Joan swung her sword numbly atop the city wall. One slash, then another.
She could barely tell whether the nicked, standard-issue longsword she had collected from the supply depot an hour ago was striking a Ratfolk's head or her own.
She had heard that Apprentice Swordsmen practiced swinging their swords and chopping wood while studying under their teachers.
How many tens of thousands of times had she swung her sword? How many tens of thousands of Ratfolk had she cut down?
No... not that many...
How could she possibly have killed tens of thousands of Ratfolk?
A few thousand, perhaps... Yet the Ratfolk before her had not thinned at all. She felt like a child standing on Sandy Beach with a wooden bowl, facing the waves.
Joan had gotten her wish and reached the front line. At first, the scale of the battle had made her tremble. Then came the thrill of killing several Ratfolk without a scratch. Now, after day upon day of swinging her sword and killing Ratfolk, she felt nothing.
Joan was lucky. Most people never lived long enough to grow numb. Those who fared better were wounded or exhausted; their comrades brought them back and sent them to the field hospital.
Those with worse luck either fought desperately against the swarming Ratfolk or screamed beneath them.
Of the soldiers Joan had brought out of the field hospital, Finn was dead. A Ratfolk had bitten through his throat while he protected her. Bill was dead too, after taking a fatal blow for her.
Others had died when they were trapped, choosing to grab a Ratfolk and jump from the city wall.
Alan had been surrounded by Ratfolk. He fought his way out alive, but bites had torn him apart, leaving bloody holes all over his body. He