Eleven
The sun is well past its midday height before Solma finishes morning duties, and she’s only got half an hour before Maxen expects her back. Her footfalls are heavy as she heads home, picking her way through the scattered debris of lives. Doors hang limply from split hinges, or lay wrecked on the ground. Soot coats everything. Every face Solma sees is grey with smoke and battle-grim. People walk past her in a daze. The storehouse is almost emptied and what little remains is blackened and bitter with smoke. No one died, which is a small miracle—Solma’s a bit confused about it, actually—but means there has been no reduction in mouths to feed. Both the plough horses made it through the battle ok, but one is still wild-eyed and thrashing in his stable. Solma went to check on them before
