The Dragons of Archenfield

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He was coming down the hill when they struck. The ambush was so sudden and so unexpected that it threw him into a complete panic. Warnod had been riding along in the fading light of a warm evening with a reflective smile on his face and a feeling of deep satisfaction coursing through his whole body. The visit to Hereford had been a delight in every respect. As his horse picked its way along a track through the woodland, Warnod sat back in the saddle and savoured each detail of his outing. It had been worth all the effort. He would cheerfully have ridden ten times as far for a taste of such happiness.

The first arrow jerked him out of his reverie. It came whistling murderously from the gloom and shot across his path before thudding into the trunk of a sycamore. A second arrow was much closer, passing within a foot of his shoulder before spending its fury deep in the undergrowth. Warnod did not wait for a third missile. His heels kicked hard and the horse was soon plunging down the hill in a mad gallop.

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