The central plain lay exposed beneath the autumn sky, its ravaged body laid bare. Wind swept up gunpowder smoke and powdery snow, moaning as it passed over countless silent, upright bayonets.
The Second Battalion's four infantry companies advanced abreast across the open, devastated terrain like four streams of deep-blue steel, maintaining astonishing spacing and speed. Heavy footsteps struck the frozen earth, producing a muffled, orderly rumble, like War Drums sounding from the depths of the land.
The sling of Peter's Flintlock Rifle bit painfully into his shoulder, while the cold metal barrel continually knocked against his thigh as he ran.
He gasped for breath, the white vapor from his mouth instantly shredded by the freezing wind. His lungs pumped like battered bellows, his throat dry and tight. The initial excitement and fervor had long since been drained away by the long march and the crushing tension.
All he could hear was the harsh breathing of his own company, the clatter of equipment, and farther away, the unceasing background noise of thunderous cannon fire and the popping volleys of muskets.
Those sounds did not come from the direction they were about to face, but from the blood-soaked areas on the left and right flanks, reminding them that peace was merely an illusion and death was close at hand.
The air was no longer the crisp, dry cold of a Northern Border winter. It was thick with an acrid stench of gunpowder, mixed with a fainter, more unsettling smell—rust-like, sweet, and fishy. It was blood: the breath of death, already cold yet not dispersed, carried by the frigid wind from distant battlefields.
Every breath felt as though he were drawing that stench into his lungs, bringing a wave of icy discomfort.
"Rumble, rumble, rumble..." Several heavy wooden gun carriages followed with difficulty