In the remains of a forest a small company of riders stands stamping in the cold morning fog, their hidden position carefully chosen. On the third horn they will charge forward, blindly.
The horses bristle nervously as the first horn echoes in the distance. This must mean that the charge has been called. They wait, in silence. Then, the second horn. The riders clasp their swords, and some some lower their vizors. They reign in the horses and stand ready. "Ashes and dust". "Memory and honor".
One of the riders man pushes his grey steed forward, addressing the others: "In a few moments we will write whatever history is left to us. Today we will die, that is why you ride with me. Remember why we are here today, remember, and it may yet alter the fate of the world in days to come. Others will not forget, even at this moment we do not stand alone. And now, riders of the old way, ride with me!"
The third horn sounds, a desperate call cut short almost as soon as it began, the hornblower on the battlefield rinsed with cruel arrows. Now they ride, and as the fog grows thinner, the sound of battle grows louder.
The rider in front emerged from the burned woods at exactly the right spot, the others trailing in his wake, next to each other, forming a wedge. They cut the startled enemy in the rear flank.