At first glance, this must certainly be a trap set out by the rebels. A force no more than five men strong would not have been able to wipe out a patrol of four runecarved skeletons without casualties unless they took extreme care in their approach. Not unless one of them possessed strength and magic that would put them on par with a Dreadknight. Though intelligence did not report on the rebel scum having any exceptional individuals among them, you cannot rule the possibility out.

And honestly?

The thought excites you.

Detlev and his men-at-arms put up such a disappointing resistance when they approached your camp. Detlev possessed the only pair of balls between the six of them, though he unfortunately lacked the ways and means to back them up. The rest turned tail and fled despite knowing they were dead men walking. They could have done you the courtesy of taking a swing, entertaining you, but they instead proved to be twice as pathetic as Tiffany and not half as attractive. The idea that one of them might give you the first proper fight you've had since graduating from the Squire Corps leaves your heart ringing in your ear and sets your blood aflame.

Before you can think a second thought about traps and ambushes, the Blade of the Defiler has leapt from its scabbard and into your hand hand. The bone boys stand at the ready, so you ride down the line and tap your blade against the tips of their spears. When you reach the end of the line, you thrust the black blade forward and shout: "Fourth Company, forward! No quarter, no mercy! Only death to those who oppose the Empire!"

The skeletons shriek their battle cry, bones rattling as they slam the butts of their spears against the hard packed dirt of the road.

Then you are off. The pale horse between your legs whinnies as you urge it forward with your thighs, its black coat and golden mane like a streak of ebon lightning as it blitzes through the woods. Behind you the clatter of steel armor and ironclad bone follows behind, your soldiers keeping in their diamond formation despite the thick undergrowth that would have slowed a force of living soldiers down. Your warhorse tramples the weed and the thicket with ease, rushing ahead a full speed as it feels your excitement and bloodlust over the summoning bond.

Such is your excitement that you may have left your skeletons behind, your eyes forward and your mind putting the fact that even tireless ironclad bones cannot keep up with a pale horse crashing through the forest at speed. You charge forward without subtlety or fear of what lay ahead... and when you catch the scent of their campfire in their clearing, you have the pale horse circle around. If you remember the terrain from the map, there's a perfect little hillock that overlooks the clearing with a short cliff, and...

Yes! There it is. You guide your pale horse to the edge of the cliff, turn it slightly to the side, and pull back hard upon the reigns.