The night wind of the Fitcarter River chilled right through one's bones.
Just past midnight, the floating bridge on the river was only half constructed.
A dozen rafts were linked by iron chains, with half submerged in the icy river water and the other half secured by thick spruce logs nailed to the riverbed.
Neither Alexei nor Gloev had correctly estimated the soldiers' marching speed or the poor condition of the roads to Bear Castle.
The data and precedents from the Holy Alliance Army's military textbooks were useless here.
The soldiers in charge of building the bridge shivered, their hands turning purple from the cold.
The fingers gripping the axe trembled, and each nail hammered required a breath of warm air on their hands first.
They had been busy here for three hours, barely able to see the reeds on the opposite bank.
Yet, the river wind howled, bringing with it once again the sound of hooves.
"Bishop Theomir! Bishop Theomir!"
