3 Chapter III

The bridge was finished the day after the kings' negotiation. Thyrn built a smaller camp beyond it, to block the northern approach to the city, and also sent out raiding parties to ensure a continuous supply of fresh food and slaves.

While raiders despoiled the countryside, Wrolf and the other slaves who had built the bridge were set to the construction of siege engines. Wrolf himself constructed a type of wheeled battering ram with a small tower for archers, while others built ladders and another odd contraption Wrolf didn't recognize: a large metal-bound spoon set in a wooden frame, with winches on either side.

As the construction crews built siege engines, the priests Thyrn had brought along shouted to the city, claiming Nuxish had all the food they could ever need, and it could be shared with the Kurbromites if they would only open their gates. In response, the Kurbromites started drowning out the priests with trumpets and drums.

Playing music was not the only way the Kurbromites thwarted their besiegers. Tunnels were dug by both sides—Wrolf saw little of that front, but he knew it was a bloody affair—and at night the defenders launched sorties: chariots loosed arrows and javelins into the encampment, while spearmen endeavored to set the siege engines on fire. These must have hurt the defenders more than the attackers, for they soon stopped.

The siege engines were completed within the month, and afterwards Wrolf was set to gathering stones. With these stones, he finally learned what these spoon-contraptions were: stone-throwers.

The stone throwers were imprecise, but in two weeks' constant bombardment they managed enough hits to breach the stone-and-wood wall in several spots. Despite this Komn still refused to surrender, and so nearly two months into the siege Thyrn ordered an assault to be prepared.

On the eve of the assault, an officer came to the slaves asking for volunteers for the assault. Wrolf stepped forward—he'd wanted to be dead for months now, and this seemed a way to achieve that—but the rest weren't so suicidal.

"And why the 'Bitz should we do that?" One of Wrolf's fellow slaves, a young dwarf with red in his beard, demanded.

"Those who fight will be given a larger ration—half again what you have now, and you'll even get beer—and a better spot in camp, further from the latrines."

The promise of getting away from the latrines won a few over.

An older slave with a balding head and graying beard scoffed. "If you think I'll throw my life away for booze and stale corn, you're dead wrong."

"But what about for freedom?" The scoffers fell silent at that. "If you survive one dozen engagements, you will be freed from slavery, and once the war is over you will be allowed to leave the army."

"Well why didn't you lead with that?" The red-and-brown-bearded dwarf stepped forward, followed by nearly every slave.

The volunteers were led further into the camp, towards where the bronze-workers and blacksmiths had set up shop. There some dozen smiths heated brands over fires.

"This brand will set you apart from your fellow slaves," the officer said. "After each engagement, an additional brand will be added to measure your progress towards freedom."

Wrolf recalled the goblins being branded on the day of his capture; the token resistance his village had offered must have counted for an engagement.

The branding took an hour, and hurt about as much as Wrolf anticipated. Afterwards the newly-branded slaves were taken to their new part of camp. There were grosses of branded slaves already there, mostly goblins.

When Wrolf settled down with his meal, the young slave from earlier sat down next to him.

"I've seen you around camp," he started. "I've always wondered how they caught you? You look so strong."

Wrolf said nothing.

"Ah, where's my manners?" The slave held out a hand. "The name's Wolm. You?"

Wrolf looked at the outstretched hand, then back to his corn. Wolm pulled his hand back.

"Not much of a talker, I see. Did they cut your tongue out?"

"No." It was the first time Wrolf had spoken in months. The words tasted strange after so long. "We'll all be dead in the morning. Why bother?"

"Even if we were all gonna die, I'd rather know the men I'll be dying with."

Wrolf scoffed. He let out a belch when Wolm tried to speak again; the slave took the hint, and left Wrolf with his thoughts. He approached the graybeard from earlier, exchanged names—the old man was called Thold—and started talking.

A small part of Wrolf felt jealous at that, but he shoved it down. Striking up a friendship would be useless; they'd all be dead in the morning.