The young Sea Wolf whimpered as she wiped the alcohol-soaked rag across his wound. In the moment before the blood welled up again, she gauged its depth. Nasty, but not crippling – he’d hold a shield again, though not this year. She cut a length of catgut with a practiced snip of her beak and step to work, punching the needle through his flesh and drawing the flesh closed. A lucky blow from a Flembic swordsman, before the Sea Wolf crushed his chest, or so the boy had said as he had staggered back from the battle line, clutching at the gash.
Somewhere higher up the beach, the battle continued, the war songs just audible amidst the screeching metal. Hrafna did not envy the warriors, preferring her part in the band. In the shadow of their half-beached battle barge, she pulled her comrades from the jaws of death.
The Sea Wolf squealed again when she tied off the catgut. She wiped it clean again and inspected her work. Too rough, the skin badly placed. It’s going to scar, she realised and cursed her workmanship.