Pale-as-Snow long ago lost count of the raids he’d had charge of. A lifetime of ’em, and he was still waiting for one that went exactly as he’d hoped. Still waiting for that perfect raid. However careful his planning, there was always some little splinter of bad luck. Some overeager fool on his side, or some over-watchful stickler on the other, a loose strap, or testy horse, or some wrinkle of the weather or the light, or a bloody dry twig in the wrong place. But that’s war, Pale-as-Snow supposed. You get luck of all kinds, and the winner’s the one who makes the best of his share.
