Five hundred figures twisted into an iron-gray serpent along the winding mountain road between sheer cliffs. Flintlock barrels clattered against bayonet scabbards, the sound exploding through the valley, while footsteps thundered. On a treacherous path less than three meters wide, the players somehow ran with all the force and noise of marching cavalry.
Knife-in-the-Butt ran at the head of the column, breathing heavily. Early winter had settled over the mountains, and the cold had frosted even the road, yet he felt none of it. Every breath sent a cloud of white mist billowing before his face, and Little Knife plunged straight into it.
A thin layer of frost had gathered on his eyebrows, the tip of his nose, and his collar, as though he wore a white mask and neck guard.
"Hey, boss, boss..."
A player hurried to catch up, panting and calling out in a hoarse voice. Cold sweat had soaked the back of his cotton armor.
"If we keep running like this, we'll drop dead before we even see the enemy..."
Little Knife slowed and turned to survey the column. The other players really were in poor shape. Everyone was still jogging along in short strides.
But the white mist pouring from their mouths and their rapid breathing told him their stamina bars had already passed the halfway mark.
They could keep forcing the march, but in weather this cold, draining the players' stamina could easily lead to noncombat casualties.
Fortunately, the dangerous stretch of mountain road ended just ahead. Little Knife strode another few dozen paces and only stopped when he reached the edge of a mountain forest.
"Rest here for ten minutes."
Little Knife squeezed the words through gritted teeth. When he stopped, the players behind him gradually followed his lead, gathering beside the road and