XI

As soon as the auctioneer dismisses himself, the crowd forms into two mobs: one shambling dejectedly towards the exit, and one shoving excitedly towards their overpriced purchases. The second of these groups gather up their items amidst pushing, shoving, and other such contributors to pandemonium. Despite the apparent chaos, the auction house employees carefully deliver the goods while making sure that they receive every penny owed for each. Slowly but surely, the crowd of people thins as most pay for their goods and depart. Once nearly nobody remains, the military representative stands and walks over to the pen where we, his reserved slaves, are waiting. The worker standing near prompts him to pay, but the representative replies 'not yet.'

The military representative turns towards our group, which has become entirely silent in his overwhelming presence. Suddenly, I am sure that this man could kill all of us here and now if he so desired. Despite possessing an unimpressive, though still quite fit, body, the aura he emits indicates his immense power. I find it difficult to breathe, and my heart beats faster. Those around me seem to have an even stronger reaction, however, many falling limply to the ground. After a minute, the pressure lets up as quickly as it began, allowing me to fully fill my lungs with sweet air and notice the cold sweat that sticks to my body.

Out of the group of slaves, I seem to be in the best condition. Only a handful of others remained standing, and many others are hurriedly standing back up. I notice that at least half remain on the floor, apparently having fainted.

The man nods. "Good. I'm glad that so many of you are capable of withstanding my aura. It is common among slaves to be so weakened that they are unable to stand in the face of fear. Such fear, and fear much greater, will surely be felt in our military campaigns. I have offered to pay decent money for all of you," he says, glancing at me, "and I would be greatly disappointed if my purchases brought us no benefit on the fields of war. For that reason, I will not be purchasing those who have fallen unconscious." He then turns to the employee. "That will be acceptable, correct?"

"Of course. A bid at the auction does not necessitate paying for the good."

"Good." He then turns back to us. "Furthermore, I will only be purchasing those who are willing to fight. It is a waste of our country's resources to buy soldiers who cause more trouble than benefit, and it has been decided that we will only be employing slaves who are at least somewhat willing. There are many, many slaves in this country, and so it makes sense for us to only pay for those who are able and willing to fight. That said, those who are unwilling to fight and die for this country, raise your hand now. But before you do, know this: those that serve thirty years in the military, or otherwise distinguish themselves enough in battle, will be set free. This is to incentivise good behavior and a proper devotion to duty; slackers will not be eligible for freedom- though the slackers are unlikely to last thirty years in any case. So, that said, raise your hand if you do not wish to be purchased. Just know that you will not get this opportunity again; no more bids will be placed on you by the military in any case."

At that, only two people raise their hands; both of them are quite old, and would almost certainly not live another thirty years, even if not on a battlefield.

The representative nods. "Very well. Those that are coming with me, come out of the pen and line up."

We do as commanded, and are then counted up. "Eighteen. Not a bad hall. How much do I owe?"

The employee quickly adds up some numbers. "Nine gold, thirty-seven silver."

The representative counts out the coins and hands them over. He is then thanked for his business before turning to us. "Any misbehavior, and I lop off your head. So, behave and follow me." And with that, he leads us, still with manacled wrists, out of the auction house.

I am immediately shocked by the vibrance of the afternoon sun, and I quickly realize that this is my first glimpse of natural light in well over a week. While I am unable to refrain from letting out a small gasp as the warm, life-giving rays alight upon my upturned face, my reaction pales in comparison to some of the other men, many of whom have likely gone months without a glimpse of the sun. Nearly every face is dominated by a smile, and more than a single tear can be seen leaking from some eyes. We quickly re-focus on the task at hand, and hurry after the soldier, who is walking briskly without turning back to make sure we follow; clearly he knows that no one would be foolish enough to run off when he's in possession of a small remote for each of us that can stop our hearts at his whim.

We follow him through the busy street, catching many dirty looks. I suppose that our position of slaves must be abundantly obvious, the dirty clothes, manacles, and relatively poor physical condition and all. It would appear that the auction house was off a relatively prominent avenue, as we are on a wide street that has the city gate on one end and a large keep on the other.

The center of the city holds a large keep, where the lord of the city lives, with its own grounds on which large barracks and various training fields are located. We are led through the front gates of the keep, which stand open during the day, and are led behind the central building to where the barracks are. Our group is completely silent as we are led past many troops, which thankfully refrain from giving us the same menacing looks as the nobility that we encountered in the street on the way here.

We pass through a veritable complex of buildings, all of which are intended to contribute to the maintenance of a large group of troops. An armory for weapon storage, a smithy for weapon creation and maintenance, stables for the officers' mounts, dining halls, kitchens, warehouses, empty fields for training, and, most importantly, barracks. Up to this point it was not immediately obvious that this city was primarily devoted to military means, but upon seeing this massive complex in the center of the city, it becomes very evident what the primary focus of this city is.

Past the nice rows of barracks and well maintained fields, we come to the section of the property for enslaved soldiers. Instead of tall and pristine rows of barracks, the ones here look on the verge of crumbling apart.

"This is where you'll be sleeping during the night," says the soldier. "It's the old barracks, and was used by this town's regular soldiers until a few years back when the kingdom sent both money and troops and new facilities were built. Do not be fooled by your sleeping conditions; with the exception of using the old barracks, that exception occurring only because of the number of soldiers currently in this city, you will be given the same conditions as other soldiers. Two meals a day, breakfast and dinner, and the same training allotted to other soldiers. Frankly speaking, besides you not being able to leave, the biggest difference between you and other soldiers is that you are unlikely to be promoted and will be expected to help out a tad bit more than other soldiers. That said, nothing is impossible; I myself was brought here as a slave about fifty years ago. I fought well for my country, and in doing so both earned my freedom and became very powerful. That power has allowed me to live for an extended lifespan, and I was recently promoted to the role of Commander of the Enslaved forces of the Eroen Kingdom. I tell you these things to give you some motivation. Slave soldiers tend to be given the hardest and most dangerous roles, which, combined with their lack of incentives when compared to regular soldiers, leads to a disproportionate number of deaths among the enslaved. So, take my words as motivation: if you work hard enough, you can live to have a fulfilled life. Am I understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" we reply, enthralled by his inspirational speech.

"Very good then. Now, get some rest and meet back out here in one hour for dinner. Just follow the lead of the other slaves, which are already in the barracks, when the time comes." And with that, he turns and walks away.

We enter the door to the first barrack, which squeaks profusely in protest to such exertion. Inside, a younger man turns to us. "Oh. New recruits. Welcome, I guess."

Another man, this one much older, smacks him on the back of the head. "Oi! Be nice to our new allies." He then turns to our group and quickly counts us up. "Eighteen, eh? Small haul today. Well, there's enough room for the lot of you in this barrack. You won't have to split up unless you so desire." After a chorus of claims insisting that anywhere is fine, he nods. "Alright then. I guess I have some new bunkmates; it's just been George and I since he was brought in a month ago."

He continues on, "I've been in the military for 27 years. I've gone on many-a-monster hunt and participated in many-a-battle. To be honest, this war with those filthy heretics, the [Arenese,] is likely to be among my most dangerous tasks. Though, if I can make it out alive, I'll finally have earned my freedom. Well, just stick with me and do as I tell you, and I'm sure that you'll be fine. At least during training. On the battlefield, there frankly isn't all that much that I can do for you."

"Now then. There are plenty of open bunks in this place, so just pick one. I'm sure that you've been instructed to follow our lead for a bit, as that seems to be Commander Torin's standard method of leaving off. He probably also expects us to answer whatever questions you may have, so ask away."

A younger slave, perhaps seventeen years of age, asks the question that is obviously on everyones' minds: "When are we being deployed?"

To this, the most important of questions, the old man replies with the dreaded 'I don't know.' He then, quite thankfully, continues "Though I cannot be sure of the date that we will set out for battle, the current batch of troops is still gathering. Many of the troops are conscripted farmers who have never fought an actual battle before. In order to turn them into an even remotely acceptable battle force, I am doubtless that there will be a minimum of three months before our departure. I would not be surprised, however, if our departure didn't occur for closer to nine months."

It seems that he is done with his answer, and so another question is asked, this time by a well-built man who appears to be in his mid-thirties. "What type of training will we receive? In what weaponry and to what extent?"

"Like any other soldier, you will be able to choose from a selection of weapons. You will then be expected to attend a wide range of scheduled activities every day, in order to improve both your skill and physique. That said, if you have a proficiency towards a certain weapon, say a spear, it is unlikely that they will allow you to train with a sword. Also, magic users will have to attend additional training sessions in order to make full use of their abilities."

[I guess that that means me, then.] [I do have some skills related to magic, though those skills are hardly as developed as my ability with the sword. Well hopefully this world has the concept of the 'Magic Swordsman,' a soldier who seamlessly incorporates magic with their swordsmanship. Otherwise, I may end up as a mage operating on the back line, firing large area-of-effect spells into the enemy's side of the fray… actually, I doubt I really need to worry about that. Those slavers seemed to fight with a style involving close combat enhanced with magic, so I doubt the concept is entirely foreign here. Well, I guess it doesn't really matter that much. Whatever I am commanded to do, I must do. Any disobedience means death, after all. While Commander Torin tried to give us a bit of hope, I'm sure that the reality of the matter is more in line with soldiers dying at immense rates, conditions that I will be unlikely to survive for thirty years. I'll try my best to survive, but if I am ever a member of a losing army I will have no chance of survival. While normal troops will desert the battlefield in front of vastly more powerful opposition, should we enslaved troops attempt the same, we would be surely killed at a mere press of a button. Man, I hate this world. Deposited in the middle of a desert to be rescued by slavers, which I couldn't escape because I would die in the wilderness if I did. Then being sold and having my life trivially attached to a remote, with which I can be killed at a whim… and now, here I am, in a position where I am almost certain to die before I can earn my freedom. I hate this world; I hate its people even more, scum rotten to the core! I would kill them all if I could, nay, WILL kill them all when I can. Screw this place!]

While I'm angrily thinking to myself, the old man answers a number of other questions, all of which I miss. We then spread out throughout the room, each claiming one of the narrow and thin bunks for ourselves. They are stacked three high, in a room barely six feet tall, so it goes without saying that there isn't much head room. Though at first glance it would seem that there was no way 20 people would fit in this room, once all of the bunks are claimed there are still many to spare.

Once the simple task of claiming bunks is completed, I sit on the filthy floor, as my bed has too little headspace to sit, and listen to everyone talk to each other, while not participating in any conversation myself. My comrades were previously held in conditions that made it impossible to talk with others, the cages that prevented sound from escaping, and so seem incredibly eager to speak with others after their extended period of solitary confinement. They tell each other of their lives before becoming slaves, which, though I find boring, I diligently eavesdrop upon, eager to pick up any details that I can about this world, no matter how trivial. And so, in that way, some time passes.