On journeys he usually rode a sure-gaited palfrey, and allowed his squires to lead his powerful warhorses. Expensive animals, one did not foolishly grind them down by using them for traveling. Unsure why––some odd presentiment had brushed against the back of his mind this morn, sending a chill over his flesh. People oft spoke of that sensation as someone walking over their grave. He had wanted to laugh at the bit of fae nonsense. Instead, he obeyed the impulse and ordered Justin to saddle Spirit for this leg of the passage. That change might now afford him a fighting chance. Trained to fight in battle, his destrier was controlled by only Rhys’s knees and heels giving him commands. The powerful animal pranced on his hooves, as chaos rained down on them in the blinding snowstorm. Fortunately, the horse’s pale dapple grey hide blended with the blizzard. He failed to present an easy target as the riders mounted upon the blacks or browns. Three squires on his right went down, one after the other––young Jarvis took an arrow in the neck and toppled from his palfrey. Rhys just barely guided his mount away from trampling the poor lad. The fate of his other men he could not discern. A rain of bolts screamed through the air from all directions. Rhys heard the hard thuds when they hit muscle and bone. Heard his soldiers scream. The driving snow made it impossible to see anything, friend or foe. Far off to his right came shouts, “To Valyer!” By that point, everything was so confused in the blowing snowstorm that Rhys had no idea who was left standing, or to where they were rallying.
