For several heartbeats after Oskar's roar, nobody moved.
He remained upon one knee in the mud with one gauntlet locked around the hilt of the enormous sword planted beside him. Pale blue eyes burned through the sockets of the skull-faced helm as he stared south toward the third Russian wave still advancing through smoke and rain. Thousands of grey-green figures continued rolling north across the field beneath the broken roar of Ura, apparently untouched by the momentary paralysis gripping those nearest him.
Then six Russians found enough courage to close in.
They approached cautiously from different directions, rifles and bayonets levelled toward the kneeling giant while one officer stepped half a pace ahead of the rest and raised his revolver until the muzzle pointed directly at Oskar's head.
"Drop the sword, Iron Prince! Surrender!"
He shouted the words in Russian.
Oskar understood every one of them.
His teeth clenched beneath the skull mask. Rage surged hotter through his chest, feeding into that crimson pulse already hammering somewhere beneath his physical heart, and his gauntlet tightened around the sword.
That was his answer.
Oskar exploded upward.
More than three hundred kilograms of man, armour and fury twisted violently from the ground as he tore the sword free and turned with it. The enormous blade swept around him in a complete circle, moving so quickly that several of the Russians seemed not to understand they had been struck until their bodies began coming apart. The officer vanished beneath the first portion of the swing. Another man was cut through the abdomen so cleanly that his upper body lifted away while his legs remained upright for the briefest instant before collapsing beneath him, and the blade continued through two more before completing the turn.
The force of the spin seemed to burst outward with him. Bodies, broken rifles, blood and wet earth were thrown in every direction while the violent rush of displaced air tore caps from heads and sent Russians farther back staggering with their arms across their faces. Several men who had never been touched by the sword were knocked down by pieces of those who had.
For perhaps half a second nobody understood what had happened.
Then somebody screamed.
A Russian several metres away jerked his rifle toward Oskar and fired almost blindly. The shot had barely cracked before Oskar turned toward him and lunged. The distance vanished with shocking speed. The soldier had only begun reaching for the bolt when the sword point entered beneath his ribs and burst from his back.
Oskar kept moving.
He drove the impaled man backward into the Russians behind him, using the body almost as part of the weapon before ripping the sword sideways. The first man tore free in a spray of blood, and the same movement carried the blade through another soldier. Fragments struck those nearby. An officer recoiled as something warm slapped across his face and stared stupidly at the severed fingers clinging to his shoulder before panic finally caught up with him.
"Fire!"
The order came from somewhere within the smoke.
"Fire! Kill him!"
Rifles rose across the field, but the Russians discovered almost immediately how difficult that had become. Oskar was no longer standing alone where an entire line could calmly aim at him. He was inside their formation, moving among men who became human shields whether they wished to or not. One soldier fired and struck a comrade through the back. Another hesitated because two Russians stumbled across his sights. A third shot high when somebody collided with his shoulder.
Oskar was already moving again.
He drove one foot into the churned earth and launched himself upward.
Several Russians looked up in disbelief as the enormous black figure rose through smoke and drifting rain, red cloak flaring behind him. For an impossible instant Oskar seemed suspended several metres above the battlefield with the sword raised over his head.
Then he came down.
The Russian beneath him screamed and instinctively raised his rifle as though wood and steel might somehow stop what was descending upon him. Oskar's sword struck first, splitting the weapon before passing through shoulder, chest and pelvis and burying itself deep into the soaked ground beneath him. Mud burst outward from the impact while the two halves of the soldier collapsed in opposite directions.
Oskar tore the blade free and continued forward.
After that there was no formation around him in any meaningful sense. Russians tried to surround him, tried to stab with bayonets and fire from only a few metres away, yet the sheer density of men turned every attempt into confusion. A bayonet scraped across his breastplate and snapped aside without finding anything it could penetrate. Oskar backhanded the soldier with one armoured fist and sent him spinning into another man with enough force to carry them both into the mud. A rifle fired almost against his shoulder; the bullet sparked from black steel. Another shot intended for Oskar struck a Russian in the throat instead.
Smoke rolled between them. Officers shouted orders nobody obeyed. Men screamed warnings nobody could hear.
Then a Russian field gun fired.
Oskar heard the report from somewhere near the southern woods and turned instinctively as the shell screamed through the haze toward him. Russians around him scattered in every direction.
Oskar threw himself sideways.
The projectile missed him by several metres and struck directly among the men who had been closing upon him.
The explosion tore the group apart.
Mud, bodies and equipment climbed together into the air while the edge of the blast struck Oskar and flung him across the ground. His shoulder hit first. Momentum carried more than three hundred kilograms of flesh and armour into a violent roll through the soaked field.
A wounded Russian lay directly in his path.
The man saw the black mass coming toward him and tried desperately to twist away.
There was no time.
Oskar rolled over him.
Something collapsed beneath the armour with a wet crunch before Oskar continued another half-turn and came back onto one knee.
Nearby, another Russian was struggling with one of the cumbersome Model 1912 grenades. The soldier's hands shook violently as he fought with the awkward safety mechanism beneath the box-shaped head, looking down at it again and again while Oskar tore through another knot of men only metres away.
Finally he armed it.
Then the rush of air from another sword stroke struck him.
His cap flew from his head.
The Russian froze with the grenade still clutched in one hand and slowly looked toward Oskar.
For one heartbeat they stared at one another.
Oskar kicked him.
The armoured boot struck the man squarely in the chest and launched him backward with such force that his body was already broken before it collided with several Russians behind him. They all went down together.
One of them saw what remained in the dead man's hand.
"GRENADE!"
The explosion swallowed the entire heap.
That finally broke several of the men nearby. Some turned and ran south. Others pushed north toward the German trenches simply because that direction took them away from Oskar. Officers shouted at them to stop, drawing revolvers and sabres, but fear had already begun eating through the local formation.
Farther back, one officer managed to impose enough order to gather a firing line. He dragged one soldier into place, shoved another beside him and screamed at those nearby until more men joined them. Five became eight, then a dozen Russians standing shoulder to shoulder perhaps thirty metres from Oskar, rifles levelled toward the black figure in the smoke.
"Take aim!"
Oskar saw them.
The officer raised his sabre.
"Fire!"
The first volley cracked across the field.
Oskar was already running.
Bullets struck the earth around him. Several hammered against his breastplate and shoulder, throwing sparks from the black armour, while another passed close enough to the skull helm that he heard it whine away behind him.
The Russians worked their bolts.
Oskar lowered the sword.
Then drove its point into the ground.
Both hands locked around the hilt and he vaulted.
The enormous blade barely flexed beneath the force as Oskar used it like a pole, converting the momentum of his charge into another tremendous leap. Russians who had just finished chambering fresh rounds stared upward as the black-armoured giant rose above their sights.
Several fired too late.
The bullets passed beneath him.
The officer looked straight up.
"Oh, God—"
Oskar landed on him.
The man vanished beneath more than three hundred kilograms descending from several metres above.
Oskar's boots struck the earth on either side of what remained, and before the surrounding soldiers had properly understood what had happened, the sword was already sweeping through them. The first stroke ripped across the firing line and tore men apart in a single movement. One arm went spinning away with the rifle still trapped in its hand. Another Russian remained upright for several stunned seconds after losing a leg, looking down at the empty space beneath him before attempting to step and collapsing. A third stared at the stump where his forearm had been as though his mind had not yet accepted what his eyes were showing him.
Then the formation disintegrated.
Some men ran. Others fell. Several crawled because crawling was all their bodies still allowed.
Oskar drove through them without slowing.
Ahead stood another Russian.
Young. Barely more than a boy.
His bayonet shook so badly that its point traced frantic circles through the air. A dark stain spread down the front of his trousers as he stared at the enormous skull-faced figure bearing down upon him.
The boy screamed and thrust the rifle forward.
Oskar scarcely noticed him.
He did not swing.
He did not slow.
The bayonet struck his breastplate and flicked uselessly aside with a metallic scrape. A heartbeat later Oskar's armoured shoulder smashed into the soldier at full speed.
The impact folded the young Russian violently backward. His head snapped against the edge of Oskar's shoulder plate before his body was hurled through the air and crashed face-first into the mud several metres away. He did not move again.
Oskar was already past him.
Then he heard a horse scream somewhere behind him.
Not in pain.
In fury.
Oskar turned.
Shadowmane had regained his feet.
The enormous stallion came out of the smoke like something dragged from hell itself. Blood ran down his wounded forelegs and one section of barding hung cracked along his shoulder, yet he was moving, and without Oskar's immense weight upon his back there was a terrifying quickness to him.
A Russian thrust a bayonet toward Shadowmane's neck.
The stallion caught him first.
His teeth closed around the man's shoulder and upper arm, lifting him partly from the ground before Shadowmane shook his head violently and hurled the screaming soldier aside. Another Russian approached from behind and received both hind hooves squarely in the chest. The kick launched him backward into two comrades with enough force to knock all three down.
"Kill the horse!"
Rifles turned.
Shadowmane was already somewhere else.
He bounded sideways through the smoke, changed direction again and crashed shoulder-first through another loose cluster of infantry before the men could track him properly. Bullets struck the barding and sparked from black steel, yet the wounded stallion continued moving with savage speed, jumping bodies and shell holes, biting, kicking and smashing through anyone unable to escape his path.
For a brief instant Oskar watched Shadowmane disappear through the smoke.
Then a machine gun opened.
He recognised the hammering immediately.
Maxim.
Oskar threw himself sideways as the first burst ripped through the space where his chest had been. He struck one shoulder and rolled across the mud while bullets screamed from his armour and tore through the Russians around him. One round glanced from his backplate and struck a fleeing soldier nearby, while another man tried desperately to leap clear of Oskar's path and failed. More than three hundred kilograms of man and armour rolled directly across his torso and crushed him into the field.
Oskar came up on one knee and found the gun through the smoke. Then another muzzle flash appeared farther along the southern tree line.
Two Maxims.
Both crews had finally found him properly and were trying to catch him beneath overlapping fire.
Oskar drove the great sword point-first into the earth before him, intending to use the broad blade as a shield while he brought the grenade launcher into action. He felt a brief resistance beneath the point, followed by something soft giving way, but in the chaos he thought nothing of it.
A wounded Russian had been lying almost completely buried beneath the churned mud.
The sword went straight through him.
The man jerked violently and gave one choking cry before sagging against the blade, still alive for only another heartbeat.
Then the Maxims opened together.
Bullets hammered against the broad black sword with a deafening metallic roar, sparks bursting from its edges as other rounds struck Oskar's breastplate, shoulders and helm. The wounded Russian caught beneath the blade was struck again and again by the same fire. His body convulsed beneath the impacts before being torn apart against the mud, blood and fragments spraying across Oskar's greaves and the lower half of the sword.
Oskar scarcely noticed.
He crouched behind the blade while the machine guns battered it like hail upon a roof and raised his left arm toward the southern trees. His right hand came across to the controls built into the vambrace. He had designed the mechanism himself and tested it several times on a range, but he had never attempted to use it while men were actively trying to kill him.
Now seemed as good a time as any to discover whether the damned thing worked.
Oskar released the safety, aimed his arm toward the first Maxim and pressed the trigger.
Thump.
The grenade vanished through the smoke and exploded beside the machine gun, throwing men and equipment through the brush. Its fire stopped immediately.
Oskar shifted toward the second.
Thump. Thump.
The first shot went wide and burst among Russian infantry sheltering beneath the trees. The next struck almost directly on the Maxim position. Earth, timber and men erupted upward, and the gun disappeared inside the explosion.
Both machine guns fell silent.
Then Oskar saw the artillery piece farther along the tree line. Its crew had seen him too. Russians were frantically dragging the three-inch gun around, shouting over one another while a loader rushed another shell toward the breech.
Oskar aimed.
Thump.
The grenade missed.
It struck the trunk of a tree beside the battery instead, blasting away a great section of bark and timber.
"Quickly!"
"Load!"
The artillerymen hauled the barrel toward him and tried to correct their aim. The shell went into the breech. The gunner dropped into position.
Then the damaged tree cracked above them.
One man looked up.
"Oh, shit—"
The trunk came down with a tremendous crash. Branches swallowed the Russian battery as the trunk struck across the gun shield and wheel, jerking the field piece partly from the ground before it slammed back into the mud at an angle. Several crewmen disappeared beneath the limbs while the others scrambled clear, and whatever condition the men were in, the gun itself was finished for the moment.
Oskar let out a long breath and sank fully onto one knee beside the sword.
For several seconds the ground around him was nothing but wreckage and noise—smoke rolling low across churned mud, bodies scattered through the field, Russians running one way while others continued north toward Soldau as though the black giant behind them no longer existed.
Only then did Oskar realise how far he had come.
The southern tree line stood scarcely a few hundred metres away.
"Shit..."
Somehow he had driven almost completely through the Russian assault without noticing it. Those still close to him wanted little to do with him now. Some fled outright. Others stood frozen or backed away beneath his gaze, while farther north the battle simply continued.
Oskar looked toward Soldau.
The Black Legion was still fighting. Machine guns hammered from the trenches, explosions burst around the wire, and thousands of Russians continued pressing forward through smoke and bodies. Somewhere behind him Shadowmane still rampaged among the scattered infantry, wounded but moving, sending men fleeing whenever they came too close.
That was the truth of it.
For all the carnage they had caused, Oskar and Shadowmane were still only two black figures upon an enormous battlefield. They could break a point. Shatter a section. Terrify everyone unfortunate enough to stand before them.
But they could not stop an army alone.
Oskar bowed his head slightly.
His breath came hard through the skull helm, steam hissing from its openings with every exhalation. His heart hammered violently beneath the breastplate, and deeper within it the crimson heart of light answered, pouring strength through exhausted muscle and forcing his battered body onward.
But he could feel the strain now.
His arms were heavy. His legs burned beneath the armour. Every part of him seemed to demand that he stop, if only for a moment longer.
Not yet.
Oskar tightened his gauntlet around the sword.
It was not over yet.
Then the earth beneath Oskar's knee trembled.
He went still.
Another tremor followed, stronger than the first, and beneath the distant artillery came a deep rolling thunder from the south.
Hoofbeats.
Hundreds of them.
Oskar lifted his head.
Through the drifting smoke and mist, Cossack riders were pouring north across the field.
They came at a full charge, horses stretched into long galloping strides, lances lowered and sabres flashing beneath the pale morning light. Riders spilled from the two roads and spread outward across the open ground like floodwater. Behind them, Russian infantrymen who had been wavering moments earlier saw the cavalry coming and answered with renewed cries of Ura, confidence rising with the thunder of approaching hooves.
Oskar watched them for only a moment before closing one gauntlet around his sword and wrenching it from the earth. Mud sprayed from the blade in a dark arc.
He straightened.
The southern woods stood only a few hundred metres behind the charging cavalry. Soldau lay far to his rear, hidden beyond smoke, bodies and thousands of Russians. Between the two stood Oskar, black armour scarred by bullets, red cloak soaked with rain and blood, the enormous sword hanging in his hands.
The Cossacks did not slow. Their cries rolled ahead of them through the smoke, mingling with the shouts of officers struggling to keep some shape to the charge.
One rider had drawn ahead of the rest.
He was broad-shouldered and mounted on a powerful dark horse already flecked with foam. A soaked black papakha sat low over his brow, and beneath it a heavy moustache framed a face utterly without hesitation. His lance rested beneath one arm, its point lowered steadily toward Oskar's chest, while a curved sabre bounced against his side.
Then he saw Oskar, and recognised him.
Something hungry entered the Cossack's expression. The Iron Prince stood alone before him, separated from Shadowmane and seemingly within reach. Perhaps he imagined the glory of bringing him down, the medals, the stories, the name that would follow him afterward.
Whatever he imagined, he committed to it completely. His horse lengthened its stride. The lance dipped lower. The Cossack bellowed and drove straight toward Oskar.
Then the battlefield erupted.
A shell struck among the leading cavalry with a violent flash, swallowing horse and rider together beneath black earth. Another burst farther back, and almost immediately machine-gun fire began cutting across the charge from the German positions behind Oskar. Riders toppled from saddles. Horses screamed and crashed into one another. One cluster seemed to disintegrate beneath overlapping bursts as animals collapsed at full gallop and threw the men behind them into a rolling mass of hooves, bodies and shattered lances.
Oskar's skull helm turned slightly toward Soldau. Something new was coming from the town.
A deep metallic growl reached him beneath the artillery, followed by grinding tracks, rattling steel and the heavy mechanical clatter of engines straining beneath armour.
Oskar smiled.
The tanks had arrived. They emerged from Soldau one after another, twenty-five iron machines rolling through streets already shaken by bombardment before descending toward the German line. Tracks crushed debris beneath them and bit deep into the soaked earth as the vehicles pushed beyond the defensive positions. Turrets began turning before they had even reached the wire.
Then the guns opened.
The first cannon flash was followed almost immediately by an explosion among the Cossacks. Horse, rider and fragments of lance disappeared inside the blast. Another tank fired, then another, while machine guns began stitching the field with hard, sustained bursts.
For several seconds the Russians seemed unable to understand what was happening.
Then the tanks reached the wire.
Tracks climbed across barbed coils that had held thousands of infantrymen at bay and crushed them flat into the mud. Russians huddled behind the obstacle screamed and scrambled desperately aside. Some escaped. Others disappeared beneath the advancing machines, bodies dragged under steel tracks before being left broken behind them.
The tanks continued forward.
Their guns hammered into the southern tree line and the infantry concentrations around it, blowing apart Russian machine-gun nests and sending branches, earth and men into the air. Machine guns swept the open field at shorter range, cutting into formations already disordered by artillery and cavalry wreckage.
The effect upon the Russians was immediate.
Men who had spent the morning forcing themselves toward the German trenches suddenly turned away from them. Some ran south. Others threw themselves into shell holes and fired desperately at the machines, only to watch bullets spark uselessly from armour.
And amid the confusion, Shadowmane was still moving.
The wounded black stallion charged through smoke with blood running from his forelegs, biting and kicking at Russians who wandered too close. One man disappeared beneath a rear hoof. Another was seized by the shoulder and flung aside while nearby soldiers scattered rather than risk approaching him.
Yet through all of it, one Cossack still reached Oskar.
The leading rider had survived the artillery and machine-gun fire and was now almost upon him. His horse thundered forward, the lance point lowered directly toward Oskar's chest.
Oskar could have killed the animal easily, but he did not.
Instead he drove the sword point-first into the earth and stepped directly into the charge.
The lance struck first.
One gauntlet snapped upward and caught the shaft before the point could slide into a weakness between the plates. At almost the same moment Oskar's other arm drove against the horse's armoured chest and shoulder.
The impact was tremendous.
Horse, rider and momentum crashed into him hard enough to drive Oskar backward through the mud. His boots carved twin trenches across the field as the Cossack leaned forward with everything he possessed, screaming while he tried to force the lance through Oskar by sheer weight and speed.
For several metres Oskar gave ground.
Then he stopped.
His heels buried themselves into the soaked earth. Mud burst around his boots. The horse screamed as its momentum vanished against something that refused to move any farther.
Oskar twisted the lance violently aside and tore it from the Cossack's grip.
The rider's face changed, and for the first time there was fear in it.
Oskar dropped the lance and forced both arms beneath the horse's chest and shoulder. Then he lifted, and the animal's forelegs left the ground.
The Cossack stared downward in disbelief as his horse continued rising beneath him. Oskar strained, armour creaking around his shoulders while the crimson force inside his heart flooded through exhausted muscle. The horse kicked wildly as its balance disappeared, the combined weight of animal and rider tilting backward above the black-armoured giant.
Then Oskar heaved.
Horse and rider went over him.
They struck the mud behind him with a tremendous impact. The Cossack landed beneath his own mount and disappeared under its weight with a sickening crack. The horse thrashed and screamed, stunned and injured but alive.
Oskar had no time to see whether it could rise, for more riders were already coming.
At that moment, Shadowmane returned without being called. The great stallion burst through the smoke beside him, wild-eyed and bleeding but moving with the same savage loyalty that had carried them through Sarajevo and now through Soldau. Oskar seized the saddle and hauled himself upward in one enormous motion. As Shadowmane surged forward, Oskar leaned from the saddle, ripped his sword free of the earth and raised it once more.
Horse and rider plunged directly into the Cossack charge.
A lance struck Shadowmane across the armoured head and skidded away in sparks. Oskar answered with a sweeping cut that tore the rider from his saddle before the man could recover. Another Cossack drove his lance squarely into Oskar's breastplate. The point shrieked across black steel, bent beneath the impact and snapped, the recoil wrenching the rider backward so violently that he fell beneath the horses following him.
Then Oskar was among them.
The sword rose and fell through men and weapons as Shadowmane forced his way between charging horses. One Cossack lost both arms and toppled from the saddle. Another took the blade through the ribs and was hurled sideways into another rider. A third lifted his sabre for a downward cut only for Oskar's sword to reach him first and tear him from the saddle before the strike could land.
Shadowmane fought as savagely as his rider. He caught one horse near the neck and wrenched it sideways, causing animal and rider to crash into the Cossack beside them. Another horse recoiled from the enormous black stallion and collided with the men following behind, turning several orderly strides of cavalry into a tangled mass of screaming animals and falling riders.
The charge began losing all shape.
Yet many Cossacks simply passed around Oskar and continued north.
Some rode directly at the tanks.
They slashed at armour with sabres, fired revolvers at vision ports and drove lances against steel plates as though somewhere upon those unfamiliar machines there must be a weakness they could reach. Blades sparked and broke. Bullets flattened against armour.
One rider forced his horse alongside a tank and leaned from the saddle, stabbing repeatedly at a vision slit.
The machine did not slow.
The horse struck the moving hull, stumbled and fell inward beneath the tracks. Rider and animal vanished beneath the vehicle before emerging behind it as a broken mass in the churned mud.
Others attempted to circle around the machines and reach their rear.
Black Legion infantry cut them apart before they could.
The tanks advanced only partway across the field before settling into positions from which they could dominate the approaches. Turrets traversed steadily between targets. Main guns fired into Russian concentrations and the southern woods while machine guns swept cavalry and infantry caught in the open. Behind them, German artillery continued dropping shells deeper into the tree line, striking reserves, gun positions and the roads by which reinforcements were still attempting to move forward.
What had begun as a Russian assault was collapsing into slaughter.
And through its centre rode Oskar.
His armour was streaked with mud and blood. His red cloak snapped behind him whenever Shadowmane changed direction, and the enormous sword rose repeatedly above the smoke before disappearing again among horsemen. Around him the tanks pushed south like iron beasts while the Black Legion continued hammering the Russians from the trenches.
The Russian attack began to break.
At first only scattered groups turned back. Then entire sections began drifting south. Officers screamed at the men to hold, threatened them, struck them and attempted to force formations back into order.
Some succeeded for a few moments.
Most did not.
Near the southern woods, Leonid Artamonov stared through his binoculars in growing disbelief.
At first his mind refused to arrange what he was seeing into anything sensible. The strange German armoured machines were crossing the wire and firing almost continuously. His cavalry was collapsing around them. Infantry that had spent the morning fighting its way almost to the German trenches was now turning back.
And among it all rode the Iron Prince.
Artamonov watched Oskar smash through another cluster of Cossacks and felt something cold move through him.
"No..."
He lowered the binoculars, stared with his naked eyes, then raised them again as though the lenses themselves might somehow have deceived him.
"No. That is not..."
Oskar's sword came down again.
A rider vanished from his saddle.
Artamonov's face drained of colour.
"That is not a man."
His staff looked toward him.
The general pointed across the battlefield.
"That thing is no man!" he shouted. "Look at him! Look!"
His voice rose until discipline began giving way to something much closer to panic.
"A monster. Some damned German monster!"
His gaze jumped toward the tanks, then back toward Oskar.
"Sorcery... some trick..."
A German shell struck the trees nearby.
The explosion threw dirt, bark and branches across the command group. Officers ducked instinctively, and one man was knocked from his feet.
Artamonov staggered backward.
That was enough.
"We need reinforcements!" he shouted. "More guns! More men!"
Another shell screamed overhead.
The general turned toward the forest.
"Fall back!"
Several staff officers stared at him.
"General?"
"Fall back!" Artamonov repeated. "Back! Back toward Warsaw! Warn them!"
He began stumbling through the trees while his staff followed, some trying desperately to determine whether they had just heard an order for a tactical withdrawal or something far larger.
"Retreat!"
"Pull the men back!"
"Warn headquarters!"
The confusion spread.
Out on the field, men needed little encouragement.
The Russian line before Soldau finally broke.
Panic began in scattered groups and travelled outward faster than any formal command could have moved. Soldiers threw down rifles and ran toward the southern woods. Others remained trapped near the German wire and simply raised their hands, dropping to their knees rather than attempt the long retreat across open ground. Officers continued shouting for men to stand, but fewer and fewer listened.
The Black Legion rose along the trenches with renewed cries.
Those Russians still attempting to fight were met with machine-gun and carbine fire as the defenders began pushing out from sections of the line. Tanks continued advancing toward the southern woods, firing into concentrations of retreating troops and forcing surviving Russian artillery crews to abandon positions they could no longer hold.
Behind them, Soldau remained in German hands.
The German right flank had held.