Perhaps the gods had decided Bagnia had not suffered enough disasters that year, for the first snow arrived early, in late autumn.
The bitter wind swept ice crystals over the clifftop, and Karl's cloak snapped in the dusk. He took off his brass goggles, their lenses still dusted with snow kicked up by the Prince's Army scouting party three kilometers away.
"Can we take them?"
Karl turned to ask his friend beside him.
Captain Bock raised his telescope, watched for a while, then shook his head at Karl.
"No... if we absolutely have to fight, we can only make one strike. Fire one cannon shot, one volley, then retreat immediately."
"Why?"
Faced with his friend's question, Captain Bock merely glanced behind him without speaking.
Karl looked back too, then fell silent.
Behind them, on the sheltered slope below the clifftop, a hundred or so soldiers sat scattered about in ragged clothes, their faces weary.
Some were cleaning weapons already mottled with rust, others silently gnawed on hard, dry bread, and still others simply stared into the distance, their eyes full of confusion and helplessness.
These soldiers came from different units. Some, like Bock, had fled a defeat at the front, while others were refugees whom the military command had hastily recruited off the streets with offers of food.
They had no unified organization, no adequate supplies, and not even enough basic winter clothing.
By contrast, Bock could see through his telescope that the enemy wore thick, warm green coats, and that they had ample supplies of ammunition and provisions.
Captain Bock even suspected the enemy scouting party had brought some kind of light cannon. The difference in their equipment was like night and day.
"We have too few men, and our equipment is too poor."
Captain Bock spoke quietly, a