Meanwhile, inside the Sauron central command tent, the atmosphere was grim.
The crackling of giant tallow candles was the only sound at the moment.
Harald sat high upon his throne, his face so dark it seemed ready to drip water. The sole raider to escape Carnford Mountain had broken his leg and was being supported by two soldiers. Covered in blood and mud, his shattered leg crudely splinted with sticks, his face utterly bloodless, he knelt there with difficulty and gave a halting report of the failed night raid.
"Your Majesty, this subordinate has failed! A hundred brothers all... all perished. Please punish me..." The wounded soldier's voice was filled with pain, terror, and profound shame.
Harald did not speak at once. His fingers tapped unconsciously against the throne's armrest, producing dull tap, tap sounds.
After a long while, he finally spoke slowly. No anger or joy could be heard in his voice, yet it carried a chill. "You said there were dogs on the mountain?"
"Y-yes, Your Majesty!" the wounded soldier hurriedly answered, a terrified memory flashing through his eyes. "We... we were almost at the summit, no more than twenty steps away! Then dogs suddenly started barking! Fiercely! Then they threw down torches from above, along with Molotov cocktails. We were all exposed, and then came the volley fire. The brothers..." He could go no further, choking up.
The command tent fell deathly silent.
Asgeir, Ulf, Svein, Luo Yao, and the other high-ranking generals stood on either side, their expressions equally unpleasant.
The carefully planned, highly anticipated surprise decapitation strike had actually been foiled by the barking of a few dogs?
It was like a resounding slap across the face of the Sauron people's most cherished pride—their valor and strategy—an absurd humiliation.
They were used to fighting enemy