries. Grub crouched and uncovered the first. A few bubbles still clung to the stone, but the juice had changed little since his last check.

"Still barely doing anything." He covered it again and moved to the second. This one was unmistakably alive. Bubbles worked steadily through the dark mixture, disturbing the floating skins and pulp while pale foam gathered in small patches across the surface. The sour smell of the berries had deepened further into something stranger now, fruity and yeasty at once. Grub grinned. Bowl Three was doing much the same, though more slowly.

The diluted juice bubbled steadily enough that there was no question the added water had failed to stop the fermentation. Then he uncovered the fourth. Nothing. Again. Grub stared at the motionless mash for a moment.

"Right. Don't heat the berries." At least that lesson had been simple. He tied the cloth back over it, lifted the bowl, and carried it outside. The morning air was cold against his face as he walked far enough from the entrance that the smell wouldn't linger inside. Then he tipped the bowl over and watched the dark mash spill across the ground. One failure out of four. He could live with that.

When Grub returned, he brought fresh cloth and two more stone bowls, scalded them with boiling water and left them long enough to cool. The skins floating across Bowls Two and Three bothered him now. Five days sitting wet in crushed fruit seemed like more than enough time for something unpleasant to start growing on them.

"Probably shouldn't leave those in forever." Whether removing them would stop the fermentation was another question. He had no idea if whatever was causing the change remained mostly on the skins or had already spread through the juice. But there was only one way to find out. Grub poured Bowl Two through the clean cloth, catching the softened skins, pulp, and seeds while the cloudy liquid drained into the fresh bowl beneath it.

When most of the juice had passed through, he squeezed the cloth gently to recover what remained. Then he repeated the process with Bowl Three. He looked at the two bowls of dark liquid.

"Please keep working." If they didn't, then next time he would know to leave the skins longer. He covered both bowls again and returned them to the crevice beside the first. A Warrior passing nearby wrinkled his nose.

"What is that smell?"

"Berries." The Warrior looked toward the covered bowls.

"Those aren't berries anymore." Grub smiled faintly.

"That's the idea." He tucked the cloth securely around the last bowl and stood. Three experiments remained. Time would tell whether he'd just improved two of them or ruined them. The four goblins who had stood beside him before the tribe were still near the main fire, speaking quietly among themselves. Grub watched them for a moment. They were free now. Actually free. The thought still felt strange. Now no one stood over them. No one watched to make sure they stayed where they belonged.

And yet all four were still clustered near the same fire, glancing occasionally toward the healing alcove as if uncertain what they were supposed to do with that freedom. Grub understood the feeling better than he wanted to. He caught their eyes and jerked his chin toward the alcove.

"Freedom doesn't mean idle. Go check the sick and wounded. Make sure no bandage has slipped." For an instant, none of them moved. Then the tall one nodded, stood, and began walking toward the alcove. The others followed. They crossed the cavern without waiting for permission from anyone else. Grub watched them disappear into the alcove. That was different. Small, maybe. But different. He returned to the fire and lowered himself onto a hide near the edge of the warmth.

Around him, the cavern had already begun settling into its morning rhythm. Warriors checked spearheads and leather straps. Hunters spoke quietly near the entrance. Someone dragged another armful of wood toward the fires while two goblins argued over which of them had taken the larger piece of meat from breakfast. Normal things. Ordinary things. Grub let his eyes drift toward the healing alcove.

The four former slaves were moving between the injured now, checking cloth wraps, fetching water, and doing the same work they'd learned while trying to keep themselves useful enough to survive. Except no one had ordered them to learn it. No one had ordered Grub to teach them. And no one had stopped them. His attention shifted toward the rear of the cavern. Three bowls sat behind a slab of stone, quietly becoming something new. Or failing to. He'd know soon enough.

Grub leaned back on his hands and stared into the fire. There were things happening around him now that existed only because he'd chosen to make them happen. Not because someone had told him to. Not because he was desperately trying to survive. Not even because he would die if he failed. Medicine. The berries. Four goblins who now knew enough to help someone besides themselves. Small things. But they were his. A coal shifted beneath the firewood, sending a brief scatter of sparks upward.

Grub watched them disappear into the smoke. Then he smiled. He could work with small.