For the next two days, the air outside Carnford City seemed to congeal into heavy blocks of lead, pressing down until people could hardly breathe.
From the direction of the Sauron camp came the unceasing thunk-thunk of chopping wood, day and night, like the slow, powerful heartbeat of a giant.
Tens of thousands of slaves driven by whips swarmed like worker ants, madly felling what remained of the distant forests. Thick logs were hauled back in an endless stream and sawn into sturdy planks in crude workshops.
Still more slaves dug into the frozen earth, stuffing the soil into rough burlap sacks to make tens of thousands of sandbags. Above the Sauron camp, smoke from cooking fires hung all day long, along with a stifled restlessness steeped in fear and fanaticism.
Carnford's scouts and lookouts took it all in, and intelligence reports flew to the command post like snowflakes.
On the General Staff's sand table, the red arrows representing the massing Sauron forces grew ever denser, pointing at every weak point in the Carnford defensive line.
The conclusion was unmistakable: after suffering the setback of the cliff ambush, Harald had completely run out of patience. He no longer intended to make any flashy detours or probes. Instead, he would rely on his absolute advantage in numbers to launch an all-out frontal assault regardless of the cost, intending to smash through Carnford's defenses with a sheer flood of flesh and blood.
Harald was furious. He was finally getting serious—and Karl could not have asked for more.
It was time to test the defensive system he had painstakingly built over the past several months, along with every trump card in his hand.
He urgently ordered the two elite mercenary legions newly arrived at Amber Bay from Frankfurt—a total of five thousand men—to