Joan stepped out of the large tent, leaving behind the stench of blood and the moans of pain.
She looked up. Rows of identical tents stretched in every direction—thirty-six of them in all.
The basin in her hands seemed too heavy. She lowered her head again and hurried across the frozen ground to dump the filthy bandages into the Great Pit at the edge of camp.
Not far away, a priest was purifying the filth to keep plague from spreading.
After all, the Ratfolk were notorious not only for the Rat Tide, but for the equally revolting Rat Plague.
After emptying the basin of bloody waste, Joan retraced her steps and ducked back into the tent, with its moans and foul smells.
Crude plank beds lined the tent like coffins. In the dim light, the wounded suffered everywhere, their mingled groans like the wails of evil spirits.
Some soldiers had fallen into the Rat Tide and been bitten all over until their bodies looked like cheese. Others had caught the Rat Plague and lay swollen like waterskins, festering as they waited to die. Countless more had lost limbs or been maimed by weapons and teeth.
Joan paused at the entrance and took one last breath of the cold but fresh air outside. Then she went in to keep changing Wounded soldiers' bandages.
That was right. She had not come to visit injured subordinates. She was here to care for Wounded.
She clearly remembered her first day, when she had asked the man in charge of the rear camp to send her to the front. He had looked her up and down and said with contempt, "You? A woman?"
"What's wrong with being a woman? I'm a warrior. I've killed more Ratfolk than you've ever seen!"
"A warrior? One who's never