The first rule of sneaking up on your opponent was to keep your traces to a minimum. Running would cloud the air with snow or dust. This miserable fog might not give it away. It might, in any case. Running would also create a great deal of sound. Sound that ambient noise could not mask. So your steps were staggered and light as possible. The sounds could not be uniform. Uniform sounds revealed a uniform,. military mind. A mind focused on a goal. In this case, the murder of those in the camp. Ulbarich had no doubts. It was going to be a gods-damned slaughter, for one side or the other. Ulbarich hoped it would be for the right side and not the wrong one.
They were following edges of buildings. There were no shadows, but clothing was either dark enough to blend into the side of the building or light enough to blend into the snow. Ulbarich took a knee near a half-collapsed wall of stone. He was swallowed by the brown and the gray of the charred structure. That stained-glass window above him was drinking in light and the attention of the bandits nearby. There was one nearby. Ulbarich could hear the breathing, even if he could not see the fellow through this sick fog. Only one, he thought. A perimeter guard? It didn't make sense. In this mess, you couldn't see far enough to read any sights or take in any intruders.
Habit, Ulbarich supposed.
The flat of the Katzbalger pressed against his lips. There was no prayer, only a will for the success of the attack.