Chapter 23: The Gnoll Camp

  The first thing that hits me as we approach the Gnoll settlement is the smell. A nauseating cocktail of wet fur and rotten meat that makes even my reptile digestive system clench in protest. Having enhanced toxic resistance also does not seem to help against this olfactory assault.

  "Welcome to paradise, I suppose… again" I mutter under my breath, earning a sharp yank on my bindings from the nearest Gnoll.

  The Gnoll's settlement sprawls across several massive, ancient trees whose trunks are easily twenty meters in diameter. Rope bridges and wooden platforms create this complex network of walkways that extends both upward into the canopy and down to water level. It's actually quite impressive from an engineering standpoint, if one could ignore the severed heads decorating some of the support posts.

  As we're herded across a swaying bridge, I catch my first glimpse of Gnoll domestic life. Cubs, barely knee-high, scrabble around the platforms in packs, their play consisting mainly of mock battles over what appear to be... finger bones. Somewhere else, a particularly aggressive cub manages to wrestle a femur away from its siblings and immediately begins gnawing on it with single-minded determination.

  At least someone's having a good day. I observe, watching the victorious cub chew its prize. Charming.

  The adult Gnolls pay us little attention initially, busy with their own activities. Some are working on weapons, crude but effective-looking clubs and spears. Others are tending to what I can only describe as a butcher's paradise, with various carcasses hanging from hooks and being methodically dismembered.

  I try not to think too hard about the origins of some of those cuts of meat. These Gnolls appear to live in a much more primal and violent sort of society, compared to the Frogman.

  We're led to a central platform where other captives from what must be a different raid are being sorted. The process is brutally pragmatic, young, healthy specimens to one side, injured or elderly to another. And I don't need any translation to understand the fate awaiting the second group.

  Thankfully, my regeneration has worked its miraculous way and I now have only a few bruises here and there. Unfortunately it does nothing for my hunger and tiredness.

  A massive Gnoll, easily the largest I've seen, emerges from what appears to be the settlement's primary structure. This one is different from the others, not just in size, but in bearing. Bone ornaments and carved talismans hang from his neck and arms, and the other Gnolls defer to him with obvious respect tinged with fear.

  The Alpha. And apparently some sort of shaman as well.

  His yellow eyes scan the assembled captives with calculating intelligence, occasionally stopping to sniff the air around particular individuals. When his gaze reaches me, those predatory eyes narrow slightly, but he fortunately moves on without comment.

  "Yip-rrawk snikta vhoolk!" he barks, and immediately the sorting process begins.

  The injured Croaker from our group is dragged toward the "elderly" section, despite its desperate protests. Three Frogmen are pushed into what I'm starting to think of as the "trade goods" category, probably valuable for ransom or prisoner exchanges. The Lizardmen workers and I are shoved toward another group, most likely slave labour.

  Not exactly a promotion it seems. But then things take an interesting turn.

  One of the Frogmen, a younger specimen with bright green skin and intelligent eyes, suddenly speaks up in what seems to be fluent Gnoll.

  "Yip-rrawk nakta vhool snikta grraktat!"

  Every Gnoll in earshot stops what they're doing. Even the Alpha's head snaps toward the speaker with such speed I'm surprised his neck doesn't break.

  "Naakta Grrohl-speech?" the Alpha growls, his accent making the words sound even more guttural than usual.

  The Frogman nods eagerly. He then proceeds to point in my direction, immediately causing me to freeze in place. "Rakkw hholl krraool Lizardtongue".

  Well, that's unexpected… and potentially useful in the future, despite almost scaring me to death.

  The Alpha studies the Frogman for a long moment but also nods, gesturing to his subordinates. Instead of being placed with the other trade goods, the multilingual Frogman is brought closer to the Alpha's platform.

  The sorting continues with mechanical efficiency. The elderly Croaker and two injured Frogmen are dragged away to what I can only assume is a holding area for the evening's dinner. Only the eerie sound of sharpening knives follows their departure.

  As this selection unfolds, I notice something else. Several of the worker captives aren't actually bound but working alongside the Gnolls, albeit with obvious deference. Some appear to be Lizardmen, others I can't immediately identify.

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  Do they have voluntary cooperation or is it simply pragmatic survival?

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  The work assignments begin immediately, they give us no time to rest or recover. After all the battles, the escape and crossing the marsh, I’m awake for god knows how long now.

  A scarred Gnoll with a missing ear barks orders, dividing captives into different groups. I'm assigned to what appears to be the construction detail, tasked with maintaining and expanding the rope bridges that connect the various platforms.

  "You work, you eat," the scarred Gnoll explains in broken Lizardman tongue, prodding me toward a group of mixed captives already at work. "You lazy, become dinner."

  I could give credit for the simplicity, if not for the murderous threat.

  My new work crew, which consists of two other Lizardmen, a pair of what I now recognize to be Bog Goblins, a race of small amphibious creatures with yellowy green skin, and surprisingly, the multilingual Frogman.

  As we start to work, the rope in my hands feels rough, woven from some kind of tough, fibrous vine and slick with a greasy substance that smells vaguely of animal fat, probably to make it waterproof. The task is simple enough, replacing frayed sections of the bridge's support ropes and tightening the lashings that hold the wooden planks in place.

  The execution, however, is another matter entirely. We are some good meters up in the air, with only the murky waters of the swamp visible in the gaps between the planks below. A fall would be… definitely not pleasant. And surviving means to become dinner later. Damn pressure!

  The scarred Gnoll, our overseer, observes from the stability of the main platform, occasionally barking an order or a threat.

  The other two Lizardmen are sluggish and clumsy, clearly hampered by fear. I concentrate on the task at hand, hoping to distract myself from the dizzying height. Fortunately my own claws prove useful for gripping the wood and manipulating the thick ropes and I manage to keep a steady pace.

  The multilingual Frogman is the anomaly. He works with a quiet, unnerving efficiency, his bright green eyes constantly scanning not only the overseer, but also me and the other workers. There is no fear in his posture, only a deep, unsettling watchfulness. He was singled out by the Alpha, yet here he is, doing menial labor with the rest of us.

  His presence feels like a coiled spring and I don’t know if he’s a potential ally or one to push me off this bridge to save himself. Probably both.

  A sudden, sharp clatter echoes across the walkway. One of the Bog Goblins, its webbed hands trembling, has dropped a heavy mallet. It doesn't fall into the swamp, but smashes on a platform below, narrowly missing a passing Gnoll. Every captive freezes.

  The scarred Gnoll overseer moves with terrifying speed. He crosses the bridge in three long strides, grabs the small, yellowy-green creature by the neck, and without a sound, hurls it over the side.

  There is no scream, only a distant splash. The Gnoll turns his one good eye on the rest of us, a silent, final warning before returning to his post. The message is brutally clear and efficient. You don't get a second chance. You don't make mistakes.

  My blood runs cold. The rule "You lazy, you become dinner" was an oversimplification. The only rule is that we are disposable. That fact, combined with the Frogman’s inscrutable watchfulness, forces my hand. I need to know what he’s playing at.

  Waiting for a moment when the overseer is distracted by a dispute on a far platform, I edge closer to the Frogman. He tenses, his eyes flicking towards me. I keep my gaze on my work, my voice a low rumble. "How are you?" I try, mimicking a basic Frogman greeting I’d constantly overheard in the village.

  The Frogman’s hands pause for a fraction of a second. He doesn't look at me, but his posture shifts. "How dare you talk to me, Lizardman," he whispers back in my tongue, his voice smooth and devoid of any accent.

  “Why did you point at me during selection?” I ask him, trying to probe a conversation.

  He glances around, ensuring the overseer is still occupied, before turning his gaze back to the ropes. "When the Alpha was sorting the slaves," he replies in flawless Lizardtongue, his voice a low, condescending whisper. "I saw your claws, your strength while the others of your kind were weak and frightened.”

  An appeal to vanity. Didn't expect that.

  “I needed to establish my own value, and finding other useful laborers is part of that. So I told the Alpha that I could use you to translate my commands and enforce discipline among your people."

  So he made himself a middle-manager in our slave camp and me a foreman. A bold career move one might say.

  His green-skinned face turns fully toward me with his intelligent yet condescending eyes. "But as my first follower, you must show that you are more valuable alive than dead. You saw what happens to those who are not.”

  After waiting for my confirmation of understanding, he continues. “My name is master Kor'ik. If you follow my lead, you will live and prosper. Defy me, and you will hope for that stupid creature's death." He points at where the Bog Goblin disappeared.

  Ok, for now I can play the part of the subservient minion.

  I reply by nodding intensively. Although his arrogance is shocking, his desperation is also clear. He made a spur-of-the-moment gamble to save his own skin, and it somewhat worked fueling his self importance. Still there’s an advantage in following him.

  After a few hours, it's finally time to eat and have some more than well deserved rest.

  We are herded back to a group of huts down, near the swamp. Our only reward is a wooden bowl of lukewarm, grayish stew that I force down.

  At least it is much better than Magba’s awful soup.

  As I observe Kor'ik from across the platform I can see he eats with the same deliberate focus he applies to his work.

  He’s so focused on his own perceived brilliance and control that he won't look deeper. Let him continue to think he's managing a simple-minded creature. In a camp run by monsters, being misjudged by your only "ally" is a shield he doesn't even know he's handed me.