The clomp of footsteps seemed to spread for miles in front of me. The ground I walked on had been flattened; men, horses, and carts moved forward along the same path.

Only a few days had passed since our arrival at the camp, and then about a fourth of the soldiers were sent off to reinforce Gothenburg's defenses. Keith had passed me earlier along with Bretton, so I knew their company had been ordered to leave as well.

We moved slowly due to our size, stopping once when night came. We arrived at the frontlines the next day, a wall of defenses waiting for us. Everyone was quickly spread out, patching holes Gothenburg’s forces had gained due to men lost during the war.

Exhausted soldiers passed on large shields to the reinforcements, and one was shoved into my arms as well.

“Hold the line on the next push!” A hoarse voice shouted behind us. “Attack in the gaps. Stop and cover when arrows are fired. Get ready!”

The instructions were perfunctory at best. We were packed in tight, shoulders shoving into mine at every minuscule movement. Our line stretched on longer than I could tell, and more soldiers were crowded behind it, protected by the cover.

Tension was like an electric wire, and the man to my left shook hard, his shield clanging into mine. Five minutes passed, nerves stretching the seconds into eternity.

“Ready? March!” The commander screamed, and even my step a half-second later was too slow, the men behind me pushing their weapon-clad hands into my back, frantic feet stepping on my heels.

We moved forward, the torn field empty of any obstacles. My heart pounded uncontrollably, as I had no idea how far we had to move until we met enemies. Were they just a yard away? A mile? In the distance, I heard unintelligible orders, then the sound of hundreds of bows being pulled to their breaking point.

“Hold and cover!” were our orders, and the line stumbled to a stop. Men crashed into my back and made my sweaty hands slip on my shield. I followed the others' actions, dropping to a knee and lifting my shield above my head. Soldiers behind me crouched low and shoved their way into the gaps to find their own protection. The ones further back yelled and pushed forward desperately, trying to escape the oncoming rain of death.

My leg was painfully crushed beneath hard boots, and I gritted my teeth. It was the least of my worries at the moment. The air began to whistle like a storm, wind kicking up as arrows pushed it aside.

Muffled thumps as misfired arrows hit the soft ground were heard first. Wooden thunks came next, my arms cramping as I held them steady as arrows began to decorate my shield. A particularly strong one cracked through a weak spot, a sharp arrowhead cutting a fiery streak along my cheek. Exposed bodies were hit next, shrieks and wet thuds engulfing my ears.

The volley stopped, and the field gained an unnatural hush, not counting the periodic pained moan or whimper.

“Stand! Forward, men! Move!” The commander yelled, cutting through the sudden pause. We regained our feet, leaving behind the fallen. The command to increase our speed was shouted out as well, and the line adopted an awkward trot, boots fighting for traction in soft dirt.

The opposing defense line finally entered into my range of perception. I could taste adrenaline on my tongue, my pace speeding up along with the others. Men screamed out as the two lines collided with a mighty crash, shields breaking against shields.

A man directly behind me moved fast as I braced my knees and ducked my head, thrusting his spear past my shield. His aim was true, a wet squelch graced by a scream sprayed blood onto my shield before he yanked his weapon back.

I grabbed my axe—moving my shield to my forearm—and swung it over my head to imbed it in the opposing shield and crack apart the wood, leaving the man behind it exposed. The pieces fell to the ground uselessly, and my [Chop] skill came to assist again as I repeated my swing. This time, it was a man's skull cracking, my axe lodging halfway into his head. Yanking it out, blood and brain splattered to the ground, adding to the already flowing river of blood and soil that swirled past my ankles.

Soldiers from behind pushed past me to enter the break, spears held forward to impale whatever came upon them. The fallen body was stomped into the ground, bones cracking from the stampede.

A sword from the right made me curse, the man on the other side of it releasing apoplectic screams of rage. I dodged, my head ducking, the weapon missing and displacing the air next to my ear. His sword hit a different target. It was a man–no, a boy–behind me that had not rushed forward with the rest, his body shaking, teeth chattering, and the smell of piss soaking his legs. He got a chestful of cold iron, and blood spat from his mouth as he fell to his knees. It was only then that I recognized him as Seth, the young man that had helped me back in Markitan.

I grunted as I popped back up, my axe already in motion. It cleaved through the enemy’s arm to imbed itself in his chest, ribs cracking from the force. His arm holding the sword dropped, and so did he.

Shrugging my shield back up my arm, I braced my knees for more. However, there was a lull in front of me, my role going back to just a defender. I had no intention to charge forward, so I stuck with the line that slowly moved, one step at a time.

Clashing weapons rang all around me, screams and yells accompanying every hit. Hours, yet seconds, seem to pass before the captain ordered a retreat. Enough damage had been dealt, the enemy retreating behind their fortifications. The war would not end just because reinforcements had arrived; it only gave weary soldiers a reprieve.

Our forces grabbed any fallen weapons we could; it would not bode well to have our own tools turned against us. The alliance also needed any advantage it could get its hands on.

It was fascinating, this battle. There was no push until victory or holding on until defeat. Comparing this primitive warfare to earth was an exercise of futility. The only advantage this world had was the fact that handheld weapons could do as much damage as a gun—only close range—due to enhanced bodies. I thought that this might have been like participating in a medieval war.

No mages had taken part in the battle. Keith had told me it was due to their rarity; neither side wanted to risk that advantage. It seemed the price of a full-out war was not worth one man or woman. But maybe one's presence would only escalate the destruction, turning the conflict into a lose-lose situation. I had no way of knowing.

Back at camp, I dropped my damaged shield into a pile. I turned, intending to find water so I could soothe my dry throat and wash my face. It was dirty with blood that was mostly not my own.

I went stumbling forward from a shove to my back, a hand then wrenching my arm around before gripping the front of my leather armor.

Bretton shook me as he seethed. “You bitch, what were you doing in the frontlines?” I raised my eyebrows, pushing his arm off. “You’re a cripple. I saw the way you dodged and let someone else take the hit. What, you don’t care if your allies die? Defenders are supposed to defend,” he accused.

Bretton was right; I didn't care. But I wasn’t about to say that out loud, so I shook my head. “No,” I refuted, but he seemed to have stopped listening.

“I always knew you were off. When Keith told me how you joined him, it always seemed sketchy. I bet you’re just a federal spy!” he yelled, shoving against my chest. Fuck, I could feel other people looking towards us now.

Bretton’s behavior the past couple of days now made sense. He would always run into me every time he walked past, then say it was my fault. Or, he would just insult me. It was expected that some would be suspicious of me, given my sudden turn on the Federation, but he was acting like a grade school bully.

“I’m not a spy,” I told him. He spat on the ground, some saliva hitting my boot.

“We’ll see,” Bretton said, turning. “I’ll be watching.” I won’t, I joked in my head, turning as well.

I left quickly, dodging past the prying eyes and suspicious gazes that bore into my back. Grabbing some slop called food from the cooking tent, I found a place I could sit quietly and eat. I shoveled it down my throat, ignoring the taste and texture, trying to get it into my stomach as fast as I could.

Examining my status, I found I had gained a point in perception, pushing it up to a six. I figured it had happened when I dodged that sword. It was ironic how I had been condemned for something that had nevertheless let me improve.

If I was labeled a traitor, so be it. As long as I could avoid retribution, it would not matter. The outcome of this useless war did not matter. This view would probably make me reckless, but again, it did not matter. The only important thing was that I continued to move forward, finding my own strength in this chaotic world.

I washed my face and armor of blood, then found an unoccupied tent. Sleep came quickly, tension from combat finally seeping from my skin.

The next day was practically the same, another forward push taking place. This time, I was not a shield-bearer—instead, I stood behind them, my role changing to offense. The morning was greeted with portent clouds rolling in, and I knew because I could smell the oncoming rain and lighting in the air. It hadn’t begun until after the battle had started, small drops belying what was to come.

The ground grew muddy from the rain, and I found more enemies fell onto my axe than I had hit personally. The cold soaked into my bones, making my movements stiff. Fewer screams were heard due to the torrential downpour, and at times it felt as if I were isolated from anything else.

I stayed behind the shields, not fully trusting my abilities to stay alive in a more aggressive attack. I still could not see, after all.

Water rolled down the gentle slope, turning dirt into mud and mixing with blood. I could no longer smell it in the air due to the rain. Yesterday, the blood and viscera had soaked everything, and it had left me feeling as if it had permanently etched itself into my skin. Today, however, the rain dealt with that problem. It gave a sense of innocence to the violent conflict. There was no blood for me to smell anymore, only cold rain tinged with the chaotic energy of electricity.

Blood that splattered onto my skin due to an enemy's face exploding from my axe was gone a second later, and I thanked the omnipotent sky. Idly, I worried about my axe beginning to rust from the exposure to water. I shrugged, swinging my axe again. I could always—hopefully—get another.

Today's clash did not last as long as exhaustion set in early, the battle going nowhere. My own legs had begun to shake from the effort of holding myself up on the shifting ground. I trudged back to my tent, removing my muddy boots at the entrance. I slicked back my wet hair that I desperately needed to cut, before scrubbing it with an extra shirt to capture most of the moisture. My wet armor was removed, and I laid down to sleep.

The rain continued into the night, its sound keeping me up to listen. The drumming against the tent was almost hypnotic. It drowned out any other useless sounds that usually filled my ears, my enhanced hearing finally getting a break. I had begun to drift off, the weather lulling me into the land of sleep. It had muffled the sound of the flap to my tent lifting, and the footsteps that crept closer.

My awareness had only come back when there was a damp hand held over my mouth, and a cold knife to my throat.