Merchant crab a litrpg a.., p.33
Merchant Crab: A LitRPG Adventure, page 33
Growing more frantic, Balthazar checked his status again.
[Health: 6/60]
“Why is this not working, damn it?”
The crab opened the other potion bottle.
“Here, try having another.”
The goblin struggled to swallow but downed the whole thing.
It continued having no effect.
Balthazar felt a pit in his stomach. Not the same kind he’d get when not having any pastries for too long, one much worse. It was anxiety mixed with panic, despair, and a feeling of being powerless.
He was not used to feeling such emotions, but he couldn’t help it at that moment.
The crab expected a health potion to solve it all. It’s right in the name, health, so why it did not recover the goblin’s health points like it had in the past was something he was failing to understand.
“The wolf,” he muttered under his breath. “The bite must have infected him with something.”
Balthazar rushed to his potion shelf once more, desperately going through the many colorful vials. Health, stamina, mana, hair regrowth tonics, mouthwash elixirs, armpit perfume. None of them was even remotely relevant to what he needed.
“Please, please work,” he whispered as he returned to the frail goblin with a bottle of cure poison in his pincer.
It did not work.
“Damn it,” said Balthazar, growing frustrated as his desperation increased.
“Boss…” the goblin said in a faint voice. “Druma feel too warm.”
The crab placed his pincer against the goblin’s pale forehead.
He was burning with fever—the heat was noticeable even through the shell.
“Don’t worry, Druma, I’ll figure it out.”
Whatever sickness it was, it worked fast. Balthazar did not know what it was or what it would do, but seeing his assistant—his friend—in that state, was too disconcerting.
“Maybe a healer or an alchemist would know what to do.” He looked over the road at the setting sun. “But where will I get one at this hour? There’s no one on the roads.”
He paced anxiously back and forth, constantly glancing at the shivering goblin.
He had no way of communicating with the people from town. There would be no one to ask for help until the morning. He couldn’t very well send a golem who only speaks one work to the gates for help.
Balthazar knew what his only option was, but he did not want to face it.
“I make my own choices,” the crab told himself.
He turned to Bouldy, who remained squat down next to his friend, a deep frown of concern on his rigid face.
“You look after him. I will go get help.”
The golem nodded gently.
Blue was a few paces back, also observing the situation. Balthazar stopped in front of her.
“Please, just… bah, never mind. You wouldn’t listen anyway.”
Without looking back, the crab hurried up the path back to the road.
The guards would know who he was, as did the adventurers. They didn’t need to let him in; just send word inside for someone, anyone that could come and help.
It was right up the road, a short walk to the city gates.
The crab was now going farther away from his pond than he ever recalled going. His pace slowed down.
The sky was growing dark as the sun set, light fading over the vast plains to his left.
To his right, the wall of boulders that surrounded his small pond was nearly at its end.
He was as far away from his home as he had ever been before, his territory nearly out of sight, and he stopped walking.
A sense of dread, of doom, of fear holding his legs back.
Balthazar knew he needed to go up that road—for Druma, for his friend—but he could not take another step.
FORTY-THREE
PLEA FOR HELP
Balthazar, the talking crab. The merchant crab. Shrewd business maker. So much intelligence, such charisma. Reads so many books, makes so much coin.
And what did all of that even mean?
Could talk a drunken giant down, was able to outsmart a master merchant, managed to defeat a taxman. And now?
Stuck in the middle of a road, unable to go forward.
So sure that he was the smartest. Owner of his own destiny. All he did was his own choice.
But was it, really?
“Come on, Balthazar, what are you doing?” the crab told himself, his breathing speeding up. “Just take another step. There’s nothing there.”
But no matter what words he said, the rest of him wouldn’t budge.
Despite there being no physical barriers in front of him, his entire body and mind felt as if taking another step would mean walking off a cliff.
In front of him there were just more cobblestones filling the path, some more loose than others, some cracked, some missing entirely, replaced by mounds of dirt. Everything about that side looked identical to the one he stood on.
But be that as it may, none of his eight legs made the move forward.
“Damn it, what is wrong with me?!”
He knew there was no other way, that he needed to make it up that road and reach the town gates, find a guard, anyone who could get some help for Druma. But despite his desperation, he could not bring himself to move one step farther away from the pond.
He thought back to the conversation with the enchantress and Tom’s story. Could they have been right all along? Was he just part of some puppet system that dictated where he could go and what he did?
He shook his shell vigorously. This was not the time to dwell on it.
His friend was suffering, and he didn’t know how to help or what could happen to him, but he’d be damned if he’d let someone under his care in trouble.
To think what people would say about him, his reputation. Couldn’t have that!
Walking back a few paces, Balthazar turned back to face the city again and took a deep breath.
“You can do this,” he whispered.
As fast as a crab could, he began running forward, determined to cross the imaginary line his body dared not walk.
He would go through, even if it meant jumping and landing upside down.
Just a couple more steps.
Almost as if his heart was about to burst, a fright took over the merchant. All his legs buckled and brought him to a stop. He teetered and fell forward on his chin, still behind the point of no crossing.
“Whyyyyy!” Balthazar cried out, slamming against the ground with his iron pincer in frustration. “Druma shouldn’t pay for my issues, damn it. He’s always done nothing but try to help me, and now I can’t even walk up a road when he needs me most.”
With another jump in his heartbeat, the crab quickly stood up and turned around as he heard shuffling sounds from the tall grass.
A large humanoid figure emerged from the plains, what little daylight still remained only allowing Balthazar to make out a muscular frame and green skin.
“Khargol?! Is that you?” the suddenly hopeful crab exclaimed.
“Merchant crab? We did not expect to find you out here on the road. We came to sell more—”
“Never mind that!” Balthazar quickly interjected, rushing closer to the orc chieftain and his two warrior-brothers coming out of the grass behind him. “I need your help with something. It’s very urgent.”
The orc’s already permanent scowl deepened. “Has something happened, merchant?”
“Yes, but there’s no time to explain. I need you to go up there to the gates and have them send a healer down to my pond quickly.”
Realization quickly came to Balthazar as he remembered what he was asking and to whom.
“I’m afraid we cannot do that, merchant,” Khargol said with a firm but calm expression. “Orcs are not welcome among humans. They would likely attack us on sight if we were to approach their gates. You are famous among their kind, are you not? Why do you not go?”
Balthazar looked back, toward the gates up the hill, so close yet so far away.
“I… I tried, but I can’t. It’s… complicated to explain. And I don’t know what else to do to help my injured friend.”
“Tell me what happened, crab,” the imposing orc said.
“We were attacked by a pack of wolves. We managed to repel them, but my assistant’s leg was bitten while he was fighting one of them, and I think the wolf might have been diseased or something, and it infected him. I tried health potions, but they don’t help, and now he has a fever.”
As he explained the situation, Balthazar felt vulnerable, exposed, as if expressing his concern made him look weak. He stared at the cobblestones on the road, expecting to hear a chuckle from the mighty orc chieftain and for them to mock him.
“Take us to him,” Khargol said with a serious and clear tone.
The crab looked up at the orc. His expression remained as stoic as usual, but there were no signs of mockery or a sneer.
Balthazar could not afford to waste any more time thinking about his own insecurities—Druma was waiting.
“Follow me,” he said and quickly skittered back to his pond, leaving the edges of his domain behind.
As the crab and the three orcs made it to the pond, they found the goblin lying on his stack of hay, with Bouldy and Blue next to him, watching his shallow breathing.
“Don’t worry, they’re with me; they will help,” Balthazar quickly said to the drake and the golem as they turned to face the new arrivals.
He approached the goblin, who was even paler than before and covered in sweat.
“Hey, Druma, I’m here. How are you doing, buddy?”
His assistant mumbled something unintelligible without opening his eyes.
“He’s burning up, and probably delirious,” Balthazar said, turning back to Khargol. “Do you have any idea what it might be?”
The tall orc came down to one knee in front of the haystack and lifted the bandage covering the wound.
“It is clearly infected, but I cannot say what ails him exactly,” the orc said.
“Damn it,” said the crab. “Then we’re back to square one, with no idea of what to do.”
“I said I did not know what his affliction is, because I am not a healer,” Khargol said as he stood back up. “I did not say I would not help.”
“Then there is something you can do?” Balthazar eagerly asked, his eyes widening. “Please, if you can help him, I will buy your loot for triple the rate! Well, wait, let’s maybe say double for now; that’s a more fair start. But still, name your price, and I will meet it. Within reason.”
The orc raised one of his huge palms, gesturing for the crab to stop.
“This is not a negotiation. I do not require a payment from you for this, merchant.”
He turned his gaze to the other two orcs.
“Burznarfuogol. Yaturwurtguthvarbu. Return to the village and inform the shaman that I require her aid. Say it is urgent, and return here with her quickly.”
Without needing to utter a single word, the two warriors saluted their chieftain by bringing a clenched fist to their chests and dropped their loot sacks before leaving with a hurried pace.
“A shaman?” the crab inquired, still watching the warriors disappear on the quickly darkening road.
“Yes,” Khargol said. “She is our healer. Very ancient and wise. If someone can help your goblin friend, it will be her.”
Balthazar thought back to the books he had read about goblins, orcs, and other such races.
They mostly described orcs as savage warriors, mindless brutes, which he now knew not to be entirely accurate. But the texts also made mentions of the relationship between orcs and goblins, and they were not exactly friendly ones.
“Why are you willing to help a goblin?” the hesitant crab asked. “I thought your kind wasn’t too fond of them. Is that not correct?”
Khargol let out a sharp exhale. “Have you been reading human books, crab?”
Balthazar emoted a semi-shrug with his shell.
“What adventurers and other humans think they know about us is what we allow them to know,” the chieftain explained. “Parts of it are true, others only partially true, and some are complete falsehoods to keep them away. It is true that most goblins are wild and savage, and we do not welcome them among us. But unlike humans, we do not treat everyone the same based solely on their kind. I may not know your assistant here, but I know you now and can extrapolate that you would not have a savage goblin as a worker. And regardless of what reputation we might have, orcs have honor, and we value life and bravery. If your small friend was brave enough to stand up to a wolf, he has a brave spirit, and I’d be bringing shame upon my tribe if I denied aid to an injured warrior.”
He made a brief pause and then smirked.
“But if he wakes up and acts like a typical psychopathic goblin trying to stab us with a spear, I will still snap him in two.”
Balthazar stared emptily at the ground, pondering what Khargol had said. He was still having a hard time coming to terms with the idea of an orc being so… intellectual. Prejudices were a hard thing to overcome, it would seem.
“Do not worry, merchant,” said the orc as he crossed his muscular arms in front of his chest and stared off into the distance of the plains. “My brothers will bring our shaman, and she will know what to do.”
Balthazar looked up at the stoic orc.
“I just hope Druma can wait that long. It’s practically night now—won’t they have to wait for morning to return here?”
Khargol let out a chuckle, despite showing no signs of smiling.
“Burznarfuogol and Yaturwurtguthvarbu have been my warrior-brothers since we were knee-high. We have explored the wilds together for years. They know how to navigate these lands, even at night. Fear not. If I tell them to bring our shaman here, they will see it done faster than you can imagine.”
Balthazar looked back at the feverish goblin, who kept shivering and twitching, either from pain or from nightmares.
The crab was still feeling great concern, but the small hope that someone would come to help soon gave him some solace.
He just hoped that shaman was the real deal.
FORTY-FOUR
THE SHAMAN
It was already night, the sky was dark and starless, and a campfire crackled on the small inner islet, illuminating the surrounding area with a dim orange light.
Balthazar sat between it and the bed of hay where Druma lay, still feverish and unquiet in his unconscious state. Bouldy remained behind the goblin, quietly watching over him with a sad frown on his stony face. Blue was curled up on her cushion next to the big tent, head resting over her wings, but eyes still open, alternating between staring at the fire and glancing at the twitching goblin.
Balthazar sighed as he threw a small twig into the flames. “I hate waiting.”
Even more so than waiting, the crab hated feeling powerless and things being out of his control. Of all the countless pieces of junk he had ever traded with all those adventurers, he somehow had nothing that could help him in that situation.
He wondered if the goblin would make it, if he would recover, and if he would have any permanent impairment from it all. Balthazar did not want to imagine the worst—losing his loyal assistant.
Who would build him more wooden boxes?
Who would tie all those pieces of rope that required hands with multiple digits?
Who would wash all those used pieces of bloody armor before reselling them?
Balthazar sighed again.
Who would laugh with him while watching some overburdened adventurer zigzagging down the road from atop a boulder while eating pastries?
“I can’t keep sitting here,” the crab said as he stood up and headed to the bridge.
In the trading post, the larger fire pit roared with tall flames that lit up the entire platform.
By a corner, a burly figure stood with his back turned to the bridge, facing a shelf.
As Balthazar approached, Khargol turned. He was holding an open book in his hand and wearing his tiny glasses on his large nose.
“You have to buy them if you wanna read them,” the merchant said as he walked by.
“I was reading a volume on common sicknesses,” the calm orc responded. “If you’d like me to not help and instead sit idly staring at a fire, I can oblige, too.”
“Bah, sorry, force of habit,” Balthazar said, staring out into the dark plains.
The chieftain joined him while putting his glasses back in his pocket.
“How far away is your village?” asked the crab.
“A fair distance, but my brothers move fast,” the other responded.
“Do you think it will be much longer?”
“No, I do not.” Khargol smirked. “In fact, it won’t be any longer at all. They have returned.”
Balthazar turned quickly to the road but saw and heard nothing.
“They have? How can you tell?”
“I just can,” the orc responded, stepping forward.
Right as he said the words, three figures rapidly walked down the path and entered the trading post, where the chieftain greeted them.
Between the two warriors was a much smaller female orc with a slight hump on her back, supporting herself on a tall wooden staff. She wore a dark robe that was covered in all manner of talismans, charms, and animal bones, making her rattle with every move she made.
The chieftain exchanged some hushed words with her before they turned and approached the crab.
“Merchant crab,” Khargol said. “This is our shaman, Shagazurglamdushell. She agrees to see your goblin friend.”
[Level 20 Orc Shaman]
“Hello,” the hesitant crab said. “Nice to meet you, Shag… madame shaman.”
She leaned forward to look at the crab. Her eyes were mostly covered by the hood of her robe, and Balthazar wondered how she could see anything. What he could see of her face told him she appeared very old and wrinkly, and a strong scent of mixed herbs emanated from her.
“You’re the one? The crab who talks?” she said with an old and trembling voice. “Take me to your goblin.”
