"The knights who struggled free thought to aid their trapped brothers. But before their blades cleared leather, death found them. From the eastern bank, savages poured forth, like the ghostly horde of a long-forgotten drowning. Most bore short bows - not the great war bows of armies, but the compact weapons of hunters: light, swift, and lethal. Some even wielded crossbows! Rising from the waters like vengeful spirits, they formed an impenetrable net, crushing any hope of escape eastward. The survivors were driven back onto the bridge, adding fresh chaos to the already hellish scene. The western bank proved no haven; there too, archers emerged from the river's depths, catching the fleeing knights completely off guard.
"How many did they number?" Carl's voice was barely a whisper.
"Five, perhaps six hundred men trapped on that bridge. Though I wasn't among the first crossing, terror froze my blood all the same. We yearned to aid our brothers, but stood helpless. When the western savages charged, we could barely defend ourselves."
"Fifteen hundred lives lost? Impossible!"
"There lies the bitter truth, Carl. Our original plan called for immediate retreat, to await reinforcements. But Sir Lindsay, our commander, would have none of it. 'We cannot retreat, Del,' he declared. 'Abandon this fight, and our spirit dies here. Yield Prayer Bridge now, and we lose it forever. No - we must take it with one decisive stroke.' My protests fell on deaf ears."
"They say Sir Lindsay was newly appointed? Young?"
"Yes, barely my age - I was his squire then. But his hunger for glory outstripped all others." The squad leader's voice carried ancient grief. "He ordered a final assault to seize Prayer Bridge. 'Final' indeed - our cavalry was already decimated, knights vanishing beneath the Blackwater's surface one by one. He commanded us to shed our armor, the better to fight in the river. Mounted men plunged into those inky waters, battling an endless tide of emerging savages. Infantry charged across the bridge, now carpeted with horse corpses, crushing against the climbing savages. By Oris's hell! Even now, the memory chills my marrow. I cut down savage after savage from horseback, surrounded by floating heads. My mount's swimming grace kept me from joining my brothers in the depths. But that mercy proved brief. Oris's third jest was yet to come."
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"Ah!" Carl drew a sharp breath. "This must be the horror the bards sing of - 'The River Monster'? One version claims... was it this beast that took Lord Eoch's daughter?"
"A monster claimed her, yes - but that tale comes later. My horse screamed - a sound I'd never heard from any beast. Then we began to sink, The Blackwater turned darker still as my horse's blood spread around us like an expanding shadow. The saddle dragged me under, death's fingers at my throat. Light armor saved me from the depths. I thrashed wildly, breaking surface in three thundering heartbeats. I thought escaping the black water would free me from terror. Instead, what I saw made fear's grip tighten like a noose."
A slaughtered elk lay riverside, its split belly baring ribs white as moon-bleached bone in the darkness. Devalosfang knelt, wrenched free a rib, and hurled it riverward with all his might.
"I saw my mount then, and two knights beside. But no chestnut stallion remained - only gleaming bones in the current."
The rib must have reached the far bank; no splash marked its landing.
----------------------------------------
They threaded through the forest. Since Stellan's departure from Lannord's side, melancholy had settled over him like evening mist.
"We've arrived." A rider murmured to the brooding Lannord. They'd reached their camp - the Shadowgreen Knights' headquarters - west of Cynthia's capital, sheltered in Weimar Forest. Campfires flickered through the trees, but dense spruce and oak masked their light like storm clouds veiling stars.
Shadowgreen Knights clustered around the fires, voices low. They looked up as Lannord's group approached. "Victory is ours, brothers," Lothar announced to a man gnawing duck meat.
"Aye, congratulations. A grand triumph for us all," Duck-leg grinned, strings of half-raw duck clung to his gapped teeth.
Lothar dismounted, snatched another leg from the spit. "Your losses?" He spat out the raw meat instantly.
"Barely a scratch, Lothar," Duck-leg laughed, claiming the discarded food. "Two of Yeben's men took minor wounds. Plofile lost his horse's head. Ha! Wish it'd been his own!"
"The Godma men? Any captives?" Lothar abandoned all thought of the duck.
Duck-leg waggled his meat. "None... all ended up like this bird here."
"Damn. Three slipped our net." He spat blood-taste from his mouth. "My error... didn't expect reinforcements. Should've had them all."
"Oh? The Queen will be pleased to hear that." Duck-leg's grin widened. "The victory, I mean. Save that scowl for the Southerners, Lothar. Speaking of which - where's that noble pup?" He gestured with greasy duck toward Lannord. "Wasn't there another hot-blooded brat? Not dead, is he?"
"No sir, he lives," Lannord rode closer. The cursed horse remained, but its rider had vanished. "Probably watering the trees somewhere."