The Return of Sir Percival by S. Alexander O'Keefe

Author:S. Alexander O'Keefe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group Press
Published: 2016-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

THE WID RIVER

s Ivarr rode alongside the line of horsemen on his way back to the head of the column, the road ahead disappeared in the drifting fog. A moment later, the grey cloud moved on, into the fens on the other side of the road. The Norse warlord had ridden to the rear to tell the stragglers to keep pace or die. They were still a long day’s ride from Londinium, and he intended to mount an attack on the city the next morning at dawn.

As he rode by Ulf, the other Norseman pulled his horse out of the line and caught up with him, matching his gait.

“Speak, if you have something to say.”

“The horses tire, and the men would break their fast. They would know—”

“We ride,” Ivarr growled, “until I say otherwise.”

“That will not go well with—”

“I do not—” Ivarr’s shout died in his throat. A horse on the narrow wooden bridge ahead reared up, and his rider fell heavily to the wooden deck below. The other riders crossing the bridge slowed and began to mill about in confusion.

“I told you!” Ulf snarled. “The horses are tired. We must—”

Ivarr turned to the other Norseman, his mailed fist raised to strike him down, but Ulf was already falling from his horse, an arrow buried deep in his chest. Ivarr stared down in confusion at the man lying on the ground. When he looked up, the bridge ahead had become a seething mass of frantic horses and men. Two more men fell from their horses as he watched, one screaming in agony.

Ivarr drove his heels into his horse and galloped forward, roaring, “We are attacked! Get off the bridge! Move!”

As he pressed forward, trampling over fallen men and horses, the Norseman saw ghostly bowmen in the fog, sending arrow after arrow into the massed warriors, killing men and animals alike. For a moment, it seemed as if the bowmen were standing on the river itself, but then he realized they were shooting from small islets.

Ahead of him, at the crest of the bridge, Ivarr saw mud-covered chains beneath the horses’ hooves. Rage welled up inside of him. Once the column of horses had been evenly split between one side of the river and the other, men hiding beneath the bridge must have snapped the chains tight, tripping the horses and now barring passage across. This was a well-planned ambush.

Ivarr wheeled his horse, smashing into the rider to his right, and roared out a command.

“Move! Go back! It’s a trap!”

The warriors on his right and left struggled to turn their mounts, cursing and screaming at each other and their horses. The panicked animals attacked each other in the desperate frenzy. An arrow slammed into Ivarr’s breastplate, and a second scored a furrow across the upper part of his right arm. Another arrow pierced the thigh of the man behind him, drawing a scream of rage and pain.

Realizing he couldn’t force a passage through the melee of men and horses to

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