We were finally marching. We spent two months learning the ropes of military tactics, command structure, and coordination. Most of our company were recently conscripted from the academy which meant that we are wet behind the ears. I could feel the nervous atmosphere all around as we silently marched to the front lines. We marched to kill and die.

The frontlines we marched to are the plains just before the beach in human territory. The Jotuns had established a beachhead there regardless of our efforts to stall them, though the alliance generals already dispatched there had stalled them harshly. For every step the enemy had taken on those beaches they paid in gallons of blood.

“Hey, what do you think we should call ourselves?” a soldier next to me from a different squad whispered.

“Byron, what are you on about now? Just shut up and march!” a soldier directly behind Byron chided.

“Well, think about it! Theres the Awesome Force, the Prides that serve under General Pride, the Looters under General Greed and such!” Byron persisted.

“ What about the Marchers?” someone else chimed in.

“How moronically dense are you that you came up with something so senseless?!” Another retorted, many also retorting.

“Dread Knights?”

”Dark Hands!”

”Bloodsworn!”

”Ironclad!”

“We are wearing Durium though…”

“Marchers!”

“Again!?”

“Dark Feet!”

“As If!!”

The nervous tension and apprehension had dissipated greatly as a silly argument rippled throughout the one thousand strong company as we marched.

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“Halt!” The order to halt passed throughout the company. The argument abruptly died down. Some who were not paying attention collided into the backs of others, causing a chain reaction of stumbling and curses.

Just as abruptly a figure shot across the sky from the back to the front of the company. A very angry prince floated in the sky. He glared fiercely among the ranks, and when his gaze passed over me I felt chills rove down my spine. He was most definitely upset about the messy order to halt.

“Who started it!” The General Prince roared. Everyone in response glanced around unsurely, ready to point fingers at a moment's notice. Such close camaraderie…

“Who is the fool that started talking about nicknames for a damned militant company!?”... Seriously? He was angry not because of the messy halt, but the argument? Almost immediately fingers started pointing. Someone even pointed at me, poor unlucky me, who did not participate in the slightest. I pointed at that person in spite, rather than the true culprit.

The General Prince seethed a while longer, glaring fiercely at everyone who pointed a finger, and everyone who was pointed at. Eventually he sighed with exasperation and flew to the back of the formation. Soon the order to march was once more given.

“Phew that was close.” Byron the instigator of the whole situation sighed in relief. “What do you think he heard that got him in such a mood? Think it was ‘Dread Knight?’

“Idiot, clearly it was Dark Feet. As insulting as it is thoughtless!”

“Marcher!”

… Another round of argument on essentially the same subject spread like wildfire among the ranks.

“HALT!” Another round of clumsily bumping into each other. A figure flew up to the front of the company from the back again and fingers were already pointing in advance…

“Do you think this is a game!?” The General Prince roared as he ripped of his helmet in frustration and threw it down with a force so great the earth beneath their feet shuddered violently. Coinciding with the quake a high pitched cry of despair called out from somewhere in the back of the formation.

“Damned fools! I swear if it happens again…!” The General Prince flew back to his position at the back along with a severe glare and threat. The order to march soon came again and the ranks once more moved.

Some of the soldiers ahead were stumbling over something, and as it came my turn to cross the same area those in front of me were stumbling over, I discovered what it was. It was a small lump of glowing flat metal nestled in a fair sized crater, small fissures reaching out from its epicenter like a spider web. This was most definitely the helmet General Prince had thrown in rage…

“Whoah! Wasn’t that made of Durium? How angry do you think he has to be to do that? You think he can go berserk like General Ira?” Byron piped up as we struggled through the crater.

“Idiot, didn’t you see his face? That was clearly the verge of going berserk!”

“I wonder if someone said some kind of keyword that he uses to trigger his berserk mode? Bloodsworn maybe?”

“Dark Feet!”... and so another round ensues, enveloping the entire company… Only this time the company was well practiced by this point in halting. It was precise and smooth, every single person this time pointing at someone else, already looking to the sky at the front.

“You like games? I have a game for you!” The General Prince’s expression and tone was eerily calm…

It has been a day and a half and a night… Pure torture. Forced marching at the pace of a jog the entire way in full plate armor!… Any who fell, which were most, were then unceremoniously dragged across the ground by the general using ropes made of mana.

We were only moments ago allowed to set up camp and rest, except everyone immediately collapsed on the spot. No one had the energy to erect tents for shelter or fires for warmth and food. Most of the commanders were no better off, other than the General Prince’s blacksmith.

The big fellow known as Bob was cradling a lump of Durium in his arms, his eyes glassy as if about to cry. If I listen closely over the thousand strong company gasping for breath as if trying to drown themselves in oxygen, I could hear him.

“I… I can fix it! I… I can! I just need to… Uhm… This, and then… but… I.. I can? I… I can fix it! I.. I can!” and so he repeated, staring at the lump entirely undiscernible from the glorious piece of work it was once before.