Three

A dirt road had never looked so beautiful to Marcus. Its dusty surface was pockmarked with holes and well-traveled ruts, its seductive tempted him as it snaked across the landscape, whispering promises of civilization. Pure, unadulterated beauty.

Marcus had been traipsing through the forest for nearly two weeks at this point, the camp he had come across almost becoming a distant memory. His only reminders were his ill-fitting clothes, the thick, woolen cloak draped across his shoulders, a small dagger tucked into his waistband, and a leather-bound journal written in an alien language.

He had tried to make sense of the writing he found within the yellowed pages with the hope of gleaning some information from them, but he was unable to make heads-or-tails of the strange symbols. That only solidified that he wasn’t on earth any longer, something he had been avoiding thinking about since he found himself in the never-ending forest, but with everything that had happened, he couldn’t deny it any longer.

Maybe once he could worry about something other than surviving another day, he would have a chance to figure out what had brought him here.

The road allowed him to move much faster than the uneven and overgrown forest floor ever did. He had hoped to run into someone on the road, but as it was only just now turning into dawn, the fact that he hadn’t seen anyone didn’t surprise him in the least.

Several hours later, just as he crested a small hill, all of his unheard prayers were finally answered. A large city was sprawled over the landscape in front of him, a mixture of wood and stone buildings huddled behind a towering palisade of imposing marble and sharpened timber. Thin ribbons of smoke rose from a multitude of chimneys, filling the air with the acrid tang of creosote.

Marcus couldn’t help but lengthen his stride, hurrying down the tiny hill, taking his place in the short line already forming at the city’s gates. He wanted nothing more than to strike up a conversation with the few gruff-looking farmers waiting their turn to enter, but due to their less-than-sociable demeanors, and his inability to understand the few words they grumbled under their breaths, he decided to keep to himself.

After an eternity of waiting, it was finally Marcus’ turn to be scrutinized by the guards. They wore polished brass chest plates with matching greaves and vambraces. Coal-black capes hung from their shoulders, partially covering the swords hanging from their waists, and they leaned heavily on eight-foot spears as they waved the farmer in front of him into the city.

“@%#$!” one of them said, holding his hand out, his palm facing Marcus.

Marcus was afraid of that, not being able to understand the spoken word of this world. He already knew he wasn’t able to read it but had still held out hope that he would be able to speak with someone.

“Howdy!” Marcus replied, plastering his friendliest smile across his face as he raised his hand in greeting. “Can you understand anything I’m saying?”

The guard that had stopped him cocked his head, “#$#%, @@@%$.”

Marcus just continued to smile as he pointed a finger to his ear and shook his head. He was hoping that he would be able to somewhat communicate with them through gestures, and somehow earn himself entry into the city.

“@%$#@.” The guard said as he beckoned Marcus forward with the wave of his hand, the other guards circling around him.

Marcus’ smile faltered as their hands fell down to the hilts of their swords. He hadn’t done anything to show that he was a threat, as far as he knew. It could have been his intimidating size. He was about a foot taller than the tallest guard there, causing them all to look up at him as their leader approached him.

Who Marcus guessed was their commander stood directly in front of him, a scowl taking up his entire face. The man’s eyes traveled up and down Marcus’ body, taking in his bare feet, the trousers that stopped just below his knees, the linen shirt bursting at the seams, and the filth-covered cloak soaked through with sweat. It wasn’t the best first impression in the world, that was for sure.

With a grunt, the guard lifted both of his arms until they were parallel to the ground, making him look like he was about to fly away. It didn’t take long for Marcus to catch on, and so quickly mimicked him. He had been patted down before, almost everyone had at one point in time, either at a concert or before catching a flight, but the roughness he experienced as the guard searched him would have put the most handsy TSA agent to shame. It took the guard only a few seconds to pluck Marcus’ meager belongings from him, along with his dignity.

Opening the journal, the guard skimmed through the pages before looking back up at him, his scowl only deepening. He walked back to the others close behind him and started to murmur to them in a low voice. A pit formed in Marcus’ stomach as they talked, thoughts about running back to the forest crossing his mind as the guards stole glances at him over their shoulders.

“ARGH!” Marcus shouted out as a stabbing pain exploded from his back, driving him to his knees. Twisting around, he saw a guard he hadn’t seen before holding a long metal rod with needle-like tines glinting in the sun, his blood dripping from their points.

Marcus pushed off the ground, anger welling up inside of him, but before he could shove that spear up the guard’s ass, another wave of blazing pain assaulted him from behind. His strength seemed to leave him; his legs felt weak, and his vision swam. The guards closed in around him, a few of them holding thick, iron shackles, the others having unsheathed their swords. As darkness encroached on his vision, Marcus felt a cold and heavy collar clasp around his neck, the weight of it pulling him to the ground just before everything went black.

The cell Marcus found himself in was somehow even colder than the underground tunnel beneath the ruined tower. At least his body seemed to be used to it, as it hardly affected him at all. Heavy chains bound his wrists and ankles to an anchor driven into the stone floor, and a thick band of steel around his neck attached him to the wall. He had woken up like this over a day ago, and since then, no one had come to explain anything to him. He was starting to think that they had forgotten about him.

Suddenly, the steel door leading into his tiny cell screeched open, causing Marcus to grimace in pain from the piercing sound. A finely dressed man entered the dingy room. Purple silk adorned his wiry frame, tailored into a loose robe that flowed just above the ground. A few of his thin fingers boasted emerald-encrusted rings forged from gold, and a heavy silver chain wrapped around his neck, holding a fist-sized pendant that rested against his chest. The man glared at Marcus with cold, iron-grey eyes, his face held in stoic neutrality that prevented any emotions he may have been feeling from leaking through.

“You have been sentenced to a life of servitude for your crimes.” The man said in an almost bored voice.

Marcus’ eyes went wide, “Wait… what? What crime? You speak English?”

“For murder, of course.” He said as he held up his hand, stopping Marcus from arguing with him. “A trial has already been held, and you have been found guilty. The evidence against you was overwhelming, and there will be no appeals. You were found in possession of stolen goods when the guards apprehended you… Honestly, I can’t fathom what you were thinking trying to come into the city. As far as the language barrier is concerned, we were forced to brand the Sigil of Babble onto you, the price of which has been added to your sentence. A slave is no good if they’re unable to understand commands.”

“…a slave?! You can’t! I didn’t kill anyone!” Marcus shouted, the words falling out of his mouth, his arms straining against the iron chains as he struggled to get free.

“That is enough.” The man said, snapping his fingers; the guards that had waited in the hallway filled the room, their swords at the ready. That very obvious signal stopped Marcus’ struggles. “I have come to inform you of your sentence. You will be auctioned off one week from today, with the proceeds going to the aggrieved family, minus the taxes due to the kingdom, of course. Any questions… no? Good.”

With those words, the man turned on his heel and exited the cell, the guards filing out of the door behind him. It happened so quickly that Marcus was left slack-jawed, blankly staring at the thick iron door that had just slammed shut. The iron chains felt heavier than before as he slumped on the stone bench. He had never felt more defeated in his life. Just as he escaped that living prison of trees, he fell right into an even worse one, with no clear way out.

His time spent in his holding cell was relatively peaceful; at least he didn’t have to fear some wild animal sneaking up on him at night. He was fed twice a day, usually cold porridge and stale bread, but sometimes a few maggots would sneak in there for some extra protein. If he learned anything during his time in the forest, it was not to be picky about the food you managed to find.

The chamber pot was a point of contention for him, but with some practice, he managed not to knock it over with the iron chains still bolting him to the floor and wall. He didn’t really know why they hadn’t at least unchained him; it wasn’t as if he was going anywhere locked in the cell. Then again, perhaps this was just how they treated prisoners, but he thought it more likely that they were just intimidated by his size.

Pink light peeked through the barred window into his cell, marking the eighth day of his captivity, the day he would be sold off like livestock. Marcus couldn’t say that he was looking forward to it, but being isolated in the same room for so long had made him yearn to see the sky again, no matter the circumstances.

His ‘breakfast’ came and went, the guard remaining as untalkative as always, no matter what Marcus said to strike up a conversation. He had tried for a few days to find out what exactly he was arrested for. He knew it had to do with the camp he ‘borrowed’ a few things from, but obviously wanted to know more about it. But, as he was ignored, he gave up asking about his arrest and just talked about anything that came to mind whenever that little gate opened at the bottom of the door.

He was starting to think that the Sigil of Babbel that man had talked about wasn’t working the way it was supposed to.

Heavy footsteps penetrated the thick walls of the holding cell, causing the rat in the corner to scurry back into its hidey hole with a disgruntled squeak . The light outside of the window had just reached its brightest, telling Marcus that it was just a little past noon. A perfect time for an auction.

His door opened without any fanfare, the guards still dressed in their polished brass armor and coal-black capes. If Marcus hadn’t wanted to strangle each and every one of them, he would have thought the guards looked rather dapper.

“On your feet, prisoner.” One of them said, his voice brooking no argument.

With a grunt, Marcus rose to his feet, the jingling of the chains deafening in the small room. The guard produced a large key that he used to open the clasps around his wrists, ankles, and neck. The relief that flooded him as the iron restraints fell away was indescribable, and Marcus couldn’t help but let out an awkward moan as he rubbed his neck.

“I don’t suppose I could get a shower?” Marcus asked, not caring that the guards all gave him a look that could curdle milk. His time isolated from anyone, both in the cell and wandering through the forest, had caused him to seek out any interaction with people, negative or otherwise.

“No speaking,” the guard growled as he puffed up his chest. “You will follow us to the auction square, listen to all of our commands, and be punished if you resist in any way. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand…” Marcus said, giving a scowl right back to the guard.

“Good, hold out your hands.” As Marcus complied, a new set of cuffs clamped around his wrists.

At least he was free for a solid thirty seconds.

The fresh air filled Marcus’ lungs and body with a vigor he didn’t know he was lacking. Every single one of his cells drank up the intense sunlight that beat down on his exposed skin. Even the stink of the city and its citizens filled him to the brim with wonder, and then a sharp yank on the chain connected to his cuffs broke him free of his musings.

“Keep moving.”

The city was a haphazard mess of twisting dirt streets, narrow alleyways, and dead ends. It was as if they had just built whatever building they wanted wherever they pleased without any thought of anything else. Marcus had no experience as a city planner, but he thought that even a toddler with a ruler and some crayons could have done a better job.

The people making way for them as they passed all wore simple clothing. Grey and brown tunics with matching trousers were the norm, although there was a spattering of colorful dresses that some of the women wrapped around themselves. One thing that stuck out even more than the medieval backdrop and filth-filled gutters were the two inordinately tall towers looming over the rest of the city.

He had seen them from afar when he had first laid eyes upon the city. They were made of the same stark white marble as the walls that surrounded the city and were much, much taller than the tower filled with bones back in the forest. He could only imagine what was at the top of them.

Suddenly, Marcus was shouted at to stop.

They had walked out into a large open square; only a single, sad-looking tree provided any shade to the couple of hundred people that filled it. To the right of their group was a large wooden platform with a set of stairs leading up to it. It reminded him of the gallows one would see in an old Western movie, except without the nooses swinging freely with bodies attached. A somewhat long line of prisoners stood quietly behind it, all of them stripped down to nothing but a loincloth and brandishing their own set of chains that kept them from escaping.

He was ushered to the end of the line. The others already standing there gave him a furtive glance before returning their gazes to the weathered timber of the stage in front of them. The man closest to him in line looked up at him with a wide smile, exposing his many missing teeth, before scooting closer to him, using Marcus’ much larger body to block the harsh rays of the sun.

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All he could do was grumble.

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen, the auction will begin shortly!” A voice boomed from a stout-looking man who had climbed up to the platform, silencing the low roar of the crowd. “There are many good items up for bid today, all of them hearty and hale. We will follow the usual rules for the auction, but for those of you that may be new, I will give a brief explanation.”

The man waited for a moment to make sure he had everyone’s attention. Marcus was one of them.

“All bids are final, the funds due at the end of the auction. Should you not have the coins when payment is due, you will lose the ability to bid in any future events, and a fine will be levied against you. While bidding is taking place, there will be no talking, arguing, yelling, or any other tomfoolery permitted. This is an upstanding institution, and the city would like to keep it that way.” The man said that last bit with a wide smile on his face. “Finally, each item will be branded with a Slave Seal ; they will be compelled to follow your every command and will never do anything that would harm you or those that you choose. Keep in mind, though, that as your property, you will be held responsible for their actions. So, don’t go ordering them to kill your neighbor or some other nonsense, or you’ll be up here yourself.”

Marcus had a bad feeling. Well, he’d had a bad feeling since he had been placed in the holding cell, but it had only grown worse since hearing what the man had said. He had held out hope that he would be able to find some way to escape later down the road. He would much rather live in the woods as a fugitive than be a slave, but with some kind of magical seal keeping him in check, he doubted that plan would work.

“Our first item up for bid is a young one.” The man boomed, motioning for the first prisoner to be brought up on stage. A boy, Marcus figured no older than fifteen, shuffled up the stairs with a vacant look in his eyes. His growth looked stunted, and his ribs shone through his sunburnt skin. The poor kid looked like he hadn’t eaten a good meal in quite some time, and from the way he moved, must have been in a considerable amount of pain.

“Look at him, gentlemen. Perfect for fitting into small spaces. He would be a boon to any mine or able to clean out those pesky chimneys always getting stopped up. His service is capped at only five years but will certainly earn back any investment made today!” Low murmurs spread through the crowd as the men gathered started talking amongst themselves. “We will start the bidding at one silver crown!”

“One silver!” A man shouted from next to the lonesome tree.

“One and a half!” Another shouted from further away. His bid remained uncontested for the duration of the count, winning the poor boy’s life.

A greasy smile spread across the man’s face as he watched the boy being ushered off the stage. “Wonderful, just wonderful. Our next item is perfect for the fighting pits. His service is for life. He was a member of the Burning Fangs , the infamous brigands that plagued the countryside east of Kinkade and is known for his skill with the sword. We will start the bidding at fifty silver crowns!”

The man they had brought up on stage was well-muscled and covered in long, jagged scars. His nose was crooked from being broken several times, one eye was hidden underneath a patch like a pirate, and a few of his fingers were missing on his left hand. If Marcus had to picture a bandit, it would definitely be this man.

“Fifty silvers!”

“Sixty!”

“One gold crown!”

The bidding took off as sleazy-looking men shouted over each other. Although one of the rules was no yelling or arguing, that seemed to only be in effect when money wasn’t involved. Soon enough, the bids stopped coming in when they reached two gold crowns, the bandit going to a rotund-looking man fanning himself underneath a gilded parasol. Probably someone involved in those fighting pits the announcer talked about.

He really hoped no one like that would bid on him.

His fellow prisoners were sold off one by one, the sun continuously marching across the empty sky. He had tried to talk to the man using him as sunblock, but whenever Marcus opened his mouth to speak, the guards would poke him with the butt of their spears. It was more annoying than anything else, but he didn’t want to push the issue too much, so he decided to keep to himself.

“Finally, our last item up for bid today!” The stout man shouted out in a hoarse voice as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He had been standing in the sun most of the day just like the rest of those there, and it showed. Begrudgingly, Marcus climbed the wooden stairs, the steps creaking underneath his weight. “Just look at him! Have any of you seen a specimen like this before in your lives?”

He paused for dramatic effect, allowing the crowd to take in his chiseled muscles and towering height. “A barbarian from the frozen north, something unseen for generations!”

Marcus turned to stare at the short man spouting nonsense. None of the other prisoners had been played up nearly as much as he was now, the closest one being the bandit sold off earlier in the day. He wondered if the man was being paid on commission; that was the only reason Marcus could think of for him to be spewing so much bullshit.

“His service is for life and has already been branded with the Sigil of Babbel , so will have no issues understanding your orders. However, do keep in mind that the sigil does nothing to increase intelligence.” Marcus nearly came up for air at the man’s comment but knew better than to lash out at the little shit while surrounded by a dozen armed guards. “We will start the bidding at… five gold crowns!”

For a moment, no one in the crowd placed a bid. The short man actually started to look a little concerned as the silence persisted. Then suddenly, it was as if a damn broke as the bids started to flood in from everywhere in the gathering.

“Five gold!”

“Six.”

“Eight gold crowns!”

The bidding had just started, and he was already worth four times as much as the next expensive slave. Marcus could see that many of the bids coming in were from the operators of the fighting pits he was so wary of, their greedy smiles splitting their faces in a disturbing display of avarice.

“Fifteen gold crowns…” An authoritative voice sounded out, instantly silencing the fervent shouts of the crowd.

“We have fifteen. Are there any more bids?” The stout man next to Marcus squealed, pointing to the hooded man who had made the bid. No other bids came in after that large offering, sealing Marcus’ fate. “Fantastic! You have made a great purchase, sir. That concludes today’s auction. All of the goods will be available to retrieve at Baker District’s guard house and must be picked up by the end of the day. I want to thank you for your patronage and look forward to seeing you at next week’s auction!”

The walk to the guardhouse was long and tedious, Marcus’ body moved on autopilot as his mind was left in a daze. His entire life had fallen apart around him, and he was helpless to change a thing. He had told himself while he sat in that cell that he would find a way to escape, that he would regain his freedom somehow. But as he and his escort approached the large, wooden building, all of that hope he had built up in himself drained away. He had been transported here by some unknown means, left to die in an alien forest, and fell down a deep hole, breaking his leg and nearly freezing to death. Now, he was being sold off into slavery for a crime he didn’t commit, and not a single person would listen to reason as he tried to explain himself.

He was fucked.

The guardhouse was much bigger than the one he had been held in during the prior week, and the large cells holding the newly sold slaves were the clear reason why. They all sat quietly on the dirt floors of the cells, the silence between them giving the already depressing atmosphere a feeling Marcus more or less associated with a morgue. A few dozen guards milled about, chatting and laughing among themselves in stark contrast to the slaves. A wizened old man sat behind a wooden desk placed in the center of the open room, his long, grey beard grazing against the yellowed parchment he was scribbling on furiously.

Marcus took up his position in a cell, his temporary cellmates not bothering to acknowledge his arrival. He had to wonder what was going on with them. He could understand being depressed about being sold off; he knew that he was absolutely beside himself, but they looked to be almost catatonic, like they had been tortured. Maybe they had. The guards appeared to be more worried about making money than finding out the truth, and that fact probably gave them a good incentive to ‘coerce’ a confession when dealing with those accused of a crime.

“We’re ready to begin.” A guard said as he approached the old man, still scribbling away with a feathered quill.

“I’m not,” the old man wheezed. “Give me a moment to finish up…”

“Sir, the first patrons have arrived...” The guard started to argue, but a stern glare from the old man stopped him before he could continue. “I’ll let them know it’ll be a moment, sir.”

That ‘moment’ dragged on until the light from the setting sun completely disappeared. Even though Marcus was in no hurry to meet his new ‘owner’, even he was beginning to grow impatient, and the guards even more so. But no one rushed the old man as he finished his mysterious work, his status must have been great enough that they feared his ire more so than getting home late.

Finally, the ancient-looking man finished his writing and motioned for the closest guard. With a visible sigh of relief, the armored man vanished into a nearby room before promptly returning with a person in tow. To Marcus’ surprise, it was the hooded man who had paid what must have been a great amount for him. Marcus wasn’t exactly happy to see how eager he was to take possession of him.

“Get the big one.” The guard ordered. They had no trouble figuring out which prisoner he meant by that.

Marcus was marched out next to the table, his hands still linked together by thick, iron chains. The hooded man peered up at him, his face obscured by the darkness caused by the loose fabric.

“Nice to meet you…” Marcus said to the man with a less-than-friendly smile.

“On your knees,” the old, bearded man said, prompting a guard to smack the back of Marcus’ knees with the shaft of his spear.

“Hey now, there’s no reason…” A swift thwack to the back of his head with the butt of a spear quickly silenced Marcus’ protests to his treatment.

“Shut up and stay still.” The guard growled, moving aside to allow the old man access to Marcus’ exposed back.

Wasting no time, the old man plucked an ink brush from the surface of the rickety table, dipping it into a pot of crimson ink. With a fluid and practiced hand, he began to draw symbols, shapes, and interconnected lines all over Marcus’ back. The ink was cold on his skin, causing goose bumps to appear all over his body. Other than a slight tickle, the entire experience wasn’t nearly as bad as what he had feared, and he didn’t feel any different either. Maybe he would get lucky, and the seal wouldn’t work on him since he wasn’t from this world to begin with.

“Place your blood in the center. Here.” The old man said flatly as he finished the final line. Without a word, the hooded man stepped behind Marcus, who was still kneeling in the dirt, and pricked his thumb with a small dagger. With a well of blood on the end, he pressed his thumb onto the center of his back… and Marcus was set on fire.

A searing pain, nothing like he had ever experienced, pulsed through his body. It felt as if he had been dunked in boiling water, and his organs were being squeezed by thousands of invisible hands; even his eyes were on fire, and it took everything in him not to pluck them from his skull. Then, just as quickly, it ended, leaving him gasping for air.

“There, it’s done.” The old man said dismissively, “Hurry up, there’s a line.”

“On your feet.” A guard said, handing him a bundle of clothes. “Next!”

“Get dressed and follow me.” The hooded man ordered as he turned to leave.

Marcus shakily plodded along behind him, his body still tingling from the pain that had only just abated. He no longer hurt anywhere, but something like that wasn’t easily forgotten. The clothes he was handed were very cheaply made; the fabric was coarse and threadbare but somehow managed to fit his towering frame.

The night air felt refreshing, and with no iron shackles weighing him down, Marcus felt free… for a moment. He felt compelled to follow closely behind the hooded man. Every time he even thought about turning down a different alley or simply halting his steps, the fiery pain flared within his body. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it was before, but it was enough to remind him of his predicament.

They walked in silence for quite a while. Marcus had thought that they would head further into the city where it seemed the people with money tended to live, but that wasn’t the case. They were heading further out toward the soaring wall that surrounded the city and the forest beyond.

When they exited the city itself, Marcus couldn’t hold on to his curiosity any longer. “Where are we going?”

“Just a little further.” The hooded man said in his stern voice, not bothering to slow his steps.

“So, uh… what’re we doing out here anyway?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Well, that’s nice…” Marcus mumbled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He was debating if it was worth it to endure the pain and try to make a break for it. Surely, it was a better alternative than whatever it was that waited for him in the woods.

Just as he had built up the courage, his skin feeling like it was blistering already, they walked into a large clearing with an equally large building sitting in the middle of it. It looked like a barracks of some kind. It boasted a single door and twice as many windows, an empty courtyard nestled up to the side of the building, and a simple wooden fence that cordoned it off from the rest of the clearing. It was too dark for him to see the smoke, but the scent of it in the night air told him that the barracks was occupied.

The hooded man moved right up to the door and opened it, walking in without pause. Marcus tried to stop himself from entering behind him. Not only did his body explode with pain, but his muscles also betrayed his own thoughts and moved of their own volition. Soon enough, he found himself gasping for air as he stood next to the hooded figure.

A man stood before them, the flickering firelight from the roaring hearth reflecting off of his full plate armor. He was tall compared to the hooded man, taller than all of the people he had seen in the city so far. Marcus himself stood at an impressive six-foot-eight, and this man was every bit of six feet.

The armored man stared at Marcus with indifferent eyes, his hand never leaving the hilt of the sword hanging from his waist. A fire crackled and popped behind him, glowing embers escaping the burning wood only to fizzle out on the cold, stone floor.

“This is the final one, Franklin.” The hooded man finally spoke.

“We will be beginning at dawn then, My Lord.” The armored man, Franklin, said with a bow.

The hooded man turned to Marcus, his face still hidden by the obscuring fabric. “You will listen to Franklin. Anything he says is a direct order from me, do you understand?”

Marcus gritted his teeth so hard they nearly cracked, but in the end, he nodded his head. He hated this. He would rather be sitting in the cold, isolated cell than be subjected to this. It felt like he wasn’t in control of his own body, and for all intents and purposes, he wasn’t. Thoughts of ending his own life flitted through his mind, but even those thoughts caused his body to burn with excruciating pain.

He was trapped, and tomorrow, at dawn, he would find out what the rest of his life had in store for him.