Night fell.
The howling wind in the Nerodan Corridor swept sand and gravel into the tent, as if a hand were slapping the military map, forcing Paul Greiman to hold down the four corners of the chart.
This narrow passage wedged between the Rocky Mountains and the Southern Ridge pierced the heartland of the continent like a sharp sword, the towering snow peaks on both sides glowing with a chilling cold in the twilight.
"My lord, please look."
The finger of Hall Duke poked heavily at a certain spot on the map, and traces of gunpowder from the last battle still remained in the old knight's fingernail crevices. "Alba must be fleeing toward the Watchman Fortress-that was supposed to be the place of honor we guarded with our lives!"
Paul gazed at the fortress symbol marked on the map-it guarded the narrowest eastern side of the Nerodan Corridor, and past this fortress to the east lay the vast continental heartland, truly a place of the throat.
From the sand table, this masonry fortress backed against a vertical cliff, with a pass in front just wide enough for five horses to walk abreast, which should have been a natural barrier easy to defend and hard to attack. But now fluttering on the wall was the White Wolf Banner of the Prairie Royal Tent.
"Our scouts report." Chief of Staff Owen Schroeder pointed to the contour lines in the eastern section of the corridor. "Alba has dismantled all the beacon towers along the way and is forcing captives to build defensive fortifications."
Hall suddenly knelt on one knee facing Paul, the sound of colliding armor startling the birds outside the tent. "Marquis Greiman, please allow the Watchers Legion to serve as the main force in recapturing the fortress!" The count's voice was