On the wasteland that morning, a cold wind swept dead grass across the ground.
On the horizon, the silver-gray wall of steel began to crawl forward again.
In the morning light, five thousand heavily armored infantry slowly rolled across the wasteland. Their tower shields fitted together without a gap, their halberds bristled like a forest, and they pressed northward step by step like a moving iron wall, with a composure that was almost suffocating.
Count Romon rode his warhorse at the center, protected by layer upon layer of tower shields.
Holding the reins in one hand, he looked over the soldiers' helmets at the cavalry roaming along the distant flanks.
"A swarm of flies."
He snorted contemptuously.
Ever since they had broken camp that morning, the cavalry flying the White Tower's banner had been trailing them a kilometer away.
They neither attacked nor retreated, merely kicking up vast clouds of dust from time to time to obscure the army's view.
"My lord, movement on the left flank!"
An adjutant pointed at the rise on their left and shouted.
Romon turned to look.
The cavalry, previously so lackadaisical, suddenly moved.
They split into several squads of roughly twenty men each and fanned out, the dust raised by their hooves obscuring half the sky.
Their horses were astonishingly fast, even a little faster than the Empire's light cavalry mounts.
"Finally lost your patience?"
Romon raised his right hand, his voice steady and strong.
"All units, halt!"
"Shields up!"
Clack.
With the sharp click of ratchets locking into place, the outermost three ranks of shield bearers slammed their tower shields into the ground in unison.
Unlike the airtight "all-steel fortress" they had formed before, the formation now had clearly defined layers-the outer third of the soldiers wore heavy suits of full plate, while