The rhythm normally soothed him, brought him a calmness rarely felt at other times in his life, for the sound represented freedom to him as he became one with the horse and it carried him across the land faster than a man had any hope of traveling. Not now, though, because he knew he was pushing the horse too hard. Forced by circumstance, he had no choice. Flecks of foam flew from the animal's lips, carried away on the wind as they thundered toward the capital. In the distance, Achtindel’s walls and spires rose against the dawn sky. With it in view, the general dared to push the horse even harder. He urged his steed on, a feeling of remorse gnawing at the pit of his gut because he knew when he arrived at the city, this valiant animal that had given its all would be left spent and useless. He leaned forward as far as he dared, stroked the horses neck in appreciation. “It happens to all of us eventually,” he said, his words stolen by the wind. The horse misstepped and Sir Alton heard the crack of its front leg snapping in the fraction of a second before the horse pitched forward.
