The wagon trundled along the dirt road, wheels snagged by roots, the driver whipping the scrawny horses whenever they dared to glance around.

  ‘Damn horses,’ he complained, ‘army couldn’t spare any of its good ones, by the looks of things.’

  ‘I see,’ Preseld Telks, sat jittering in the back of the wagon, replied. Already he could feel the sea air. ‘How long until we arrive?’

  ‘Not long,’ the driver replied, one hand on the reins and the other at his scraggly beard, ‘you getting impatient?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Preseld replied, slightly too eagerly, ‘I will wait however long it takes to serve the king.’

  The driver chuckled, not for any reason Preseld could make out. ‘Well, you won’t have to wait much longer. It seems your time to serve the king begins now.’

  Not far from the eastern coast, the sea in view on the horizon, the wagon halted, horses whinnying and stumbling before a large camp the size of a small village. A collection of wooden huts stood scattered about the camp, each one spartan and single-storey, as though it had been thrown together in a matter of hours with little thought put into the process. The bulk of the camp, however, was made up of sheepskin tents, snuffed firepits, and uneven piles of resources. Piles of logs, walls of shields and archery targets, wooden training dummies that resembled men at a glance, all lay disordered. In the camp, soldiers milled about in filthy uniforms, paying no heed to Preseld as he dismounted from the wagon.

  ‘Go on,’ the driver told him, ‘tell Bannet you’re here. You’ll find him easily, he’s the old one with all the medals. Show him your letter. I’m off now.’

  ‘Are you not with the army?’ Preseld asked.

  ‘They pay me to ferry you lot around. Means I don’t have to do any of the fighting. If you’re clever, you’ll find a way to get yourself a job like mine one day.’

  ‘A noble occupation,’ Preseld replied, ‘but I am certain the valour of battle will be far more suited to my tastes.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ the driver said with a snicker, before turning the wagon around and whipping the horses so they took him far away. Preseld thought he heard him say, ‘Move, you stupid animals!’ as he vanished into the distance.

  Preseld breathed deep, puffed his chest out, straightened his back, and marched into the camp like a true soldier. Not that any of the other soldiers were doing the same, milling about carrying things or still asleep at this hour of the morning, but his father had always told of the importance of first impressions, so he continued regardless.

  Under the overcast sky, he turned to a nearby soldier, a stocky man with a thick beard carrying a handful of spears as though they were a bundle of firewood, and asked, ‘Excuse me, sir, do you know the whereabouts of a man by the name of Bannet?’

  ‘Who are you?’ the soldier responded.

  ‘I am Preseld Telks, newest recruit of the King’s Third Regiment of the Army of Brellach.’

  The soldier chuckled, and gestured towards one of the wooden buildings. ‘He should be in there. He’ll probably be awake by now.’

  ‘Thank you sir. Since we will be working together, may I have your name?’

  The soldier sighed, hid a wry smile beneath his beard before looking back at Preseld. ‘Of course. Corporal Fulmon. You introduce yourself by your rank then your family’s name in the army, especially around old bastards like Bannet.’

  ‘I thank you for your information. May our camaraderie grow as we fight as brothers in arms.’

  ‘Aye. Sure, lad.’

  Preseld marched on towards the largest of the wooden buildings, and knocked on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ an elderly-sounding voice said from the other side, and Preseld pushed the door open and stepped in.

  The building’s interior was almost as barren as its exterior, dark and dreary, lit only by candlelight and what little light from the cloudy morning came in through the gaps in the shutters. At a desk sat an elderly man, with a firmly-pressed officers’ uniform decorated with half a dozen medals. His stern expression sat beneath a grey beard and beneath a mostly-bald head, staring down at a sheet of vellum paper, inked quill in hand.

  ‘What can I help you with?’ the old man said, eyes looking up and boring a hole into Preseld’s very soul.

  ‘I am Preseld Telks, from the village of Topplewood, and I have enlisted-’

  ‘Ah. One of the new recruits, I see. Hand me your recruitment letter.’

  Preseld produced the letter, stamped with royal insignia and written in words he could not understand, and handed it to the old man.

  ‘I take it your name is Bannet,’ Preseld said as the elderly soldier inspected the letter.

  ‘Colonel Bannet,’ he corrected. Once he finished reading the letter, he set it down and placed it in a pile of countless others just like it beneath his desk. ‘Very well. Welcome to the army, Trooper Telks.’

  ‘Thank you so much for-’

  Colonel Bannet stood from his seat, revealing himself to be much taller than Preseld had first imagined, and walked past him and out of the building. Preseld followed, probably a bit closer behind than he should have.

  In the centre of the camp, there stood a silver bell hanging between two wooden rods stuck into the ground. Bannet grabbed the rope attached to the bell and rang it, creating a sound loud enough to make Preseld wince and take a step back.

  ‘Morning call!’ Bannet chanted, and all of the soldiers who were not already awake climbed out of their tents, rubbing their eyes and throwing on their uniforms. Within a few minutes, perhaps two hundred men had gathered around Bannet and, by extension, Preseld, in a semicircle.

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  ‘Should I-’ Preseld began, before Bannet interrupted him once more.

  ‘At ease, men,’ he called, and all of the soldiers went from standing alert with their arms by their sides and feet together, to a more relaxed position with their feet further apart and their hands behind their backs. ‘Another morning has dawned. You can thank our newest recruit, Trooper Telks, for your earlier than usual awakening.’

  A handful of the soldiers groaned, and Preseld felt himself shrink back. The image of every single one of these men charging and attacking him flashed in his mind for a single, harrowing second.

  ‘We leave for Quelorse in two days,’ Bannet continued, ‘and our number is still growing. I want every man training at the peak of his ability today, regardless of how tired or ill or injured he may be. That includes you, Corporal Baskat.’

  A chuckle emerged from the crowd.

  ‘I want all of you, no matter how long ago you yourselves were new, to assist in the training of our newest recruit. Some of them are a bit slow. Speaking of which, Trooper Telks, you will be sharing a tent with Trooper Relress.’

  A man in the crowd, hair disheveled from having woken up mere moments earlier, uniform ill-fitting, face handsome despite the bags beneath his eyes, amiably laughed. ‘I was enjoying the extra room,’ he remarked.

  ‘There will be no extra room on the battlefield, Trooper. Now,’ Bannet turned to Preseld, ‘Major Ortollic will take you to have your new uniform fitted. As for the rest of you, breakfast is being served in the mess tents. It is, as usual, perpetual stew. You are dismissed.’

  The crowd dispersed, some heading back to tents or continuing whatever job it was they were doing previously, but most headed towards a series of benches on the far side of the camp, beneath wide sheets of cowhide sewn together and attached to poles surrounding the benches.

  A small, bald-headed man with a scornful expression approached Preseld. ‘Come,’ he said, and it took a moment for Preseld to realise that this was likely Major Ortollic, on account of the four medals across his breast.

  They entered another wooden building, boxes and pouches and sacks of rations and equipment piled high, and from a corner Ortollic produced an unworn, if dusty, uniform. Simple and unadorned, the uniform consisted of a blue jacket, white undershirt, white trousers, and thick-leathered shoes. Far less vibrant than how his father had described soldiers’ uniforms to him as a child, and with far fewer medals than he had envisioned himself wearing as he charged into battle, but a sense of pride still bubbled up inside of him as he held it in his hands. Here it was, a real soldier’s uniform, for a real soldier.

  Ortollic made for the door. ‘If it doesn’t fit, there are other sizes in the corner.’ He muttered to himself as he left, ‘Ridiculous. All these years in service and Bannet has me doing the job of a tailor.’

  Once the small man had exited, Preseld put on the uniform and stepped outside. He marched with his back even straighter towards the mess tents, imagining the sun reflecting off the bright blue of his jacket. Of course, the sun was obscured by cloud, and his jacket was far more muted than expected, but he still allowed the fantasy to live on in his mind.

  At the mess tents, he took a wooden bowl and spoon from a pile and moved towards the bubbling pot of greenish brown, sludgy stew, chunks of meat and vegetables floating in it like dead fish on a pond’s service. He decanted a few spoonfuls of it into his bowl, and searched for a place on the benches to sit.

  The disheveled man from earlier, Trooper Relress, spotted him, eyes widening. He pointed at him and waved his hand before patting the place on the bench beside him. Preseld sat down, and glanced at the men that surrounded him. Relress seemed to be in conversation with four other men, one of which had a singular medal on his uniform, and a rash-like scar creeping up his neck.

  ‘Telks, was it?’ Relress asked, not waiting for Preseld to respond, ‘I’m Trooper Relress, your new brother-in-arms and tentmate.’

  ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ Preseld replied, holding out his hand. Relress took it and shook it with far more force than expected.

  ‘Welcome to the army, my friend.’ Relress turned to the man with the rash and the medal. ‘Baskat, is there any way we can get our new friend into our squadron?’

  Baskat scratched at his rash. ‘The maximum I can command is six men. We can just about squeeze him in.’

  ‘Fantastic news,’ Relress grabbed Preseld by his shoulder and gave him a friendly shake. ‘You see, Telks, us troopers are divided into squadrons, led by corporals like the wonderful Baskat here.’

  Baskat rolled his eyes.

  ‘Squadrons stick together no matter what on the battlefield, and I want you on ours.’

  ‘He does this with everyone,’ one of the other men, a handsome-faced man with long hair cascading down his back, remarked.

  ‘And we were the ones stupid enough to agree to it,’ the dark-haired man sitting beside him, even younger-looking than Preseld, added.

  ‘Come on, Telks, what do you say?’ Relress asked, looking right into Preseld’s eyes. Despite his overbearing nature and scruffy appearance, there was something to him that made Preseld want to trust him.

  ‘It would be an honour to serve alongside you,’ Preseld answered, ‘and beneath a corporal as skilled and decorated as you, Corporal Baskat.’

  ‘I’m about as skilled at leading as a fish is at flying,’ Baskat remarked. ‘Why do you think I haven’t been promoted any further?’

  ‘He’s humble too,’ said Relress, ‘what more do you want in a leader?’

  One of the other men on the table, with the build of a heavy labourer and brows so thick and bushy his eyes were hardly visible, cleared his throat.

  ‘Right,’ Relress began, ‘we haven’t had formal introductions for the whole squadron yet. As you know, I’m Trooper Relress, and that’s Corporal Baskat. The huge one is Trooper Fentess, the one who looks like he belongs at a royal ball more than a battlefield is Trooper Callic, and the one who looks like he stepped out of the womb half a week ago is Trooper Theor.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you all,’ Preseld said, looking at each of them, varying degrees of irritation at Relress’s remarks on their faces.

  ‘I’m not that young, by the way,’ Theor protested, ‘I’m six-and-ten years old.’

  ‘He’s only had his name for two years,’ Callic mentioned.

  ‘I apologise for not being halfway to my death!’ Theor cried, his voice cracking halfway through his sentence, getting a laugh out of the group.

  ‘Enough about you jokers,’ Relress interjected, ‘I want to learn about the main attraction. Telks, tell us about yourself. What was your life like before you joined? What made you want to throw everything away and come and fight with strangers like us?’

  ‘My life was far from remarkable before I came here,’ Preseld began, ‘I hail from the village of Topplewood, further southwest from here, where I have spent near-every moment of my life. All one-score-and-two years of it. I was a carpenter, just like my father. The army saved my father years ago, when a troop of marauders from the Far Isles came to raid Topplewood. He would often tell stories of their glory and valour, their devotion to the king and the great Kingdom of Brellach. After he perished, I found a wife, a beautiful woman named Ralera, and just earlier this year she birthed our daughter. I was content to live as a family man, until the king’s men came to Topplewood, saying we were under threat of invasion from the Far Isles, and they needed recruits. If I could be a hero like the ones who saved my father, then I would take any chance I could get to be one.’

  ‘A noble cause,’ Baskat remarked.

  ‘And your wife?’ asked Callic.

  ‘She remains in Topplewood, patiently waiting for the day I return,’ Preseld answered. He watched as Callic drew his mouth to a line and shuffled in his seat, saying no more.

  ‘It’s good to know you’ve a story behind you,’ Relress remarked, ‘myself, I’m here for the pension. I hear it’s a king’s ransom.’

  ‘The king is being ransomed?’ Preseld asked, dropping his spoon into the half-finished bowl of stew.

  Relress chuckled. ‘My friend, you are going to be a very fun addition to the squadron, I can tell you that much.’