In this suddenly rising pre-battle tension, taut as a fully drawn bowstring, one person seemed especially isolated and... abnormal.
Tommy, the young instructor, had his back against the breastwork that had just been piled up to chest height, still giving off the heavy, raw smell of earth. His body trembled faintly.
The short entrenching shovel in his hand had long since fallen to the ground. He stared fixedly at the ever-swelling black tide of people in the valley, feeling an icy chill shoot from the soles of his feet straight to the crown of his head, as though even his blood were about to freeze.
The passion, the self-encouragement, even that faint sense of self-moved "heroism" from moments ago all melted away in an instant before this real, overwhelming beast of war.
With his own eyes, he saw that just across the front within his line of sight, there were already more than a thousand dismounted Sauron soldiers standing in formation. Who knew how many more lurked in the dust behind them? Several thousand enemies... the oppressive weight of that number far surpassed anything described in documents or reports.
He could almost smell the enemy army drifting on the wind—a mingling of horse stench, leather, and some savage bodily odor. He could hear their officers' coarse shouts and the clang of weapons striking together.
"Can I... make it back alive?" The thought burrowed uncontrollably into his mind, biting at his courage like a venomous snake.
He was only twenty this year. At home, he had an elderly mother, and a clever, adorable younger sister studying at Carnford's new-style school.
He had joined the army carrying the ideal of "building a new Carnford" through his writing and speeches, and Lord Edgar had placed great hopes in him.
He had never imagined