We weren’t making good time headed out to collect my wagons, oxen and supplies. The number of people on the street and our relatively slow pace turned what would have been an hour of walking for me into a two plus hour ordeal. I probably walked the distance to the gate three times as, without the help of other guards, I was continuously forced to meander up and down the procession to make certain everybody knew I was watching. That way my purchases couldn’t just slip off into the crowds we walked through. The physical effort combined with the need to stay observant at all times tired me out quickly, especially after the stress of the auction.

I made an effort to chat with some of the people in my column. A few of them marginally shared languages with others in the group, and those that could speak together inevitably wanted to walk together, so I reorganized the group several times to accommodate their wishes. It wasn’t all altruism. Since I could overhear some of what they were saying to one another and I understood them, I was gaining information about them through their conversations with others.

I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach from the looks of desperation that they wore on their faces. It is hard to march stoically into the unknown. Uprooted from every familiar thing, everyone they had known and loved, and not being provided even the general explanation that I had received before entering this world, I walked in a sea of lost souls.

I introduced myself to the rough looking man who I thought might be former military. His name was Patrick Gillies, which sounded Scottish to me. The problem with the gift of tongues was that it neutralized accents to my ears. By and large, everyone who spoke to me sounded like they were talking in the voice of a generic news anchor, their diction crystal clear. I was certain that what I was perceiving was not what was coming out of their mouths. The skill was optimized for clear communication, not to give me secondary contextual information. While this improved my ability to communicate it was also somewhat frustrating, but it was better than not being able to communicate at all.

Patrick was a man of few words, at least at that point. He would answer any question put to him with as few syllables as possible. If he thought he was hiding his disdain for me behind his blank features, he was wrong. It came through clear as day. I hoped that we could get far enough out on the road before the sun set so I could offer the full story or else I expected him to try to kill me while I slept.

I also chatted for a few moments with the stone-faced woman in her thirties. Beyond giving me her name, which was Lapina, she didn’t take any of my conversational bait. After I tried for a few moments, asking innocuous questions about her past, what her likes and dislikes were, and receiving no answer, I gave up for the time being and moved on.

Finally, I chatted up the skinny-fat dude. I’ll give him credit, even though I expected him to have problems keeping up, he had no problems. I wonder how much the trip in from Shroud Hallow had improved his fitness and shuddered to think about what it was like before hand. His name was Werner, and unlike the other two people I approached he would not shut the hell up. He tried to be slick and ingratiating. He failed miserably, his conversational skills more limited than his physical fitness. He kept going on about how useful to me he would be because he was an engineering professor at some university I had never heard of before. He told me he had managed construction projects previously and hoped that he would be able to again for me in the future. He disdainfully pointed out the flaws in design of everything he laid his eyes on, telling me he knew ways to get much better results in less time for less money. After a short while, his tireless monologue started getting on my nerves and I told him that I needed to check on some other people and moved off down the column. I would have to give the guy credit where it was due, however, He intended to leverage the skills he had to survive, and that I could respect.

I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Managing others, understanding their wants and needs had never been a strong point of mine. Yet here I was, leading ten other people, people I felt a sense of responsibility towards. I imagined that this is how new parents felt, a sense of overwhelming obligation without possessing all the skills needed to meet that obligation.

Finally, we reached the northern gate. I intended to just walk everyone through but was interrupted when a guard approached.

“Sir, I see you are leaving the city with several slaves,” he said, reaching out his hand expectantly. Dumbfounded for a moment, I wondered if he expected a bribe of some sort. After a few seconds of uncomfortable pause, he continued. “I need to see your ownership papers to allow you to proceed.”

“Ah,” I said with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry, I have never purchased slaves here before and didn’t realize that I would need to prove ownership to leave the city.” Reaching into my pocket, I drew out my receipt and handed it over, hoping that I didn’t miss a step along the way. With my luck, I probably needed to formally register the slaves at an office.

After scanning the receipt, he handed it back. “Where are you headed?” he asked.

“My estate out near Otter Lake,” I lied, throwing the name of a settlement I had heard of out to the east.

“Make sure once you reach your estate you register your slaves. Your ownership won’t be fully recognized until then.”

“Thanks for the information,” I responded, trying to place a winning smile on my face.

Nodding, he waved me through the gate.

I am absolutely certain registration would be expensive. This country was nothing but one huge shakedown. Once again, I was glad that I hadn’t fully exhausted my budget.

Wandering through the chaotic streets of the caravan district, I first found my way to the livery stable where my oxen were housed. When we got there, I turned to my new companions and asked whether any of them had any experience handling animals or driving a wagon. Surprisingly, the grandmotherly-looking old woman spoke up.

“I grew up on a farm. I can care for and drive a team.”

“Great!” I replied. “We’ll be using oxen to pull our wagons. There is limited room for passengers but your skills mean that you get to ride.” She seemed happy at that, and it took care of one of my immediate concerns.

After paying one of the employees of the stable to help me get the animals over to my wagons, I picked those up as well and got mine hitched up. The old woman did the same with the other wagon in half the time. She wasn’t lying about her skills. I wasn’t embarrassed at all. OK, maybe just a little bit.

Stolen novel; please report.

“We can all ride to our next stop,” I announced, ushering the other nine into the beds of the wagons. After overhearing the conversations earlier, I thought I had some idea who the troublemakers would likely be, and I tried to split them up between the two wagons. Then, we drove the short distance to the general store and picked up all of the supplies. Loading took some time, and it was fairly late in the day when everything was stowed, lashed down and we were ready to head out.

“We’ll travel a couple of hours before it gets dark, then make camp,” I said. “We’ll rotate the few passenger spots in the wagon, but the kid gets one whenever he needs one. Understand?”

After receiving nods of ascent, we headed north away from the city at the sedate pace the oxen were able to maintain for hours. The extra ox walked placidly on a lead behind my wagon.

As the sun was setting, we were still in sight of the city but had left the developed area around the gates long ago, finding our way out into the fertile farmland surrounding it. Yes, I know we were headed in the wrong direction, but I wanted to gain a little distance before circling back and heading back south.

With the failing light, the road was becoming more dangerous. It was in decent but nor perfect repair, and there were potholes and ruts that would prove to be hazardous if they were not recognized before encountering them. To be safe, we pulled off to the side of the road to set up camp. Best get this over with, I thought.

Asking everyone to gather around me, I started to speak.

“Things are not quite like you expect them to be. My name is James Smith, and like you I am from another world. I didn’t purchase you to enslave you, I bought you so that you might be free. Hopefully, we will be able to find a way to cooperate, to live together safely and in peace with one another.”

Murmurs of disbelief swept through the small group. Finally, Patrick stepped forward, anger clearly visible on his face,

“What sort of crap are you trying to shovel? We aren’t blind. We can see you have six fingers just like the rest of them, and you dress like them and you talk like them, and you’re rich like them.”

Oh, hell, I forgot to drop the illusion. I don’t think anyone noticed when I mentally reset my appearance to my own, but they certainly paid attention when I peeled off my left glove and started wiggling a five-fingered hand in their direction.

“Everything make more sense now?” I asked, tossing him the key to the manacles. He was so stunned that the key just bounced off his chest and fell to the ground. I made certain to remember where it landed. I didn’t want it to get lost in the dark. I pointed at its resting place. “You may want to pick that up and get to unlocking people. If we lose it in the dark we will have to find a smith to remove them, and I doubt someone swinging a hammer right by your hands will be very enjoyable.”

He immediately knelt and dug through the weeds until he found the key.

Reaching out my hand, I said “Here, let me help you.”

He handed me the key and I went down the line freeing all of them. When everyone was free, some of them crying, others laughing and hugging each other, I told them my story. At its conclusion, I interjected a warning.

“This world is not a good one for us, at least this part of it. Here, we aren’t people, we are property to be bought and sold, or servants to be demeaned and looked down upon. If we all go our separate ways, some of us will survive but most of us will be thrown back into a life of squalor and servitude. My hope is that we can free more of our kind, but like any fight that will involve pain and effort. In the short term, I want to head back out into the country to find us someplace to settle. I don’t think there is any way back to our old lives, and that is tremendously painful to me as it must be to each of you. None of us came here willingly. We need to do the best with what we have, and what we have is each other, the beginnings of community. If you don’t want to walk this road with me, you are free to leave. I will give you some provisions and a little coin and you can make your own way in the world. If you do that, though, I think you will be making a grave mistake. Take some time to discuss your decision with each other.”

I hoped I hadn’t just blown things up with the hard sell, but that was truly how I saw things. Having someone you could rely on was better than being alone. We weren’t the family we had chosen, but we were all the family we were likely to have. I walked a hundred yards down the road away from the group to let them discuss things, peering back towards the city.

I could hear discussion behind me but I purposefully tuned out the content. I spent quite some time standing there, questioning the decisions that I had made that had led to this point. What if I couldn’t deliver on my promises? What if everyone wandered off and I had spent all that wealth for nothing?

Eventually, I heard footsteps behind me. Turning, I saw Patrick approaching. His hands were empty even though there were rocks and branches on the roadside that he could use as weapons, so I assume he hadn’t come to attack me.

“I’m with you,” he said, his eyes locked on mine. Reaching out to shake his hand, all I could manage was a single word reply.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice choked with emotion.

That opened the floodgates. Slowly, over the course of the next several minutes, alone or in small groups, the rest made their way over to me and told me that they wanted to be part of my plan. The most lukewarm response was from the weasel-faced man, who I found out was named Bowen.

“I’m with you unless something better comes along,” he said. Honestly, he was probably just putting into words what everyone else was feeling.

Talking to Patrick, I found out that my initial conjecture was correct. He had spent some time in the military. He was from my Earth, Scotland to be exact, but not from my time. When I quizzed him about technology, I found out that he really knew guns and he was an avid sportsman before his house burned down. The insurance company refused to pay and he was left destitute. He had been trying to rebuild his life, and suing the insurance company, when he found himself here.

We all started to break out supplies to make camp. Everybody was hungry and we had plenty of provisions. I had asked Mero, the young boy, to keep an eye on the roadway so that we weren’t surprised by other travelers. When dinner was nearly ready, the ubiquitous stew cooked over a small campfire, Mero came running up to me.

“I hear someone coming up the road,” he exclaimed. I quickly used my ring to restore the illusion on my hands. I was alarmed. I didn’t expect anyone to use the road this late at night. It was as dangerous for them as it was for us. I doubt whoever was coming up the road had good intentions. Finding Patrick, I showed him my pistol.

“Can you use this?” I asked.

“Looks familiar,” he said, thumbing the safety off.

Then, I quickly got everyone to cover behind one of the wagons leaving me standing alone by the fire. I could hear horses approaching.

Into the firelight, a party of five rode. Four of them were orcs dressed in normal orcish attire. They were each wearing chainmail and had already unlimbered nasty looking swords. The fifth figure was more familiar to me. I had just spent a lot of time with him earlier in the day.

“Felaern,” I said with a growl. “Why are you bothering me?”

“You made me look like a fool earlier today. There’s a price for that. The price is your life, and the slaves you stole from me.”

“Stole? How is outbidding you stealing anything?” I asked, drawing my sword.

Damn it! I knew I was being watched.