The Mercian counterattack had failed. In the days that followed, Rurik wasted no time in returning his men to labor. The forests rang again with the bite of axes and the groan of falling timber, for siege engines must be built — towers, rams, and catapults — and winter offered no mercy for idleness.
By now, December's breath had settled fully upon the land. The cold grew savage, the snow lying more than ten centimeters deep, crusted with ice where the sun never touched it. Men's beards froze as they spoke, and the horses' nostrils steamed white in the dawn. Progress slowed to a crawl. Even the local militias, long meant to come to Mercia's aid, gathered sluggishly — roads were choked with snow, rivers sealed under frost.
