Dust billowed along the road, and hoofbeats rang out without pause.
Reinforcements arrived at Clearfeather Ridge in wave after wave, and the Northern Frontier's main forces finally took over the front.
The soldiers pitched their tents and began building defenses around the mouth of the valley: watchtowers, trenches, archery towers. They even hauled in catapults and heavy ballistae.
Within days, Clearfeather Ridge went from a crude Snow Oath outpost to a true bulwark of the Northern Frontier.
Of course, the Snow Oath had no intention of simply retreating.
They brought in small elite units from Ice Sea Commandery, attempting night raids, arson, and attacks on supply lines. Some even fired curse projectiles at the outpost.
But every attempt failed.
They were either spotted in advance or wiped out in ambushes.
Gibson's command was flawless. His troop deployments and battlefield formations were all but perfect.
But he knew full well that, at several crucial moments, he had seized the initiative not because he possessed some extraordinary gift.
It was because of the baron drinking tea behind the lines.
As soon as Gibson took over, Louis handed off all responsibility for tactical command.
He had already earned enough merit. Earning more would merely be icing on the cake; he was better off conserving his strength.
He stayed in a private tent in the rear camp, basking in the sun by day and brewing tea and writing reports at night, as though he had settled into retirement.
Of course, he was not resting entirely. He also used the daily intelligence system to slip Gibson a few carefully worded suggestions.
Once, for instance, Gibson was agonizing over the enemy's whereabouts.
Louis suddenly pointed at the map and said, "Enemy troops might use this mountain trail over the next few days."
"How do you know?"