Two goblins dragged Wrolf towards the village square. What few villagers remained had been gathered there. Most, Wrolf noted, were women, children, and elders; to his shame, he was the only fighting-aged dwarf to have surrendered.

A dwarf with a clerk's disposition oversaw the despoiling of the village, guarded by armed dwarves. Weapons—more accurately farm tools that had been used as such—were piled before him, and food was piled near the weapons. There were few weapons in the village, and yet the food pile was the smaller. Another dwarf had started a small fire nearby, and heated therein what looked like a cattle brand.

The goblins threw Wrolf at the clerk's feet. The one on the left spoke in its native tongue; the dwarf replied with an accent so thick Wrolf could make it out through the language barrier. The goblins seemed to like what they heard; they grinned and sauntered off.

"Gecherself o'er there withe others."

The clerk addressed Wrolf in their native Laksish, but he had a thick Nughish accent Wrolf almost couldn't understand. When he didn't move, the clerk kicked him until he did.

The clerk conferred with the leaders of looting parties as they returned, making notes on his clay tablet. Some were goblins, others dwarves; some brought captives, others spoils. Soon some six dozen villagers crowded one side of the square, while some gross scavengers milled around the other. Two dozen armed dwarves stood in the middle.

Once all the parties had returned, the scavengers started lining up at the fire. Wrolf watched in shock as they held out their arms and let the dwarf press his red-hot brand to their flesh. The dwarves showed proper dwarfish durability; some yelped, but most only grunted at the pain. Among the goblins the yelpers were the more reserved; most screamed and yowled. After being branded, they split into two groups: the larger returned to the far side of the square, but the smaller remained in the middle.

Once the branding was done, the clerk ordered the captives to march. The branded ones fell in behind them, carrying their salvage.

It wasn't long after noon when they set off, but the sun touched the horizon when they reached their destination: an army encamped along the banks of a creek. The camp was the second largest concentration of dwarves Wrolf had seen, after the city of Kurbrom he had visited once, and it reeked.

The clerk left them at the edge of the camp, taking his clay tablet and the branded, salvage-bearing slaves into the camp. The warriors herded the captives towards the west of the camp, where a similarly wretched group had been gathered. Wrolf noted that among these too, he was one of maybe a dozen fighting-aged men.

The captives murmured amongst themselves. Wrolf didn't participate, instead sitting and staring at the dusty ground, feeling dead inside.

He wished he could be dead outside as well; his village had been attacked that morning, and he should have died with the rest. When the village had fallen, he should have at least had the pride to end his own life, like his friend Hrorth had.

It was getting dark when someone came for them: a dwarf in bronze muscle cuirass and helm, escorted by spearmen with linothorax and bronze helms. Two goblin-pulled carts rattled down after him, their contents obscured by tarps. The buzz of conversation died down as they approached.

"Evening." The armored one had a lighter accent than the earlier clerk, but he was still clearly Nuxish. "As I'm sure yer all figured out, yer now slaves, in service o' King Thyrn o' Nuxdur. But fear not: yer lives as slaves'll be better than they was free, 'least un'er the mos' merciful King Thyrn."

"And how's that?" one of the older captives demanded.

"We've food 'ere." At the wave of a bronze-braced arm, the goblins pulled the tarps from their carts with a dramatic flourish, revealing their contents as corn.

Wrolf had seen corn before, but never in such abundance, and he had never eaten any. Corn didn't grow in the dry, hardly fertile Laks Valley, though some had been imported as an exotic novelty. He hadn't seen any in years. Not since before the drought.

"If ya work, ya eat. Simple as. 'S a better offer than King Komn'll give ya."

Most of the slaves had been sent to work on farms or in cities, with promises that if they were good little slaves, their children would be born free. Wrolf was not so lucky. He had been a construction worker, and so was strong, and the army needed strong men.

And so Wrolf found himself impressed into Thyrn's army, not as a soldier, but rather a slave.