On a slightly elevated earthen slope behind Sauron's central army, Harald reined in his powerful black warhorse, a brass monocular pressed tightly to his right eye. His pupils contracted slightly as he silently stared at the blue bulwark on the southern horizon, rapidly solidifying into shape.
His face was hard and weathered, as though carved by blade and axe. Yet beneath those steel-like lines, an exceedingly rare gravity—and even a nearly imperceptible tremor—quietly spread.
Through the lens, every detail of the Carnford-Franklin allied army's unfolding formation stood starkly revealed, bringing with it an even more tangible sense of oppression. At first, it was a flowing dark-blue "stream," threaded with the relatively vivid red patches of the Franklin Army, like blood seeping into a frozen river.
Then the stream stopped flowing. It began to harden and take shape. One banner after another was raised with all the strength of powerful men—the blue Fir Flags of Carnford, the banners of each battalion, and company identification flags in every color—snapping fiercely beneath the thin winter sunlight and bitter wind, like a forest of steel bursting from the snowfields, brimming with killing intent.
More chilling still were the "branches and leaves" of that forest: the silent faces beneath thousands upon thousands of regulation military caps, and the dense mass of flintlock rifle bayonets angled toward the sky, still reflecting a cold, icy gleam beneath the dim daylight.
Now and then, sunlight pierced the low-hanging clouds and spilled across this sea of metal, stirring up fine, leaping flashes that were cold and painfully bright, like countless beasts opening their eyes in the dark.
At the very front of each battalion line, small bronze field guns polished to a brilliant shine had already been pushed into firing position. Their black muzzles pointed northward, while the artillerymen