"Next."

The burly man in front of me stepped forward and began a conversation I'd heard over and over for the last half-hour or so. 

Name? Where are you from? Are you a fresh recruit or were you previously with a company? If so, which? How long? Do you have a weapon and a helm? Then the clerk at the desk would check his ledger, scribble something down and assign the man a boat. 

I looked around at the dozens of other stations set up around us. Men of every creed signing up to fight and die for the great Kingdom of Borevain. Some had the look of soldiers. Others were just boys, suckered in by rousing words of the king or some other noble twat sat in the warm halls of The Grey City. I didn't care, though. I'd never been far enough south to rid myself of snow and ice even during the summer. And now that summer had passed, the cold was deep and the wind biting. The men from the south all shivered with each gust, pulling their furs and cloaks tight. I'd seen many men succumb to the cold at the Pass. Hell, the Thrymarrans understood better than we just how brutal the cold could be. The further the men of the south pushed, the less of a threat they posed. 

I'd been to Empty Net once before. It was a tiny town, all things considered. Maybe a little over a hundred residents. Normally it was quiet save for the fishermen setting out for the day's work hauling in Skullfish.

But today wasn't normal at all. 

Today was likely a day that would never come again for the tiny town of Empty Net.

Thousands of men lined up. Dozens of boats lining the docks which had been newly built just to accommodate the sheer scale of the operation. The boats themselves were large carriers designed with a mechanism to open the front part of the vessel and allow the men below deck to flood out. Each one was marked with a number in dark red paint. I'd never seen boats like this before, and I'd certainly never seen this many. I'd been a soldier for a while now but this was shaping up to be the biggest battle I'd been in by far.

The tension in the air was more biting to me than the cold. There was no laughing or talking amongst the men. Everyone wore a grim look of worry and anticipation.

The lake was called the 'Death Bowl' on account of the unique species of char that lived there known as 'Skullfish'. They earned their name due to the white markings against their black scales that cause them to have a distinct resemblance to a human skull. When they school together, it sometimes looks like a pile of bones drifting through the icy waters. 

After today though... 

They'll probably call it the Death Bowl for a different reason. 

"Boat twenty-seven. Lieutenant Miles."

The burly man in front of me stepped away. The source of the voice turned out to be a rather meager man sat at a small table upon which sat a comically large ledger. He was younger than me, but looked about as worn down as I felt—dark circles around bloodshot eyes, lips chapped and flaking, hair disheveled, patchy stubble unshaved. He was still scribbling in the ledger with his quill, squinting at the messy scrawl on his page.

"Next," he sighed, not bothering to look up.

I stepped forward, setting my bow and quiver in the snow beside me. "Devron Kree. From Arbor."

The man's quill stopped moving and his eyes shot up at me. I'd seen that look a few times.

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Which company were you with then?"

"Third. At the Pass. For about nine months or so."

The man raised an eyebrow. "War's only been on six months."

I shrugged. "For some, I guess."

"What're you here for?"

I grimaced, rubbing the freshly healed scar on my chest. "Conqueror's horde rallied and pushed us out the Pass. Chased us into the Winterworn. Company broke. I took a nasty one."

I pulled my collar down to show him the scar. A wide, tender gash stretched from my collarbone to below my navel left by a Thrymarran blade just a couple weeks back. The man peered at it and winced.

"Managed my way back to the encampment," I continued. "The one they're calling King's Reach. Spent a couple weeks in a bed. Then they sent me here. Have to wait till next summer to cross the Pass anyhow, I guess."

He shook his head in disbelief as he flipped toward the front of his ledger. "I'll put you on five, with other men like you."

"Men like me?"

He answered without skipping a beat. "Real soldiers."

He nodded to the boats far to the right. "Find Sergeant Waters."

I picked up my bow and quiver, shouldered them, and turned to leave. 

"And Kree," the man called after me. "Men like you will make the day. Know that."

I spun to face him, walking backward for a few steps. "I'll see what I can do."

I'd been saying that for years. Didn't matter who or when or what the request, that was always my response. I've found that people always ask me to do things, whether it be fixing a door, helping with lumber in winter, or winning an impossible battle. As always, I answered with no certainty, no confidence. I was just a normal man—the best I could do was try.

I breathed some warmth into my hands as I walked along the length of the shore, eyes scanning the boats.

9...7...6...5.

There she was. My assignment. My carrier. And more than likely—my coffin. At least the king shilled out a few coppers for my funeral, though for some reason I doubted he would be in attendance.

She was a squat, broad-bellied vessel of pale timber. All lumber harvested from the north was pale. In fact, I'd spent my whole life staring at the pale trees of the Winterworn Woods. Her hull was thick and iron-banded, the wood still raw in places where it had been hastily cut and fitted. She was built for function more than grace or beauty. The bow was flat and reinforced, split down the middle by a seam of blackened hinges. Heavy chains ran along its sides, feeding into a crude mechanism that would wrench the front apart and cast it down into the shallow waters or shore as a ramp.

There were about a dozen men on the deck of the boat scrambling to prepare for the voyage. One man shouted commands at the rest, most with some sort of curse for any man who was slow to react. I adjusted my bow on my shoulder and approached a soldier standing on the dock beside the boat. He was a tall man, but slight of build. He was clearly from the south judging by the slight shiver in his shoulders.

He turned and squinted at me. "Fuck you want?"

"Sgt. Waters?" I asked.

"Yeah?"

I raised my arm and gave a half-hearted salute. "Private Devron Kree, sir. I was assigned to boat five."

Waters gave me a look of disdain. "We're already full up. I—"

He cut himself short, poking his tongue in his cheek and glancing up at the boat. 

"If you got sent here, you can fight. Right?"

I shrugged. "Good as most."

Waters let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Just climb aboard. I'm sure you can squeeze in somewhere."

He turned and whistled at one of the men on the deck of the boat. "The rest of the men are already below deck. Get in and get comfortable. The next time you touch solid ground, it'll probably be covered in blood."

I was glad to have such an inspirational leader helming my boat.

I gave another salute, a 'Yes Sir,' and followed the deckhand Waters had called over. 

As I stepped onto the deck I couldn't help but turn back. I looked at the small village. The shaky wooden homes. The lines of soldiers preparing for battle. Even if I survived the day, I wondered how long it would be until I saw this place again, if at all.

But then again, it wasn't like I had any profound attachment to this place. Anywhere I went was as good as the last and surely as good as the next. 

The deckhand led me to a large wooden hatch leading below deck and threw it open.

He nodded inside with a smirk. "Enjoy."

I found the cynicism of my crew slightly alarming, but climbed down the hatch regardless. 

The first thing I noticed was the stench. Well over one hundred men sat packed into three rows along the length of the boat. Over a hundred men sweating, breathing, and more than likely—getting ready to shit themselves. On each side of the boat was a long wooden bench filled with soldiers. In the center a third row of men sat uncomfortably atop our tools of war for this battle. There were large wooden barricades leaned against one another creating a half wall down the middle of the boat. The barricades had wooden handles sticking out, enough for ten men across. 

A few men near the ladder looked up at me and scooted apart to make the smallest spot for me to squeeze into a seat on the right bench. 

I looked at the barricades in the center with a furrowed brow.

Do they expect us to run out onto the shore, ten abreast, with wooden barricades as the only defense against the oncoming storm of arrows that the Thrymarrans would surely lay upon us as we climbed the steep slope of the Death Bowl? 

...

Shit.

They definitely do.

The lake was large and it would be at least a couple of hours before we arrived at our destination.  I tried to get as comfortable as possible but with a quarter of a man's normal space, slightly uncomfortable was as good as I would get. I set my bow and quiver between my legs and shifted the dagger on my belt  so it wasn't digging into my tender parts. 

When I was settled, I took a look at the men around me.

The boat was surely a thrown together mix of strangers. No one spoke to one another. Most men looked to be from Borevain, with a few exceptions, but there was no comradery from shared battles amongst this group. 

In my experience, knowing the name of the man beside you as you charged forward, hurtling to an early grave, was far preferable to hurtling with a stranger.

As I finished surveying my new comrades, my eyes landed on a strange sight. At the back of the boat, taking up the space of four men sat a giant. 

Well, no, not a true giant. There was only one giant left in the world as far as I knew and he certainly wasn't sitting in Boat #5.

At first I thought he could be a half-giant or maybe a quarter with big parents. But giants have a distinct set of features. Their noses, lips and eyes are bulbous and overly large for their long narrow faces. Even a quarter-giant's ears are elongated and pointed. But this man had none of those. He did not have the normal lankiness that came with being a giant either.

No, this was a man. A man who surely stood over ten feet tall, his head lowered as to not press against the roof of the compartment. He was bare-chested, even in the freezing cold, his skin a battlefield of scars atop a mountain of muscle. He wore tattered fur pants and sat barefoot, arms crossed over his chest, breathing steadily, long and deep. His dark hair and beard were long and unruly, unattended to for many weeks by the looks of it. His eyes were like two burning embers, not actually glowing of course, but I could feel the rage that emanated from them as they stared blankly forward.

"Bears the visage of the god of war doesn't he?"

I dragged my gaze away from the great beast and turned to the man on my right.

He was a short, but stout man with sun-darkened skin. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore a set of leathers and furs of unusual make. He sported a pencil-thin mustache and his eyes were a stormy grey. 

"I suppose he does," I answered. "We could call him Rost."

The man chuckled, but I could hear the nervousness.

After an awkward amount of silence he spoke again, his accent thick. "Jarret Kazar."

"That's my name," he continued. "If I die today, I'd rather at least one man beside me know it."

I nodded. "Devron Kree."

Jarret opened his mouth to speak, but the man across from us, half-sitting, half-leaning against the barricade, cut him off.

"Could you stop... talking."

He was a small, balding man, whose hands shook violently as he pressed his fingers into his eyes. His breathing was ragged and snot dripped from his nostrils. I could tell he was panicking, but why? We had at least a couple hours before it was time to panic.

The man on my left nudged me with his elbow. He was tall, with broad shoulders and his head was bald and wrinkled. A scar ran down the length of his left cheek from his temple, cutting a path through his bushy beard. 

"Thought this was the boat for veteran soldiers," he growled. "Seems we got ourselves a greenie."

Scaredy put his hands down and shot a look at Growly. "Veterans? I've never been in a fight before. Why—why would they put me here?"

"Fuck you asking me for? I'm just the guy who's gotta watch you snot all the way cross the Bowl."

"Wait... what boat is this?"

"Five," I chimed in.

Scaredy's face went as pale as snow. "I was supposed to be on fifteen." 

He sat up straight and looked toward the hatch. "Do you think I could still get off?"

As if on cue, the boat lurched and began to move.

Growly snickered, watching the man's panic rise ever higher.

"Wait," I said. "Wouldn't it be safer to be in the group of veteran soldiers? Why would you want to get on a boat filled with men like you?"

Scaredy frowned. "What if I'm asked to do something I can't do? Won't we all be thrown into the frontlines or wherever the fighting is thickest?"

I shrugged and gestured to the rest of the boat. "You're one of over a hundred. You aren't going to be asked to slay King Eldyrr. Just relax. We have a couple of hours until we get there anyways, no point wasting your energy now."

Scaredy nodded and took a deep breath. "Yes. Yes, you're right. Maybe it's not so bad."

He seemed to relax finally, settling back into his seat and taking slow, deep breaths. 

The man beside him looked up at me with a smile. He had a handsome face, clean-shaven with light hair cropped short and neatly kept. A greatsword, far too heavy for someone like me to wield with any amount of grace, sat unsheathed between his legs and propped against his right shoulder. Around his neck hung a pendant bearing the sigil of Laeris, the Father of Freedom: a bronze coin stamped with the image of a solitary oak tree.

"You have a calm demeanor about you," he said to me in a soothing tone.

"I do?"

He leaned in, studying me. "You have seen many battles and you will see many more."

"Personally, I'm worried about the one we're about to fight."

"This battle is but a stone in the river, my friend."

"More like a mountain in a puddle."

He smiled. "I am Simet."

I just nodded. I wasn't much of the religious type. The cryptic and vague nature of the gods always rubbed me the wrong way. Just tell me what needs doing so I can do it. It's easier that way.

"A paladin of Laeris?" Jarret said, unable to hide the hint of irritation in his voice. "I did not know the Father of Freedom sought out the blood of man."

Simet closed his eyes, rubbing his pendant. "I seek to free those who are bound. My lord does not tolerate the enslaving of any mortal life. I am here as a warrior to break the chains of those the Thrymarrans have imprisoned and until such a time has passed, I will not know death."

"Well," Growly interrupted. "I hope the key to freedom is somewhere on this fucking boat. Otherwise you'll be knowing death before you've done your job."

Simet didn't respond to the jab, instead just putting on a warm smile.

The boat swayed and everyone aboard was forced to rock forward. We weren't on the choppy waves of the Darish Sea but this boat wasn't exactly designed for a smooth ride. Its only function was to get a lot of people from one point to another and dump them all out at once.

The rocking and swaying didn't bother me any. I'd never been on a boat before but I'd heard that it made many men sick. Some would even start vomitting—

"BLEGHH!"

Scaredy had hurled the remnants of his breakfast onto the wooden floorboards in front of me.

"Shit..."

I looked to my left to see Growly leaning back, eyes closed tight.  He moved a hand up to cover his mouth.

Over the next hour, dozens of men down the length of the boat began to struggle with the choppy swaying and rocking of the boat. Freezing water would splash in from the top deck every so often and before long, the entire bottom deck was covered in filth. The stench was enough to make a man hurl. And unfortunately it did. It was a horrible cycle of putrid expulsions, paired with the ever-growing fear of the encroaching battle. It felt like some sort of torturous prison more than a transport vessel. I'd been a soldier for nearly a year, and this was worse than some of the battles at the Pass. Every moment felt like an hour, and I found myself torn between wishing to get out of this boat and hoping it would never end so I could avoid the horrible fate that awaited me on the shore.

By the second hour, no man looked fresh. No man looked ready for battle, save for Rost and Simet. They both sat in silence, one stone-faced, the other wearing a warm smile. Scaredy was pale, face sunken and eyes bloodshot. Growly was in a similar state but he looked more angry than exhausted. 

Jarret had taken to tending a strange contraption resting across his lap. At first glance I thought it was some kind of bow, but it was built onto a length of black oak polished smooth by years of use. A groove ran along the top where an arrow could be laid, and beneath it sat a small metal trigger like something you'd find on a trap. At the rear was a winch and crank attached to the bowstring. I couldn't begin to guess how it worked, but it looked expensive, deadly, and very well cared for.

"That a weapon from the South?" I asked him.

He gave a weak smile. He wasn't as bad off as some others, but the boat was obviously affecting him. 

"Yes," he answered. "I was originally from Farisol and this is one of the only things I still have from there."

"What does it do?"

"It's like a bow, only... far more powerful."

I nodded and hefted my own bow. "I figure myself more an archer as well."

I watched as he continued fiddling with the mechanical workings of the device. I had never been to the South, but I'd read many books about Farisol and never saw anything about this.

"Do all soldiers in Farisol have weapons like that?"

Jarret shook his head, not looking up from his work. "No. I just got lucky in receiving one. I doubt I could recreate it if this one broke."

"Say," I started, "why is a soldier from Farisol, with a special weapon, fighting for a rival kingdom all the way in the North?"

He paused and smiled at me. "I'm afraid it's quite a lengthy tale. Maybe if we survive the day I'll tell you."

I opened my mouth to speak again but was interrupted by a distant crash and a rumble of thunder.

The whole boat went silent. We all knew what it was.

The first sounds of battle. 

Some of our boats were likely preparing to land already. Some had probably already been sunk.

The hatch near the back of the boat swung open, a spray of water splashing down as Sgt. Waters climbed down the ladder.

"Nearly there now!" he shouted.

The next several minutes saw my comrades and me shift in our seats. The sounds of battle grew louder and more constant. We heard shouts and loud crashes. We felt our boat get rocked over and over and I could no longer tell if Scaredy was puking out of fear or due to the motion.

I felt my own panic begin to rise with every rumble of thunder.

"Are storms very common in Thrymar?" Jarret asked.

"No," I replied flatly.

"And where there's thunder..." I added under my breath.

When Jarret heard that his eyes went wide. He looked up at the cracks in the deck above us and listened for the next boom of thunder.

"So soon?" he mumbled. "I did not think it would be today."

I thought about asking him what that meant, but decided now wasn't the time. Another loud crash accompanied a violent jolt to our vessel. The crew shouted from the top deck. Most of my comrades shook with fear, anticipation, or both. Men gripped their weapons tight. Simet muttered prayers. Jarret stared blankly at the deck above. 

"Shit. Shit. SHIT!" Scaredy cried.

"Shut your hole!" Growly growled at him.

I took one long, deep breath and steadied myself. My heart was racing. It always did before a fight. I would be fine once it started, always had been. It was the moments leading up to the battle that were the worst. I always found my active imagination was a double-edged sword. On one hand it could stave off boredom on the most monotonous of days—and as a soldier those came often—but on the other hand, it could create up horrible nightmares about the unseen. No battle had ever been worse than what I conjured up leading into it. But then again...

Sgt. Waters interrupted my thoughts before they could send me spiraling. 

"LISTEN UP!" he barked, pushing through the lines of men toward the front of the boat.

"We're almost ashore now!"

When he'd made it to the front, he put a hand up against the top deck to steady himself. 

"We are men of Borevain! We are soldiers!" he began. He pointed out toward the front of the ship, casting his gaze at the men around the cabin.

"Those savages out there are nothing but animals! They have no tactics. No camaraderie. They have no purpose!"

As someone who'd fought the Conqueror's horde at the Pass, this man was wrong but I felt that now wouldn't be the time to correct him.

"We are better than them. We deserve victory over these godless barbarians. And so we will have it!"

The sergeant had likely expected a triumphant 'Huzzah!' but received blank stares and the sound of someone hurling. To his credit, Waters didn't skip a beat.

"When we land, grab your barricade. Stand shoulder to shoulder, brother with brother. No matter what manner of reckless savagery is unleashed upon us, they cannot stop the will of Borevainian warriors! Push the hill! Take the top! AND KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM!" 

The boat crashed into the shore and for a moment I was astounded by how well he'd timed the end of his speech. But the moment was ripped away as the front of the boat dropped open to let us onto the shore.

And then a flaming boulder the size of a house crashed into the front of the boat.