I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

It wasn't long before they reached the fringe of the estate where the palisade marked the boundary to the forest beyond. The Sword halted his horse, instructing the front row of slaves to lift the spiked obstacles blocking the road. The path was cleared for the rest to proceed. He made a mental note: It only takes two people to get past the palisade. There are no guards here.

They moved through the gap, and the Sword ordered him and PP to close it once more. He could scarcely lift the sack with the pickaxes earlier. He glanced at the large man beside him. Without hesitation, PP dropped his sacks and deftly repositioned the defences. Then he collected the pickaxes again as though it were nothing. How is everyone here so strong? Well, that doesn't matter right now. It will come in handy later.

"Move out. Stick close together!" the Sword commanded as he took the lead.

The men returned to their double-row formation and marched on. After a brief trek, he glanced back toward the estate. Their camp and the shanty town had melded into a singular brown and white smudge, shrinking on the horizon. The only structure distinguishable was the manor atop the hill, its peak, the tower he observed that morning, still surveying the land below. He redirected his focus to the front. The Sword stayed close to the Blitz brothers at the very front. He was distant enough that only the horse's gallop was audible.

"He's isolated. We could easily jump him," he murmured to PP but was ignored.

"If we startle the horse, and he falls, we can tie him up."

PP still paid him no heed.

"Save your strength for the journey," a slave ahead advised.

"We don't have much time until the other guard arrives. We must act now!" he argued.

"That's a terribly bad idea," the slave replied, "a terribly bad idea indeed."

PP gave him a silent side-eye. What's wrong with them? Now would be the perfect time to strike. We could ambush the Mace once he arrives, and the Baron would be none the wiser. We have the whole day to come up with a plan to free Cadmun and the manor servants.

He shifted the sack to his other shoulder to ease his muscles. Why are they this hesitant? We definitely outnumber them. We have PP on our side. We have the element of surprise. What am I missing?

The Sword was out of sight, and the galloping had diminished, suggesting he was at the front of the line.

He attempted to appeal to the slave ahead: "We have our pickaxes if the worst comes to the worst."

"If the worst comes to pass, not even magic will aid you. You saw what they did to Sir Frost," the slave responded.

"The road ahead is long," PP said.

The slave shut up, and the conversation was over. Are the Adventurers really that strong?

They continued straight through the forest for a time, the beaten path beginning to hurt his feet. Occasionally he stepped on a small stone, losing his balance. The sun above didn't help maintain a steady pace either. It would soon be noon, and what little shadows remained from the surrounding trees would soon retreat from the path they trod. He was already losing his grip on the sack of pickaxes due to sweat. No one else seemed to be experiencing what he was. The sturdy men around him were well-conditioned for this march. Especially the large man beside him, who—he just now noticed—was larger than the rest, displayed no signs of fatigue. He paused for a moment to catch his breath while others continued marching. Every breath scorched his throat, and each step felt like the ground could shift out from under him. Again. This world never let him get his footing.

Someone shouted: "What are you doing?!"

His heart leapt. He anticipated seeing the Sword approaching to reprimand him, but it turned out the slave from before was beckoning him over.

"Quick. Get over here!" he yelled. "There are Dire Wolves in this forest!"

A chill crept up his spine. What? Seriously?

He began to run, the clinking pickaxes on his back resonating all around. His eyes darted through the tree lines from left to right, but he couldn't discern any creatures. A rustling on his right caught his attention, causing him to stumble. He fell on his side, the pickaxes weighing him down. Something large was approaching rapidly.

"Dire Wolves!" a slave shouted. "A whole pack of them!"

Shit, shit, shit. Fuck!

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The group was far off. He scrambled to get up, but his foot was tangled in the sack, causing him to fall to his knees again, scraping them as the growling and heavy footfalls grew nearer. When he regained his bearings, he saw it: A wall of fur and fangs lunged toward him, its breath hot and fetid. He could smell blood—fresh, not his. Not yet. Fuck, no!

A forceful strike sent the beast's jaws off course, eliciting a pained yelp. PP had swung his sacks into the Dire Wolf's face, sending it hurtling backwards.

"Get up!" he yelled.

His free hand reached out to grab him, and once he had a firm grip, he was hurled towards the group. He fought to stay upright. His knees threatened to buckle, but by sheer instinct, he managed to put one foot in front of the other. This time he ran. He fled. He didn't dare look back to where he could hear the grunts and cries from the man who saved him. All he saw were the other slaves, clustered together just a short distance away. They were encircling the Blitz brothers like a kind of shield, yet no one came to their aid. I'm sorry, big man.

The Sword galloped past him in a blur. His horse swiftly bridged the gap between themselves and PP. He saw three Dire Wolves, each about his size, tearing into PP's limbs, yet the big man held his ground. The Sword plunged his weapon into one of the wolves, and it collapsed instantly. The other two retreated, joining the rest of the pack emerging from the forest. PP was unable to join the others as they were entirely encircled.

"Grab the sacks and go!" the Sword ordered angrily.

PP seized four sacks with one hand while using the fifth as a makeshift flail to keep the wolves at bay. The Sword swiftly dispatched the wolves on his side before aiding PP. One wolf managed to bite the big man on his arm, and blood began to gush out. It clamped down with an audible crunch. PP recoiled in pain.

"Stay still." With another deft strike, the Sword ended PP's agony.

Just as before, it took only one hit to dispatch these massive wolves.

"Anything else?" the Sword asked the group.

Everyone surveyed the area, but no more wolves were to be seen. A collective sigh of relief was heard. I cannot believe how easy he made it seem. His attacks were so precise!

"Good. Now move it!" he urged.

There was no sign of worry. In fact, he sounded irritated.

"We can't linger here too long."

The Sword retrieved some bandages from his horse's saddlebags.

"Patch him up. First aid's all we have until Reacher joins us." The Sword halted his horse in front of him. "Don't stop moving or there won't be a second chance."

They quickly rejoined the others, and the Sword assumed the lead once more. They didn't pause for a moment to allow him to apply the bandages to PP. He had to do it on foot, all the while PP struggled to balance all five sacks on his uninjured shoulder. Not a moment was spent resting, no matter how much he needed a break to steady himself. As he wound the bandage around the gruesome wound, he noticed numerous similar scars from bites and cuts on the man's arms. They all appeared old and healed. The God of Life must have shielded his other limbs.

He observed the other slaves who made no effort to assist PP with the pickaxes or inquire about his wellbeing. This has happened before. And for some reason, they think this is normal.

He looked up to see PP's face, who appeared more irritated by the sun glaring down on him than by his fellow slaves' indifference to the recent event. Why is no one helping him?

"Yours," the big man said, passing him the sack as soon as his arm was treated.

Straight to the point. Efficient. Cold. Scary.

He accepted the sack and recalled what he knew about the man. He was undoubtedly strong and no-nonsense. People had given him their breakfast that morning. The others actively avoid conversation with him. Does he threaten them? Do they fear him? Then again, he isn't assertive. He's very quiet and obedient.

He remembered how PP was the only one not lined up when the Blitz brothers arrived at the camp. There's a rift between Adventurers and Slaves, but there's also a rift among slaves—and even among the Adventurers. Everyone has someone to step on.

A clearer picture began to form. The weight of his sack of pickaxes was testament to it.

"Down here, we're all just trash," he remarked, just loud enough for the big man to hear.

There was no response. All he could hear was the unceasing march of two dozen men, poised on the brink of another wolf attack. His statement hung in the air, ready to bite him back if interpreted as an insult. He kept his head down. Maybe he didn't hear me.

Then he heard a quiet chuckle. It was the first time he had witnessed the big man express any positive emotion. He had struck a chord. He had read the situation correctly. A vague plan started to formulate in his mind. It required Lord Varyan Blitz, Cadmun Frost, impoverished servants, grimy miners, and pieces of trash like them. That's right. I must close the rift between us first. If we hope to escape, we must do so together.

A horse approached from behind. He saw the Mace, or Reacher as he'd been mentioned earlier, rushing to join them. Now was not the time to attempt a break out. He needed more time to win everyone over first.

It's a long road ahead.

"Remember, you're all expendable," Reacher, the Mace, bellowed as he rode his horse up and down the lines of slaves.

He'd heard of the incident on the road from the Sword, but rather than worry, he was amused. The Sword constantly had to remind him of the logistical challenges that acquiring a new slave involved. Whatever that means.

The Mace didn't give a "rat's ass" about any issues, considering it the Baron's responsibility to procure new slaves if necessary; thus, it was the Baron's problem, not his. He was as blunt as the Sword was keen, yet his skills spoke volumes. A slave had once mentioned magic, but Reacher would never have believed it real until he witnessed it himself. Reacher's hand glowed and sealed PP's wound merely by touching his arm. A fresh scar had taken its place. The bloodied bandages became redundant. That was insane!

Leaving the forest behind, they traversed a meadow to reach the foot, or rather a hand, of the mountain range. Their destination was a stone formation resembling fingers emerging from a hand. A pathway wound its way up to the mountain.

"The Dragon's Hand," as the slave with the long hair called it.

The soft grass was a welcome change from the hard dirt road they had trudged for hours. His feet were blistered all over, but that wasn't a reason for the Mace to use his magic. They're killing machines and unkillable themselves. I need to know the extent of their power if I want to come up with a plan.