Karl's gaze crossed the rolling wilderness and lingered for a long time on Harald's battle banner snapping in the wind in the distance. He turned his head slightly and asked Brendan, who stood at his side, in a low voice, "Of these three directions, one must be the enemy's weak flank and our sharp blade. If it were your choice, where would you break the deadlock?"
Following his commander's gaze, Brendan swept his eyes over the enemy's deployment like a hawk and analyzed calmly, "Harald has massed heavy forces on our left wing, intending to use overwhelming pressure to pin down our center. His true aim is to force our rear formations westward as well, stretching out our lines and throwing the whole formation into disarray. Now that we have held our position, steady as a rock, he has become wary of striking at a rat for fear of breaking the vase, and dares not launch a full assault rashly."
He paused, certainty in his voice. "Since he will not move, then we shall break the stalemate ourselves. In my opinion, the key lies on the right wing."
"Then we start with the right wing." Karl issued the order without hesitation. "Make Harald's line turn! Send the order: the Fourth Battalion is to attack at once. Objective—Village No. 2!"
Slightly behind the left wing of Carnford's main battle line, a small but murderous force was completing its final assembly.
Otto sat astride his warhorse, his deep-blue general's cloak billowing in the wind.
He gripped the order personally signed by Karl in his hand, his blazing gaze fixed on the ruins roughly half a li ahead—Village No. 2.
This village, which might once have known curling cooking smoke and the pulse of life, now held only broken walls and charred