War of the Wolf by Bernard Cornwell

War of the Wolf

War of the Wolf (The Warrior Chronicles Book 11) by Bernard Cornwell
English | 2018 | General Fiction/Classics | ePUB |2.4 Mb

War of the Wolf : His blood is Saxon
His heart is VikingHis battleground is England

“Perhaps the greatest writer of historical adventure novels today” (Washington Post), Bernard Cornwell has dazzled and entertained readers and critics with his page-turning bestsellers. Of all his protagonists, however, none is as beloved as Uhtred of Bebbanburg.

And while Uhtred might have regained his family’s fortress, it seems that a peaceful life is not to be – as he is under threat from both an old enemy and a new foe. The old enemy comes from Wessex where a dynastic struggle will determine who will be the next king. And the new foe is Sköll, a Norseman, whose ambition is to be King of Northumbria and who leads a frightening army of wolf-warriors, men who fight half-crazed in the belief that they are indeed wolves. Uhtred, believing he is cursed, must fend off one enemy while he tries to destroy the other. In this new chapter of the Saxon Tales series—a rousing adventure of courage, treachery, duty, devotion, majesty, love and battle, as seen through the eyes of a warrior straddling two worlds—Uhtred returns to fight once again for the destiny of England.

“They were led by Cynlæf Haraldson, a West Saxon warrior whom Æthelflaed had wanted as a husband for Ælfwynn. The truth, of course, was that Cynlæf wanted to be King of Mercia himself. He was young, he was handsome, he was brave in battle, and, to my mind, stupid. His ambition was to defeat the West Saxons, rescue his bride from her convent, and be crowned.

But first he must capture Ceaster. And he had failed.

“It feels like snow,” Finan said as we rode south toward the city.

“It’s too late in the year for snow,” I said confidently.

“I can feel it in my bones,” he said, shivering. “It’ll come by nightfall.”

I scoffed at that. “Two shillings says it won’t.”

He laughed. “God send me more fools with silver! My bones are never wrong.” Finan was Irish, my second-in-command, and my dearest friend. His face, framed by the steel of his helmet, looked lined and old, his beard was gray. Mine was too, I suppose. I watched as he loosened Soul-Stealer in her scabbard and as his eyes flicked across the smoke of the campfires ahead. “So what are we doing?” he asked.

“Scouring the bastards off the eastern side of the city,” I said.”



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