About thirty li north of the abandoned fort where Roderick's camp was entrenched, silence ruled deep within a stretch of rolling, densely wooded hills in a manner so unnatural it was almost oppressive.
The mountain forest in early spring should have been alive with birdsong and faint traces of beasts, yet at this moment, there was nothing but the mournful sigh of wind sweeping through the pines and the soft patter of melting snow dripping down.
From outside the forest, one saw only layer upon layer of dark green and gray-brown, with no fluttering banners in sight and no obvious signs of men or horses moving about.
Yet beneath this seemingly primal and tranquil sea of woods, more than five thousand fully armed Sauron elite warriors lay concealed.
Like venomous snakes quietly awakening from hibernation, they coiled behind rocks, beneath towering trees, and inside naturally sunken hollows, sitting or lying still as possible to minimize any sound or movement that might expose them.
The soldiers silently chewed the dry, hard jerky and roasted flour they carried with them, washing it down with icy snowmelt from their skins. No one spoke; even coughs were suppressed within their chests. Many wrapped themselves in thick furs or coarse wool cloaks to ward off the lingering chill in the mountains.
In a small wind-sheltered clearing in the woods stood several exceedingly crude tents. Inside the largest, Harald sat cross-legged on a rough bearskin, his gaze passing through a lifted corner of the tent flap as he silently watched the soldiers outside, silent as rocks, and the deep, shadowy forest.
He had shed the luxurious sable cloak and crown he had worn in Frosgard, replacing them with dark brown leather-trimmed studded armor no different from that of an ordinary Sauron officer, covered by an inconspicuous