Page 118 of A War Apart

Mila

The med tent sat on the edge of camp, nearest to the city. Despite the early hour, by the time Yakov and I arrived, people were already bustling around. Outside, cauldrons of water boiled over large fires. Cauterizing irons stood next to the fires, ready to be heated at a moment’s notice.

As we stepped into the tent, Yakov thrust an apron under my nose. “Put this on.”

“Bossy, aren’t we?” I took it and tied it around my waist.

He rolled his eyes with a grin as he guided me toward a bronze-skinned young woman with a long black braid. “Lada, this is Han’s wife, Mila Dmitrievna. Mila, Blood Bastard Lada Radomirovna. Mila’s here to work during the battle.”

Ah. This was the missing piece of the story, the reason Yakov was working in the med tent. He had feelings for the Blood Bastard. I smirked at him. His ears turned pink, and he scowled.

I gave the Blood Bastard a bow. “Pleasure to meet you.”

She gave him a questioning glance, but he shook his head. “I’ll explain later.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mila Dmitrievna.” She bobbed her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I wish we had time to get better acquainted, but that will have to wait until after the battle. For now, Yakov can get you set up.”

I followed him to a table filled with linens. “Tear those into strips while we’re waiting,” he said. “I hope we’ve already got enough, but once casualties start coming in, we won’t have time to make any. The more we have, the better.”

I saluted, and he laughed.

“I missed you, Mila.” He gave me a quick hug, then pointed at the linens. “Now get to work!”

The next hour crawled by. Outside, the armies gathered, the clanking of metal and the tramping of boots intermingling with shouted commands. Inside, it was quiet, tense. Why wouldn’t the fighting start already?

It was almost a relief when the cannonfire began.

The first thunderous crack echoed through the camp, making me jump. Yakov and Lada, sitting together nearby, snapped their heads up at the sound. Several of the other men and women in the tent flinched, and one young woman screamed.

Relative silence followed the blast. “It won’t be long now, Mila Dmitrievna.” The Blood Bastard leaned toward me. “The waiting’s the worst part. Once the wounded start coming in, there’s no time to worry.”

I tried to smile. “Call me Mila, please.”

“If you’ll call me Lada.” She slouched in her chair, relaxed, a striking contrast to my tightly wound insides. “I take it you’ve never waited at the edge of a battlefield?”

“No.”

She opened her mouth, but a pair of soldiers appeared in the doorway, carrying the first casualty, a young man missing most of his left arm. Someone had tied a belt around it, just below the shoulder. The wound was still dribbling blood. I froze, but Yakov and Lada jumped into action.

“Put him on the cot here.” Lada reached for a pile of linens. “Yakov, I need the—” He handed her a bottle before she could finish speaking. “Yes. Mila, I’ll need the largest cauterizing iron, and while you’re waiting for that to heat, bring me a bucket of cool, clean water. I need to get this cleaned out.”

Running outside, I placed the iron directly onto the fire and scooped a bucket of clean water from the trough next to the tent.

Back inside, Lada took the bucket and ladle from me, pouring a scoop directly onto the open wound. She did that several times, then took the bottle Yakov had given her and poured a little of the green liquid onto it. “I’m ready for that iron now, Mila.”

I ran to fetch it.

When I came back in, the Blood Bastard was barking orders. “Hold him down tight—he’s going to fight this.” Taking the iron from me, she spoke to the wounded man in a soothing voice. “Now, I have to get the wound sealed. The potion I gave you should numb the pain a bit, but you’ll still feel most of it. Yakov will give you something to bite down on.”

Yakov loosened the belt around the man’s arm, and blood spurted; he tightened it again. “We have to hurry,” he said through gritted teeth. Positioning a wide strip of leather in the man’s mouth, Yakov put both his arms on the man’s chest, holding the wounded arm down.

The soldiers who had brought him in took his remaining limbs. Breathing hard through his nose, the wounded man nodded at Lada, who held the iron to the raw flesh below his shoulder.

He bucked and thrashed as the smell of burning flesh filled my nose. Bile rose in my throat, making me glad I’d forgotten to eat breakfast.

Finally, it was done. The wound was sealed, a disgusting cluster of burns stemming the flow of blood. The soldier slumped onto the cot, his face bloodless.

Two more soldiers hobbled into the tent, both wounded—one with a vicious head wound, the other with his leg bent at an odd angle. One of the other workers, a tall woman, moved to assist them.

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