Eirik Wilder's stomach had already left the ship before it docked. Multiple times. Eirik raised his sweaty head from the vomit-stained wood of the porthole and gave the view a bleary stare. The blue sky hurt his eyes and the sun burned hotter than his skin had ever felt. He gave a long sigh, wiped his face with a damp kerchief, and turned to face the sounds of movement behind him. The other soldiers had left their hammocks and begun making up their packs, preparing to disembark. Eirik glanced up at his hammock from the bedroll he sat on and wrinkled his nose. During the two-week voyage, he'd used the hanging cradle precisely once. Ten minutes had been enough to convince him that its movement only amplified that of the ship, and he'd spent the rest of the trip on the floor alternating between fitful sleep and projectile vomiting through the porthole.

"C'mon kid, let’s get off this tub."

Eirik looked over his shoulder and saw the outline of Ruefin Broadblade leaning toward him, arm outstretched. He gripped the muscular forearm and hauled himself up, reeling briefly and righting himself.

"Is this Rastanto? Have we arrived?" Eirik took a swig from his canteen, rinsed his mouth and spat through the porthole.

"Nope," Ruefin replied, his attention engaged in the packing of his kit. "This is Satorra Isle. We’re docked at the harbour of Rostand. Apparently we have a job here before we hit the mainland."

Eirik's heart sank and he scowled at the visible flash of sea while rubbing his sore abdomen. With a slow shake of his head, he began to roll up his bedding and lash it to the base of his pack.

The sun hit Eirik's eyes as a blinding flash when he eventually emerged onto the deck of the ship. The dock bustled with tanned workers hauling crates and sacks, as well as a handful of guards in light armour. He saw the captain of the ship in conversation with the unit commander, his hands gesticulating and the commander shaking his head.

"What's going on?" Eirik asked. He continued to watch the conversation until the captain shrugged and stalked off down the dock toward the shore.

"From what I heard, this ship was going to wait for us to do our job, then take us on to Rastanto. I'm guessing he doesn't want to wait."

"Good. Fuck him and fuck his shitty boat,"

The first step onto the dock sent a wave of relief through Eirik's whole body. The all-encompassing nausea left him and clarity returned to his head as he followed the procession along the wooden walkway until dry, sandy earth replaced the planks.

Looking along the shore, Eirik saw a long strip of orange-yellow sand punctuated by clusters of clinker-built fishing boats. Stalls and tables stood at the edge of the sand, their multicoloured canopies rippling in the light breeze and the scent of fresh fish and salt dominating the air. A wide, hard-packed road ran parallel to the shore and the landward side was lined with wooden buildings, mostly single storey, occasionally separated by roads leading into the town.

Eirik followed the column along the road, taking in the sights and smells of this new place until a glance over the heads of his comrades revealed their destination. Past the main body of the town stood a stockade, its wooden walls higher than the buildings they'd passed so far. A flag fluttered from a weathered flagpole, but Eirik didn’t recognise the faded emblem.

As the column approached, a pair of wooden gates swung inward and a man in armour with two attendants came forward. An abrupt bark from the commander brought the line to a halt and Eirik nudged Ruefin.

"Looks like we're bedding down in the garrison tonight," he said, his eyes not leaving the conversation taking place on the threshold.

"Hah! Beats a hammock next to an endless puke-fountain," Ruefin retorted, a smile visible through his long reddish beard.

Eirik snorted in disgust. "At least I did it over the side. Maybe next time I'll fill your pack instead."

At length, the line began to move forward. Eventually Eirik found himself in a dusty parade ground, lined up in formation with his fellows. The gates closed and their commander moved to the front of the assembly, clearing his throat.

"Pay attention," he began, "I don't want to have to repeat myself. We have a number of missions to complete here before we continue on to Rastanto. During this time, you will bunk here with the local militia, and I expect you to maintain the same standard of discipline you would be expected to show at home. Tomorrow, I will be splitting you into three units and assigning you to your tasks. Until then, I suggest you prepare your travelling kit, sharpen your weapons and make sure your ration packs are topped up. Dismissed. Except you, Wilder. I want a word."

As the others headed off to the barracks, Eirik hung back, rocking on his heels where Ruefin gave him a friendly parting slap. The commander stalked over and Eirik noticed, as if for the first time, the stains on his shirt and armour. He felt the eyes of his superior running over him and he shifted uncomfortably in place.

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"Is that going to be a regular thing?"

"Ah, that was my first time on the sea, sir. But I expect so,"

The commander sighed. "I presume carts make you sick as well?"

"Yessir. Walk or ride, but no wheels or water."

"Great. Never mind. Look, get your gear together, then get some rest until the morning. Make sure you get plenty of food and drink down you as well. Everything you had on board went over the side, and you look like shit. I don't want a weak link in this chain - we have work to do. Got it?"

"Yessir,"

"Good. Fuck off,"

Eirik shouldered his pack and hurried off in the direction of his comrades.

The bunkhouse ceiling was low enough to make Erik duck, and the smell of many bodies assailed his nostrils above the lingering aroma of vomit on his clothes. Old straw lay on the packed-earth floor and he kicked his way through it to the corner where Ruefin had annexed a pair of wooden beds and now sat on one, digging through his supplies. Erik dropped heavily onto the neighbouring bed, ignoring the ominous crack from the woodwork, and took a long drink from his canteen.

"What did the boss-man want?" Ruefin asked around a mouthful of bread.

"He thinks I'm a weak link in his chain," Erik replied and rested his head in his hands. This wasn't the kind of start he'd wanted to his first posting overseas, but from the moment he'd set foot on the ship, his whole body had rebelled.

"Don't worry about it - here's plenty of time to prove yourself. Besides, you're not the first man to get seasick, and I doubt you'll be the last."

Erik grunted in reply and began stripping off his leather armour and shirt. At the end of the bunkhouse was an open doorway and beyond it, a washroom with a row of rough stone troughs full of water. Holding his breath, Erik thrust his head underwater and held it there until his lungs began to burn and the urge to inhale became urgent. He pulled back, rinsed his kerchief and rubbed it over his face and body, removing the last traces of sweat and sickness.

"Better," he muttered, before returning to his bed and pulling a cleaner shirt from his pack. "So, when do we get our rations? I presume there's a quartermaster around here somewhere," he said. The remark was addressed to Ruefin, but the answer came from across the room.

"Go outside and turn left. The supplies are in the barn at the end. The quartermaster's a civilian by the looks of it, but he's okay."

Erik recognised the woman who spoke as Dana, a soldier he'd marched with back home.

"I'll go and take a look. I could eat a scabby horse right now,"

Outside in the parade ground, Erik realised how much hotter the sun felt compared to back home and he wiped a film of fresh sweat from his newly washed face. In the time it took to find the supply depot, an uncomfortable dampness permeated his clothes as if the air itself was wet.

The air inside the open barn was cooler and the smell was much better than the bunkhouse. Leather and metal polish blended with the scent of fabric, straw and a hint of spices and fruit. The quartermaster himself was a bony, angular man somewhere in his fifties with a curly ring of greying hair encircling his bald pate. He wiped his hands on a canvas apron and turned at Erik's approach, his face cracking into a grin that displayed a total of seven teeth.

"And what is it you'll be needing, friend?" he said, not remotely intimidated by Erik's greater height.

"I've just spent two weeks on a boat, puking up every mouthful I ate. I'll take as much food as you're allowed to give me,"

"Easily done. We have plenty to go round here. You from Solendura?" The man picked up a small crate and walked smartly across to a set of shelves which held many baskets.

"I am. How can you tell?"

The man shrugged, continuing to stack provisions in the crate. "Tall and fair, pair of axes on your belt. Kind of gives it away. And I've heard it said that you southerners don't make good sailors."

The tone was good natured enough that Erik didn't feel he was being laughed at. He watched a small loaf of bread and a fruit bun go into the crate before a cloth covered the top.

"There's dried rations in there and some fresh bread and fruit for now," the quartermaster handed over the crate, "and if you'll wait a moment, I'll let you have some fish from the smoke-room."

Before Eirik had time to reply, the man vanished through a side-door and returned with a small package which he tucked into the box.

"Thanks, I appreciate this," Erik said, giving the quartermaster a nod and heading back toward the bunkhouse. On the way, he was intercepted by a soldier in leather armour adorned with patches of chain mail. Shorter than Eirik and heavily scarred in the face, the man wore the traditional sneer of men who felt themselves a cut above their peers.

"Where ya goin' with that, boy? Gonna have a little picnic with yer pals?" He made a grab for the crate.

Eirik whisked the crate away and caught the grabbing hand by the wrist. The speed of his movement elicited a gasp, and Eirik leaned in a little, staring down into the scarred visage.

"Not in the mood for this," he said, keeping his voice low and calm. "Go and mind your business elsewhere."

That said, Eirik released his grip and continued back to the bunkhouse, aware that the soldier who harassed him had returned to a small knot of his fellows who now followed him with their eyes. He smiled to himself, returned to his bunk and stowed the dried rations away in his pack.

"Think I just met the resident arsehole," he said around a large mouthful of bread and smoked fish. After two weeks of almost continuous vomiting, his empty stomach growled with enthusiasm as he steadily refilled it.

"Officer class?" Ruefin replied, pausing the strokes of the whetstone along the length of his claymore.

"Nope. Just a grunt with an attitude. And a little pack of hangers-on for him to slap when he wants to feel tough,"

"Probably doesn't much care for foreigners. Not unusual either in these parts, so we should be careful around town." Ruefin went back to his sharpening.

Eirik mulled things over while he ate. His first time overseas had gotten off to a disappointing start with the relentless sickness during the voyage. The taunts of his comrades had been good-natured, but still he'd felt ashamed of his weakness and silently cursed himself for it. Even though he'd served with these men for the last five years, at the age of twenty two he was still the youngest man in the unit, and he didn't believe they had much faith in him.

The sun began to set and Eirik was shocked by just how quickly the light vanished and left the bunkhouse lit by a number of smoky oil lamps. He made a final check of his equipment, cleared his bed and lay down, his tongue picking crumbs from his teeth as he drifted off to sleep.