After the blood-red setting sun had finally sunk completely beyond the western ridge, it cast the ravaged wilderness outside Carnford City—together with the countless corpses yet to be collected, shattered weapons, and lingering wisps of gun smoke—into the twilight.
The deafening cries of battle and thunder of cannon fire subsided as swiftly as a receding tide, leaving only the muffled groans of the wounded, the howling of the cold wind, and the faint clamor drifting from both camps.
The bloody offensive and defense that had lasted an entire day came to a temporary halt, marked by the Saurons' completely thwarted assault and grievous casualties.
Lyon's Dragon Cavalry had launched two precise flanking strikes that afternoon, like sharp surgical scalpels carving viciously into the unprotected "soft underbelly" of the Sauron army. For a time, their right wing had fallen into utter disarray, with the Auxiliary Army and ranged troops scattering in rout.
Harald had been forced to urgently deploy his precious reserve forces and remaining cavalry to intercept and suppress them. Only by personally taking command had he barely stabilized the battle line, preventing the collapse of the flank from spreading into a tremor across the entire front.
Yet in the course of redeploying and intercepting, the Sauron forces had once again exposed themselves to Carnford's prearranged artillery fire and the long-range heavy cannon on the mountain, suffering additional casualties that could have been avoided.
In the end, the Saurons had no choice but to hastily construct crude curved breastworks on both flanks from sandbags and assorted debris. Only then did they barely regain their footing, though the edge of their offensive had already been badly blunted.
The battlefield beneath the night curtain displayed an eerie contrast.
Behind the positions of both sides, flames blazed fiercely. Countless torches and bonfires lit