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“How’d a big country boy like you become a chirurgeon?”

Adin looked down, startled. The grizzled veteran lying to his left stared back at him, her gimlet eyes filled with pain. He looked down at his big, meaty hands, as if suddenly remembering where he was. Then he looked back down at his patient. He was still breathing.

“You’re six and a half feet at least. And you’ve not the manners of a courtier,” the woman continued.

Adin cleared his throat.

“Aye you have the right of that, sergeant. It’s not so interesting a tale. A passing noblewoman’s horse took an arrow in a bandit raid. I had a fair hand with animals. Folks from all around would bring their injured ones to me for healing. After I patched up her Trueeye, that was his name, after I patched him up she says “It’s no good you wasting talent like that when the country’s at war” and sent me off with a letter and coin to the capital. Trained under Chirurgeon Simm, him being the only one who would have me.”

Adin finished his story, looking down to see what the old soldier thought of that.

He would never know.

The chirurgeon sighed and pulled the blanket over her head. He glanced around the tent at the other soldiers, some moaning in their sleep, others crying out in pain. The air was thick with the smell of blood and excrement, and here and there a harsh whiff of ether as chirurgeons and aids worked frantically to save lives, stymy blood loss, and bandage wounds.

“I dream of that day every night. I wish the gods I’d turned her down.”

He moved on to his next patient.