Bolk pressed himself tightly against the cold, damp rock face, his fingertips digging deep into cracks and weak spots covered in moss.
Every pull-up, every search for a new foothold, drained what little strength and will remained in him and the Sauron elite under his command.
The freezing wind was like countless tiny blades of ice, tearing at their thin night clothes, trying to peel them from this nearly vertical wall of death.
Below lay an abyss of darkness that swallowed all things. Now and then, loosened gravel tumbled down, and only after a long while came a faint, nearly inaudible echo, reminding them that the height they were at was enough to make any mistake a fall beyond redemption.
Yet hope lay above them.
Through the thin night mist and his own heavy breathing, Bolk seemed already able to make out the vague black silhouette of the tall towers of Carnford's main castle beyond the outline of the mountaintop.
Just a little longer. If they could climb over this last, steepest stretch of rock and set foot in the relatively level woodland atop the mountain, their surprise force would stab like a dagger into what seemed to be the enemy's most impregnable rear.
He could almost smell the warm hearth fires in the castle at the summit, see the panicked faces of the blond female knight and the infant in her arms, even imagine Karl von Schmidt's instant collapse upon learning that his wife and child had fallen into his hands—the way he would have no choice but to kneel and sue for peace.
Glory, wealth, His Majesty's lavish rewards, and a name that would be sung in the epics of Sauron... all of it seemed within reach. The burning pain in his muscles and lungs from the climb