In the darkest hour before dawn, the firelight and gunfire at the cliff's edge atop Carnford Mountain had long since fallen silent. Only the acrid stench of gunpowder mingled with the smell of blood in the biting morning wind, lingering for a long while.
Karl stood at the cliff's edge, his expression grave. Beneath his feet lay bottomless darkness, yet he could imagine the horrific scene down there.
Guard held torches aloft, illuminating the clear bullet marks on the nearby rock face, the charred traces left by Molotov cocktails, and several splatters of blood that had already darkened.
A Sauron short-handled throwing axe, deeply embedded in a hardwood barricade, was laboriously pulled free by a soldier and presented to Karl. Its blade glinted coldly in the firelight, while the leather wrapped around its handle had been soaked through with blood and dried stiff, carrying a silent savagery.
The lingering fear in his heart had yet to fully subside.
Harald's surprise assault from the cliff had truly exceeded his expectations.
Although a cautious staff officer had suggested strengthening the defenses on the back mountain before the battle, most people—including Karl himself—had believed that the Sauron lacked heavy siege equipment. Breaking through from the front would be difficult enough; surely they would never choose this "road of death." Thus, only a few rotating militia squads had been stationed there as a token measure, while the bulk of their attention remained fixed on the front lines.
Who could have imagined Harald would truly dare commit such elite forces to such a perilous gamble? If not for one of those militia captains being quick-witted enough to find simple patrols boring and bring several of his own dogs up the mountain, tonight might truly have ended in catastrophe.
The dogs' keen sense of smell had