In Village No. 2, on the second floor of the tallest half-collapsed stone house, Svein likewise stared through his spyglass at the steadily approaching Carnford Army.
His heavy Iron-reinforced Leather Armor was smeared with dust and blood, and the hideous scar on his face twitched faintly with tension. As Harald's most trusted brother and fiercest general, ordered to hold this vital position to the death, he felt immense pressure—but it also stirred the ferocity in his bones.
"Damn it, they got here fast—and their formation's pretty damn orderly..." Svein spat, watching the Carnford square maintain astonishing cohesion even as it advanced. The string in his heart tightened further.
He particularly noticed a group of soldiers some thirty paces ahead of Carnford's main square, advancing swiftly in a relatively loose, scattered formation. Unlike the dense main formation, they moved in twos and threes, using the rises and dips of the ground and scattered wreckage for cover, advancing by turns with nimble movements.
"It's a skirmisher detachment." Svein spoke softly to the officer beside him, his voice carrying a complicated mix of disgust and reluctant respect.
He knew how troublesome these Carnford skirmishers were. Armed with Flintlock Rifles fitted with bayonets, they did not take part in line battles. Their sole duty was to harass the front line, pick off officers, disrupt enemy formations, and mark targets for the artillery. They were exceedingly irritating "flies."
"Pass down the order!" Svein withdrew his gaze, his voice turning cold and crisp. "Once they're within a hundred paces, have the two bronze cannons in the village—the three-pounder copies—blast those skirmishers first! Let them have a taste of being shelled!"
"Don't rush the main force! Wait until their square comes within eighty paces—no, seventy! Archers, Matchlock Rifles, concentrate your fire and hammer their flanks!" He waved