Dravak Ironfang had not always been chief. Once, he had been just another warrior in a tribe so vast its numbers stretched into the hundreds. In such a tribe, a single voice was nothing. The strong clawed their way to notice, while the weak were cast aside. His Chief had ruled through fear and the weight of numbers. Most goblins were content to follow, so long as they ate.

  Dravak had never been content. He saw things others ignored. When the hunters chose their grounds, they called it luck if they returned with heavy hauls. Dravak knew better. He watched where beasts made their trails, where water pooled, where winds carried scent. As a result, his hunting parties rarely came back empty-handed. When warbands fought rival tribes, the War Chiefs called it courage to charge headlong into the enemy, causing them to take massive losses. They won most battles through sheer numbers, not tactics. He knew better. Dravak watched the lay of the land, where rocks forced bottlenecks, where mud slowed feet, where trees gave cover. He chose those places to fight. And he won. And those victories led to far fewer deaths.

  It did not matter to his Chief. He and his tribe thought him strange, too cautious, too calculating. But some Goblins knew the truth. He was not lucky. He was deliberate. So when he gathered his most loyal followers in the night, ten or fifteen at most, and whispered that he would no longer waste his strength under a fool of a chief, they followed. They slipped into the forest with him and never looked back.

  That was seasons ago. From those few, the Ironfang tribe had grown. Exiles, wanderers, and castoffs drifted to them. Sometimes captives were taken in raids, and even broken enemies swelled their ranks. Now they numbered close to forty. Still small, but enough to hold a cave and call it theirs. Dravak had chosen this cave well, tucked behind a rise with a stream above. Arrows could not fly far down the slope, and attackers would be forced into a choke if they dared to descend and attack head on. His warriors had laughed at the luck of the location, but Dravak knew it had not been luck.

  It had been his eyes. His mind. His way.

  So when the strange little Goblin was captured in the woods and brought to his cave, he noticed. When the slave began his strange work days ago, Dravak did not stop him. The small Goblin, called Grub now, rinsed rags and pressed them to wounds instead of snarling at his chains like the others. He scooped filth without complaint, hauled water, and diligently worked to clean what others left to fester. The tribe mocked him for it, howled laughter in his face and threw insults, yet the slave seemingly took no notice. Dravak only watched. He knew well enough that strange ways sometimes yielded results.

  And results were already showing. Warriors who had been rotting with infected cuts had begun to rise. Their scars still raw, but strength returning. Several had even resumed patrols and drills. They spat fewer jeers at the slave than the others, though pride made them bat his hands away if he tried to tend them further. Even so, they stood where they might have fallen. That alone made Dravak watch more closely.

  Tonight, Dravak sat upon his stone seat while the tribe’s noise rolled through the cavern. Firelight carved jagged shadows across the walls. Grub moved among the wounded with a bucket and a rag, silent as ever. When he finished with one warrior’s arm, he rose and started toward the cave mouth, bucket in hand.

  Dravak stood. "You. With me." Grub froze for a second then nodded slightly and began to follow him. A guard stepped forward, his spear angled. “Chief, let us go with you. It's dangerous to be outside alone at night.”

  Dravak’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think I am too weak to walk with one goblin?”

  The guard faltered. “I meant no—”

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  “Then challenge me,” Dravak growled, rising to his full height. “Take my seat, if you believe me unfit to guard myself.”

  The guard blanched, shrinking back into the crowd. No challenge came. Dravak grunted and turned to the slave. “Come.”

  Grub followed.

  They walked in silence up the slope until the stream came into view, glittering faintly under the moonlight. Only then did Dravak speak. “Why do you work this way? Most slaves gnash and spit. They fight their captors. You haul water. You clean wounds. You never even tried to fight.”

  Grub kept his eyes on the current. “Because the forest gave me nothing. Here there is fire. Food. Others to keep beasts away. Why fight? If I work, I live. I don't want to be a slave, but if that's the price of my safety, so be it. It's better than dying alone in the forest.”

  The answer was simple. Almost too simple. Dravak let it hang a moment before pressing further. “And the cloth? I see you wring the same strips until they tear. Why do you do it?”

  Grub nodded once. “Because that is all I have. With fresh cloth, I could bind wounds cleaner. Less rot. Less fever. More of your warriors would stand faster.”

  Dravak’s eyes narrowed. “Cloth is not free. It is taken in raids, bought with risk and blood. Why should I spend it on warriors already close to death?”

  Grub finally turned, meeting his gaze. “Because, Chief, close to dead eventually becomes dead. Then you lose a spear you cannot replace. Cloth is cheaper than warriors. If they heal, they fight. If they fight, your tribe bleeds less.”

  The chief’s jaw tightened. “You speak as if you count us like spears.”

  “I count what keeps me alive,” Grub said evenly.

  The words were sharp, but they carried no challenge. Only survival. Dravak measured the logic and found no flaw. He gestured at the stream. “Dump your bucket. Clean it.” Grub tipped the contents, letting the filthy water drift away. He scoured the bucket with sand until the inside was clean, then plunged his hands into the icy water and rubbed them raw. When he finished, he looked back up at Dravak, waiting.

  “Tomorrow,” Dravak said at last, “you will go to the stores. You will be given a small bundle of cloth. You will use it on the worst wounds. If I see strength return, you will get more.”

  Grub inclined his head, nothing more. Dravak turned back toward the cave, his thoughts heavy. Strange ways, strange results. He had seen it before.

  Days passed. The clean rags provided to Grub were used, tied fresh across infected wounds. And the difference was undeniable. Warriors who had lingered on their mats pushed themselves upright, the fever fading from their eyes. They moved slower than the healthy, but they moved. Some joined the guards at the entrance again, and Dravak’s fighting force swelled. It was not luck. It was the slave. That piqued Dravak’s curiosity.

  The disturbance came on the fourth night.

  A shout split the cavern, followed by snarls and the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. Guards rushed to the slave cage, and Dravak rose at once, his heavy steps echoing through the chamber. By the time he arrived, silence had fallen.

  Two corpses lay sprawled on the floor. The rest of the slaves cowered against the far wall. Grub stood alone in front of the bodies, covered in blood, breathing hard but not broken. He held a rock in one hand, still dripping blood and gore.

  One guard saluted sharply. “Chief! Those two slaves turned on him. He killed them both before we could pull them off of him.” His voice was tinged with more astonishment than anger.

  Dravak’s eyes swept the scene. One corpse’s skull was caved in, brains and blood leaking out onto the floor of the cave. The other had a neat hole through his eye, blood trailing down his cheek. Dravak entered the cage and leaned in to the second body to take a closer look. To the rest of the tribe, it was just a wound. But to Dravak, it was far too clean for claw or fang. A trace of grit clung to the blood around the socket. A pebble, he thought. His gaze flicked back to Grub, who stood silently.

  The silence stretched. At last, he stood and exited the cage. Dravak spoke to the nearby guards. “Throw the bodies into the forest. Let the beasts eat them.”

  The guards obeyed, dragging the corpses away. Blood smeared the ground as the bodies were pulled by their ankles out of the cave. Dravak turned back to Grub. “What do you have to say for yourself, little Grub?”

  Grub met his gaze, projecting calm despite the blood streaking his face. He let the gore covered rock that was still in his hand fall. “Let me wash.”

  The cavern was silent. Dravak stared hard at the slave. Then, Dravak burst into laughter, deep and rolling, echoing off the stone until it shook the firelight. The tribe stared, unnerved by the sound, but none dared interrupt.

  When his laughter finally ebbed, he pointed to a guard. “You. Take him to the stream. Watch him as he cleans himself. If he runs, cut him down and leave him for the beasts.” The guard simply nodded, and motioned to Grub to follow.

  Grub obeyed, quiet as ever. Dravak watched him go, the laughter still curling in his chest. Strange ways. Strange results. He had gambled on such things before. And they had made him Chief.

  When the cavern settled again, Dravak returned to his stone seat. But his mind did not rest. He thought of the fresh rags that had brought warriors back to their feet. He thought of the bloodied slave, calm enough to ask for washing when accused of murder. Strange, all of it. Strange, but perhaps useful.

  Dravak’s curiosity gnawed at him still. He had built his tribe on instincts others mocked, on choices they had called foolish until they saw the results. Now he wondered what other results this Grub might yield.

  And he resolved to find out.