Dozens of marching cauldrons were set above the fire pits, the wood beneath their bellies crackling as it burned, simmering a thin, tasteless scent of wheat—this was the only breath of life in that deathly still encampment.
The cooks swung their long ladles with numb motions, the bottoms knocking against iron, making a dull, heavy thud.
"You call this dinner?" The young soldier stared into the wooden bowl in his hands, unable to stop himself from cursing, but in the end he swallowed his temper.
The oatmeal inside was so thin it was almost criminal; as it rippled, it reflected a face with sunken eye sockets.
An older soldier sat on a camp stool, raised his bowl before his eyes, and tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Even if you were feeding this to the horses, you'd still have to throw a handful of beans in."
"Be grateful."
