South of Frosgard, the Nameless Wasteland.
The late-autumn wind swept up the fresh snow that had yet to be trampled, whirling it in mournful eddies across the wilderness where armor blanketed the earth and banners stood like a forest.
As far as the eye could see, the land was brutally divided by two colors: advancing steadily from south to north was an orderly expanse of blue and red—the Carnford-Franklin allied army; surging from north to south was a black tide reeking of savagery—Harald's last Sauron army.
Under their snapping banners, the two killing floods, armed to the teeth, marched silently and resolutely toward one another like two colossal walls of flesh, blood, and steel slowly closing together.
The murderous air was so oppressive it left men struggling to breathe.
About two li from the heart of the planned main battlefield, the vanguard of the Carnford-Franklin allied army began carrying out a critical tactical maneuver.
Clear bugle calls and flag signals raced between the officers, and the vast, orderly marching columns slowly spread toward both flanks like a colossal beast stretching its limbs.
Under officers' commands and sergeants' urging, the soldiers swiftly shifted from marching columns into battle lines with broader fronts, better suited to unleashing firepower.
The process was far from instantaneous. Moving tens of thousands of men brought clamor, jostling, and clipped commands, yet the army as a whole maintained a discipline that made one's heart tremble.
Their aim was to control a wider front, prevent the Sauron Cavalry from outflanking them, and leave sufficient room for the volley fire of the line infantry to come. Countless eyes fixed on the north, on the snowy plain that would soon be dyed red with blood.
And between the main forces of the two armies, upon that relatively level snowfield, stood