A Hungry Creature

I had an astute Insta comment from a reader who recalled that it was Leif, in Heart of Winter, who first mentioned Ragnar. Good catch! And thanks for the inspiration of this post. I'm always in the mood to talk about Ragnar. 

Here's his first "appearance," if you will: 

“What’s troubling you?” Erik asked. He realized, with something of a start, that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone with his heir like this, and felt like a neglectful sod for it. Leif had no shortage of tutelage and training, and his brother was his constant companion and best friend – but Erik intended the boy to rule this nation some day, and he’d failed, lately, in providing any sort of direct counsel.

Leif shrugged. “Do you think Ragnar will come?”

“When has he ever missed a chance to drink our ale?”

The corner of Leif’s mouth twitched upward in a fleeting smile. “That’s true.” He sobered. “He will be angry that we’ve strengthened ties with the South.”

Later, when Ragnar sweeps into the hall during the Yule feast, Leif is the one who answers Oliver. 

Great slabs of pink, bloody beef tenderloin were being served when the grand doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, admitting a gust of cold wind that bent the candle flames double, and a swirl of snow.

A collective gasp went up amongst the diners. Guards moved forward along the edges of the room, heading for the small knot of newcomers who stalked in shaking off clumps of snow, cheeks pink from the cold.

Leif’s cup landed on the table with a solid thump. Before Oliver could ask who had arrived, Leif said, “Ragnar,” in a tone that was both eager and cautious.

“Who?” Oliver asked.     

“The leader of the Úlfheðnar. Our cousin.”

There were seven of them, all men, grouped three and three so they flanked their leader, walking into the hall like a spearpoint.

Guards heaved the massive doors closed again; the candles guttered, and then settled. The light swelled again, and Ragnar swept around the big fir tree and into full view.

It was the eyes Oliver noticed first: the same clear, shocking blue as Erik’s. Even without being told, he could have noted the familiar resemblance: the stern brow, the blade-straight nose, the regal bearing.

But where Erik’s mouth had been a flat line of contempt on Oliver’s first day here, Ragnar’s was curved into a boyish, overeager smirk. He was golden-haired, like Leif, his hair secured in a dozen small braids along his temples and the crown of his head, left loose in the back, so it looked like a windswept lion’s mane. Rather than beads and jewels, there were bones strung through it, and around his neck: a thick, intricate choker of old, dirty ivory that gleamed faintly in the candlelight. He wore wolf fur of a dozen different colors over worn, serviceable leathers. A wide belt set with more bones, and heavy, fur-wrapped boots to his knees. He carried a sword on his hip, and a bow and quiver on his back; a horn hung from his belt, and his hands, as he spread his arms upon approach, bore fingerless leather gloves backed with bone spikes like ivory knuckle-dusters.

“Cousin!” he greeted, heavily-accented voice booming through the hall, undercut with suppressed laughter. “You’ve saved the best course for me, I see.”

One of the things I realized early on in HOW drafting was that Leif wasn't like most of my other leading men, in this series, or any of my others. I tend to write stern, leaderly grumps (Erik, Ghost, Nikita), loveable but awful gremlins (Tenny, Nali, Much), displaced theater majors with tragic backstories (Val, Ian), strong silent types who feel deeply and show little (Michael, Walsh, Vlad) and the occasional sunshine boy, like Sasha. (Rune fits that bill, too, for the most part.) But with Leif, I was writing a dutiful prince for the first time. Not a vengeful, blood-drinking, fratricidal prince like the Dracula brothers, but a proper one. Loyal, steadfast, dedicated to following in the king's footsteps to the best of his ability. Leif approached being heir with a weighty sense of responsibility - if not joy. And that's the thing about Leif: he doesn't find joy in his inheritance. It's a duty, one to which he's wholly committed at the outset of our journey, but not one that has made him spoiled or bratty or entitled. Leif is very much a Good Boy. He does everything right. 

Leif is essentially the perfect man - in real life. But this is a fiction book, and that calls for interest. It does for me, at least. Fiction, adult fiction, is a sandbox in which to play with all the dark, savage dolls not suitable for real life. It's for fun. In real life, watching a person like Leif fall from grace would be a travesty. In fiction we get to enjoy all the delicious drama. 

For all his admirable traits, and for all that Leif admires - reveres - his Uncle Erik, Ragnar has always been the "cool" cousin who swept in on special occasions, with a blast of cold, and a cutting smile, and the fascinating ability to knock Erik sideways on his throne. He's only a year or two younger than Erik, they were children together, and so he served as an alternative uncle for Leif and Rune: the fun uncle with the dirty jokes, the smuggled booze, the bad ideas and the raucous laugh. Erik was the role model, yes, but there was something awe-inspiring and irresistible about Ragnar. Erik dreads his arrival at the Yule Feast, but Leif is eager to see him. It's that eagerness, that affection formed in early childhood, which will always endear Ragnar to Leif, despite his sins and crimes. That familiar bond is what makes the romantic turn of their relationship reprehensible (fun; it makes it taboo and fun), but also the thing that has spared Ragnar's life up to this point. Intellectually, Leif knows not to trust him...but he does again and again, a trust that's been deepened and solidified by their shared status as wolves, and their roles as alpha and beta. 

In this Norse-inspired melodrama, Ragnar plays the part of Loki. Transgression is in his very nature, woven into the soul of him. Even if he achieved everything he'd ever wanted, he would not be satisfied. Ragnar is a hungry creature. He takes, and he takes, and he sins...and he is forgiven. Why? You might also ask: Why do the gods forgive Loki? It's a question that can't be answered by anyone standing on the outside of the situation looking in. Any observer would demand Ragnar's head and give it no further thought. His family will always hesitate, Leif especially. And especially now. 

Because Ragnar is playing Loki in this bit of Norse god theater, he isn't actually seeking forgiveness. He's been defeated, been collared, and set firmly in his place...but he hasn't rolled over. He isn't sorry for the things he's done, only sorry that things didn't work out the way he'd hoped. Likewise, he would have been sorry if he'd succeeded and killed all his cousins. He doesn't know how to be satisfied. His character journey isn't necessarily one of repentance and earned redemption. By the end of the series, we'll see if Ragnar was able to gain the self-awareness to find something like peace. We'll see if he understands that love and belonging are the best he can hope for. The audience doesn't yet trust him, as well they shouldn't. He's untrustworthy. 

This is when I'm forced to think about the ways the mainstream, popular, powerful romance voices have done the genre a disserve by setting such firm and inflexible parameters with regards to what romance is. I love playing fictional matchmaker, but sometimes the dominant genre narrative drives thought about pairings in one direction: it dictates that the purpose of a romantic pairing in a novel is to bring out the best in both parties, so that each half can grow and improve and gain moral clarity. Sometimes I write those stories...oftentimes I prefer to take a more Bronte approach to the craft. Leif and Ragnar's dynamic is rich with possibility, with deep emotion and painful truth. Theirs is not a story of Ragnar's reformation. It doesn't mean they won't inspire and improve one another, but it's thorny, messy, and intentionally damaging. And when it comes to Amelia, well...I think it's best in long-form series like this to wait and see. 

Book 5 in the series, Fortunes of War, is available now. 

Garden Update

 A few weeks ago, I blogged about the new cutting garden that my mom and I are putting in on the farm this year, and we’d just planted 70+ dahlia tubers. It’s been a busy span of time since. 

Most of the dahlias are either fully up, and have been pinched back to promote branching and more flowering later in the season, or are showing at least a few signs of life. We had a few duds, to be expected, but just a few so far. Dahlia can be finicky - it's time to put out slug bait, for instance - so I'm hoping or mild-so-far Georgia temps will get them started well. Right now, the three dahlia bed are encircled by bird netting to keep Strider out of them  - ha! - but soon we'll put up the supportive netting in layers that will allow the stems to grow tall without flopping over in the wind and rain. 

We set up some of it today on the other three beds, where this week we planted peonies, and sowed sunflower and zinnia seeds - also to keep Strider out. He's a garden criminal. 

Next to the cutting garden is my little veggie garden, which has become something of an obsession for me over the past two years. This year, I went tomato-heavy, with lots of heirloom varieties, some new, from seed packets, and some from seeds I collected, dried, and saved from last year's harvest. All are up, thriving, and either in bloom or about to bloom. I've even got a few baby tomatoes on the stems. 

A new addition is the chicken house, delivered this week and installed at the back of the cutting garden, against the big pasture fence. Once it's retrofitted, and equipped with an outdoor run, it will be the new home of the six buff Orpington pullets currently living in temporary digs in the garage. There's nothing like buying chicken before you have a place to house them. 

I try to post weekly, if not daily garden updates in my Instagram stories (@hppress), so you can follow along there for more details and tomato closeups, lol. It's also where I post my "walks" through the cottage garden around the house. I'm big into bloom portraits. 

I'm hoping the next few months yield lots of color and spectacle from all that's been planted so far, so I'll be back with more progress photos and hopefully a lovely bouquet or two. 

Happy World Dracula Day

 

“It is not my place to have an opinion on the matter, sir.”

A chuckle that was like the scrape of metal over stone. “Where has the disobedient Vlad Dracula gone? Replaced instead with a mannerly boy of temperance, eh?”

“Sir.” The real Vlad, the disobedient dragon’s son, was alive and well. But he’d grown patient in his captivity, at the urging of his friend. He’d learn to rake dirt over his furious coals and let them smolder; he trained, and he learned, and he dedicated himself to knowing all that he could about his captors.

And he waited.

Murat studied him, head canted to the side. “It’s a shame,” he drawled, “that you and my son could never be friends. He could have learned from you – you have something which, despite all his wonderful qualities, he lacks.”

“Sir?”

That almost-smile again. “My Mehmet is made of fire. But you. You are made of steel.”

Behind his back, Vlad’s hands curled into fists. 

May 26th is World Dracula Day! Bram Stoker's masterpiece was first published on this day in 1897, and his fictional count remains an integral figure in both horror and romance fiction to this day. Dracula is one of my favorite novels of all time, and, well, obviously, I find the man himself - the real Vlad Dracula - an endlessly inspiring figure from history. 

Of all my books - 40+ at this point - my novel about Vlad Tepes, and his brother Radu, remains my very favorite, and the story of which I'm the proudest. If you're after a blend of real Romanian history and vampirism, and you don't buy that Vlad was the villain of his own story, allow me to submit Dragon Slayer for your consideration, book three in my Sons of Rome series. 

FOW: The North

 

“Titles are for strangers. First meetings and enemy negotiations. We don’t stand on ceremony among friends in the North.”

From Fortunes of War, 

Drake Chronicles Book Five

Now available

Obviously, I didn't get every Northern character up here (sorry, Birger!), but I got the major players. If Oliver is my favorite singular character, then the Northerners are my favorite character group. If that's even a thing.

In the world of the Drake Chronicles, the Northerners began as small, nomadic clans that followed the reindeer herds. Book one talks about the way these clans eventually banded together for safety and security, until they became a kingdom, and Aeres the capital. From Aeres, they migrated south, eventually populating the Southern regions that would become Aquitainia, which broke off as its own nation, and developed its own subculture. Everyone was Northern originally, and it's why the Northerners see the South as "silly" and "frivolous." They see themselves as the first men, older and wiser and stronger. A fun irony, given the clans see themselves as the actual first men, and the current Northern regime, as led by Erik's household, as traitors to the old ways, far too fanciful and shallow by comparison. 

The inspiration for the Aeretolleans was, obviously, Viking history, religion, and custom, which is much richer and more diverse than one might think before researching. Between the simple clans of the Waste, and the much more sumptuous royal family, there's a lot of real-world truth woven in amongst the dragons and spells: the naming traditions, the trading, the gods. Because it's a fantasy, I've used facts liberally, so it's best to think of the series as Viking-inspired rather than Viking historical fiction. 

At the beginning of the series, I would have told you Erik was my favorite Northerner. Though Nali will always hold a special place in my heart for being a little gremlin. These days, though, I'm having the most fun writing Ragnar, though I think that's obvious by now. He most definitely still has a long road to redemption, if he ever arrives at his destination, and the route is going to be fraught with lots of wonderful doubt and angst. 

#TeaserTuesday: Dartmoor X

I'm not going to share a title, or any details yet. Everything's still top-secret as of now...but it's happening. And it's gonna be big. 

 

Ava’s brain lit up with alarm, bright arcs like cloud-to-cloud lightning that chased down her spine and left her fingers tingling. Primed and ready for action, but not panicking. It was the adrenaline swell of preparedness; the headrush of knowing exactly who to call and what to expect in this sort of situation. Helplessness never entered the equation for the Lean Dogs and their families.

#ReadingLife: The Witch Elm

 

My own elm tree, though not a wych elm.

I think my luck was built into me, the keystone that cohered my bones, the golden thread that stitched together the secret tapestries of my DNA; I think it was the gem glittering at the fount of me, coloring everything I did and every word I said. And if somehow that has been excised from me, and if in fact I am still here without it, then what am I?

~The Witch Elm, by Tana French; 2018

"What am I?" is the refrain woven continuously throughout this novel, and, in variations, through all of French's novels, I'd posit. Hers are mysteries in which those trying to solve them learn more about themselves, their own faults and failures, than about those of the killer. They're deep-dive self-reflections in which the main character is forced examine all their preconceived notions, prejudices, and the way they see themselves. Save The Secret Place, The Trespasser, and The Searcher, all of them end on a melancholy, sometimes haunting note that I think of as uniquely Irish. That sense of life rushing by as a great locomotive, and our narrator sitting pinned down beneath the weight of all that they know, world upended by an experience that reached into the very core of their consciousness and rearranged all the carefully-stacked boxes there. Some characters are more resilient than others - my dear Frank - and some, like Toby in The Witch Elm, are left as scraped-clean shells...if he had much substance to begin with.  

Sounds delightful, huh? As far as reading experiences go, Tana French is delightful. I'm a French-pusher: get me talking about books too long, and I'll try to coerce you into reading one of hers. I've said before, but I'll say again: she's my favorite currently-writing author. The author whose work I most admire. 

The Witch Elm was a reread, part of a continuing reread of all her work that I started with Broken Harbor last year. I still have The Searcher left, but I'm thinking of going back to the beginning with In The Woods, since I haven't read it recently, then move on to The Likeness and Faithful Place. 

I think we've all read books in which it becomes clearly apparent early on that we're reading the author's thoughts and feelings, rather than those of a fully-realized fictional character. Lots of generalized language in which the men try to represent all men, the women all women. When the politics get heavy and preachy. When you're not seeing much conflict, or diversity of thought or speech patterns between characters. All of that. By contrast, though I obviously don't know Tana French personally at all, I couldn't guess anything about her - save that her mind is a complex, vivid, lyrical place - based on her work, and for that I applaud her. Her books are instantly, consumingly immersive: not once do I consider the author while reading. The narrator establishes him- or herself concretely in the opening paragraphs, and never lets go of the story. Her characters are so real in that we can't love or hate them completely; they're distressingly human, full of poor choices, ugly streaks of vanity, and great big blind spots. Then you layer in the prose itself, which walks the line between nostalgic embellishment, and brutal, unpretty honesty. Not too purple, not too sparse. The small, physical details of each scene - cobwebs in the corner of a window frame, nicotine stains on someone's fingers - are too specific and visual to be dismissed as fluff. She's painting you a picture, and it's one you need to see. 

The Witch Elm is her first standalone after the excellent Dublin Murder Squad series, and the first time the POV character hails from the other side of the law. What I love is that Toby is the sort of character who normally doesn't do much in other books. He's the well-dressed, boring, handsome, middle-class guy with good hair and a casually cruel dismissal of everyone he deems lesser. He's your average douchebag character who would serve as a boyfriend who gets dumped in a romance, or a red herring in a mystery. The sort of boy your grandmother always encouraged you to date, because she never had to hear him encouraging the women he dated to get plastic surgery. You know the type. He's full of himself, and woefully ordinary. But in the beginning of the novel, Toby suffers a brutal attack when his apartment is broken into, and that moment of violence, and the struggle in the aftermath, slowly flay him raw over the rest of the novel, until he comes face to face with his own uninspired, petty inner ugliness. It's brilliant, and satisfying, and even if I don't ever like Toby over the course of the novel, I can't help but empathize with his inner journey here, because Tana French is just that good. She's never trying to say, "Hey, look, my characters are good, moral people you should root for." They're people, and her writing unspools like a perfectly balanced orchestra number, full of ups, and downs, and elegant solos. 

Stylistically, she tries something a little different with each book, and in TWE, we see a departure from the semicolons and em-dashes that usually mark her sentences, and see lots more commas, even when a semicolon or em-dash would be more appropriate. I attribute this - though I'm only guessing - to Toby's brain injury; he's telling the entire story after his hit on the head, and the prose reflects his slip-sliding struggle to find his old voice, thoughts tumbling one after the other in a fashion less orderly than she normally presents, but very effective in drawing the reader into the sideways, unsettling landscape of Toby's mind post-injury. 

In short: go read Tana French. I'm forever mourning the fact that when I try to search for similar books, I always have slick, artless mysteries, or summer blockbusters thrown my way. *Sad face.* I am, though, currently reading a book by Jane Casey that I'm enjoying so far. I'll report back when I'm finished. 

Fortunes of War: The Debriefing

 

Welcome to the Fortunes of War debriefing post! There will be spoilers, but I'll put them under the cut. Turn back now if you haven't read the book yet and don't want to be spoiled!

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FOW: The Dragon Riders

 

“Do you really think the Drakes of Drakewell are named for ducks?”

The Drake Chronicles are named for the actual, animal drakes, obviously, cold-drakes, fire-drakes, and, in Fortunes of War, the mysterious new purple drakes allied with the Sels, but also for the Drake family as well. With the duke, his playboy brother, and the shining, strong young heir cut down in the war, it's up to the two daughters and bastard cousin to carry on the family traditions - and save their duchy and kingdom along the way, if they can. 

I said it in a previous post, and it's still true that Ollie's my favorite character in the whole saga - which is saying something considering my attachment to Revna, and Ragnar, and Náli. But top honors belong to His Lordship Oliver Drake, King's Consort, VIP in Aeretoll whose attendance is required at a whole host of dull meetings. 

Though I'll be the first one to discourage anyone from thinking of a single character or couple as the "main character," the series is, at its core, Ollie's story. He has to share the stage with lots of others, because that's my jam, but he's our first POV character for a reason. I always carefully choose which character introduces the audience to a new world, and in this instance, that needed to be Oliver. He is, by nature, skeptical, a little neurotic, and a smartass. If it hadn't been for his childhood illness, and his forced time spent in bed and in the library, rather than out terrorizing the countryside, he would have certainly thrown himself into learning how to be a deceptively strong and quick fighter like Náli. Though he couldn't inherit, he could still serve as a military officer and do his family proud on the battlefield. He was a bastard, yes, and well aware of the fact, but he wasn't broody about it like Jon Snow, nor did any of his relatives hate him, shame him, or ostracize him. Think instead of British history, and Queen Maude's bastard half-brothers, loved and valued and serving faithfully at her side. That's not to say that Oliver didn't feel a little sorry for himself. He did, at times: traces of bitterness that peek through especially in the early scenes of the story, when he doubts his ability to attract the notice of a king thanks to his parentage and infirmity. 

At this point in the story, Oliver thinks he has things well in hand...but he absolutely doesn't, and he has a helluva lot to learn in the books to come. 

Amelia was unquestionably a brat growing up. Mind you, I would have hated all the balls and dances and parties, too, in her stead, but she was a tomboy who didn't fit in with the society ladies; a familiar refrain in these sorts of stories, yes. But she's very quickly learned, amidst personal tragedy and a heap of new stresses, that there's a big difference between playing tomboy soldier on her horse during peace times, and becoming an actual warrior. She has a strong affinity for animals of all kinds, and is a talented rider, and braver than is sometimes wise - but she's not unafraid. And she's also not an expert swordswoman. I wanted to be sure that both she and others recognize not only the fact that she needs to brush up on her skills, but that it's impractical for her, even armored and armed, to fight hand-to-hand with hulking, armored Sel soldiers bred specifically for war. A bit of realism peeking through the fantasy. She can best serve her army from Alpha's back, commanding her five fire-drakes in battle. 

Awash in a sea of testosterone - there's a lovely visual - I was excited to give Amelia a lady friend, finally, in this book! I enjoyed bringing Leda to life. She was ostracized from society as well, but for different reasons than Amelia. Getting to know Leda gives Amelia a little more perspective on the prejudices of society, and the pitfalls and rewards of living your own life amidst its judgement. 

If you've read my work outside of the Drakes, then you will have seen certain patterns emerge, and one of those is that I love to play with flashbacks - both as outright, whole scenes, and as narrative tools to style a moment that's currently unfolding - to highlight a character's whole journey. I like writing about childhood and adolescence as a way of informing the present and future. I don't see it as characters changing, but as growing into the parts of themselves that lay dormant or seemed to swallow them like a shirt three sizes too large. With Tessa, we're watching her "grow into herself" in the present-day action of the story. She will always be a genuinely sweet girl, who cares deeply for her family and those close to her; she will always want to help and prove "useful." But we're beginning to see the steel in her spine, by FOW, her mother and sister coming through in her firmness with Erik; we see some of Oliver's sass when she's dealing with Náli and all his brat tendencies. She's becoming her own woman, learning to stand on her own, and that's what makes Rune her perfect mate: young, a little uncertain of himself, still, he's not going to squash her spirit, but will encourage it, instead. He's a besotted fool, and his unwavering love and support will only serve to make Tessa stronger and more independent. 

I didn't focus on them much as a couple in this book, because they're in a really solid place right now - but that doesn't mean there won't be some growing pains in the future. As they grow, so too must their marriage, and that means a little drama is inevitable. 

There's so many other characters I adore, but at the end of the day, these are the Drake Chronicles, and I love my little dragon riders best. 

FOW: The Locales

 

The action of Fortunes of War unfolds in three major locales. It starts at Aeres, in the palace, where Erik and Oliver are still using Erik's study as a makeshift bedchamber while stonemasons finish up post-battle repairs on the royal apartments. From the family dining room, and the stable yard, to the hay shed where Leif's pack chooses to bed down each night, the capital of Aeres is a now-familiar setting. 

In the South, Amelia leads her forces at Inglewood Manor, which was once Connor's inherited seat. It is again, technically, now that his usurper brother has fallen to the Sels, but he doesn't much behave like the lord of the manor anymore. The occupying Sels didn't treat the place kindly, and it's a bit tattered and rundown; it has a distinct haunted Victorian mansion feel about it, and its extensive grounds and gardens have been given over to a war camp, the drakes, and the ever-encroaching wildness of the forest. 

Speaking of which...

The Inglewood itself is not only another major location - the road South travels straight down through it - but it also serves as a sort of character all its own. It's the sort of ancient forest hiding innumerable secrets - including Amelia's drakes, hibernating deep within its hidden caves. 

Next book, as the march to war continues, we'll have a whole host of new locales. I must admit that I'll miss our familiar environs. 

Fortunes of War: Links

 

I hope all the moms out there had a wonderful Mother’s Day yesterday. I committed the sin of getting my mom a gift that I want to borrow. If she can’t find her new copy of Monty Don’s gardening book later, it’ll be with me. 😈 

Holiday weeks/weekends can get a bit hectic, so I wanted to re-drop links for last week’s new release, Fortunes of War, Drake Chronicles book 5. It’s out!

You can get it in ebook and paperback forms at Amazon, or for Nook at B&N. 

This book is all about the interpersonal bonds: the forming and furthering of connections, some more surprising than others. Everyone’s conflicted...though Oliver is convinced he totally has everything under control. The longest installment to date, it’s got some startling twists in store for our heroes, and there’s much more to come. Happy reading!

The First Test

 

If they were all being honest, it was a shock something like this hadn’t happened sooner. It had been too quiet for too long; even knowing this, they’d let their guard down, and so the crumpled bit of parchment, when it arrived in the fist of a pale, panting scout with a fist-shaped bruise on his face, still landed like a gut-punch.

It had been written in Continental, their language, though the grammar was a little off: that of a translator and not an Aquitainian citizen, the handwriting loopy and flourishing in a way that brough to mind the musical language of Seles.

 

Your men are clumsy, slow, and breathe too loud. You send children to do the job of a man. One we return to you as a show of goodwill, the rest we keep, until you surrender.

 

A map had been included, startlingly detailed and accurate. A place west of their current location had been circled, at the very edge of the duchy. A crumbling old tower surrounded by flat fields: impossible to approach with anything like caution. They would be forced to ride up with white flags waving, unarmed, and even then it seemed likelier they’d all be slaughtered than allowed to sue for peace.

Night had just fallen, and Reggie had entered the manor – ablaze with candles and warm from the many fires burning – sweaty, sore, fresh from his own fruitless patrol, to find everyone gathered in the dining room, faces grave. His stomach had twisted painfully when Edward read the brief missive aloud. The scout – the lone one of his party allowed to return – sat against the wall, nursing a brimming cup of wine that someone had pressed into his hand and which he nearly spilled thanks to his shaking.

Amelia stood at the head of the table, hands gripping the back of a chair, head bowed. She appeared to be taking it the hardest. The room was quiet, now, save the crackle of the fire and her harsh, open-mouthed breathing.

Halfway down the table, seated sideways in a chair with her legs crossed to the side, in a gown of clinging peach velvet, Lady Leda asked, “How many boys were in the party?”

“Fifteen,” Connor said, unusually sober from his place leaning against the mantelpiece. “They have fourteen hostages.”

Amelia's drakes saved her before they were even "hers," when they appeared at the outskirts of the Sel camp at Inglewood Manor and roasted their hostage-takers. But in Fortunes of War - out now! - she's going to test them in an organized, intentional way for the first time.

I wanted the chance, in this book, to start things slowly. Rather than throw Amelia and Alpha and the girls into a full-scale pitched battle, I wanted them to have a chance to test themselves against more manageable - if startling - obstacles. From an emotional standpoint, the slower progress toward the Final Battle gives us plenty of time for character development, which is the main reason for the current speed of the plot, but it also allows our dragon riders to gain skills and experience. 

There's lots more action to come! 

 

Fire-Drakes

 

The wind cut off, suddenly, with a sound like a snapping sail, and with a chittering, grumbling, growling vocalization similar to that of the cold-drakes, but quicker, and more aggressive.

He blinked grit from his eyes and beheld a drake so black it gleamed green and violet where the sun struck it. Glowing red-gold eyes, and sharp horns, and a long, serpent tail that whipped back and forth in agitation, snapping off yet more branches and flicking leaves from bushes.

It was bigger than Percy, and when it lowered its head to scan the forest around itself, Leif saw smoke curling from its nostrils. This one, undoubtedly, wouldn’t be breathing ice.

A shock of bright red drew Leif’s gaze to the animal’s back, and it was only then that he noticed the black leather and silverwork of a bridle, and a harness, and a saddle. And in that saddle sat a rider, in smooth black armor, and gleaming mail, with a black helm crested by a dyed horsehair tail of blood red.

He'd grown used to Percy, and Alfie, and Valgrind. Didn’t trust them, necessarily, but wasn’t alarmed by the mere sight of them. Didn’t feel the urge, as he did now, to crouch down on all fours, press his back into a corner, and growl.

“Holy gods,” Ragnar breathed beside him, wheezing from the pain. “Look at – it’s – holy gods.”

In Fortunes of War, Leif and Ragnar meet up with Amelia's party on the road and encounter her fire-drakes for the first time. Like the cold-drakes, they're four-legged wyverns, as opposed to the two-legged wyrms like the dragons in Game of Thrones. Just as the cold-drakes are impervious to snow, ice, and extremely cold temperatures, the fire-drakes are heat and fire-resistant. No spoilers, but we learn something about their blood as well, in FOW. 

Antonello Venditti Art

We see a bit more of Valencia in this book, and her growing bond with Reggie, which will be important moving forward. There are only three Drakes who can communicate with the dragons...but Náli is proof that you don't have to share a psychic bond with them to ride them 😉

I wanted Amelia's armor to be practical, and black for night camouflage reasons. I've envisioned it as looking like the vampire armor in the Underworld movies. 

The one bit of whimsy - for her and for Oliver, Tessa, and Náli, are the horsehair tails on their helmets. Every truly great helmet has some sort of decoration, and flying on the back of a drake offers a great opportunity for an ornament that will stream out behind like a banner. I originally intended the crests to look like Eomer's in The Two Towers, and I still do: all the cold-drake riders have bleached tails. 

But I dyed Amelia's red, to match her drakes' fire, and the lip paint she chooses to wear. A bold statement that says: I'm strong, look at me, I'm not afraid of you. Imagine my delight last fall when House of the Dragon dropped this look for Daemon in the first episode. I love Daemon for a lot of reasons, since that first read of Fire & Blood, so this was just the icing on the cake. Whoever designed his armor here had a vision. 

And then of course there's Shadow, honorary fire-drake, trusty steed, brilliant kicker. I will always have a terrible soft spot for a vicious warhorse. 

Fortunes of War is now available! You can grab it in Kindle, paperback, and Nook formats, and I'll see if I can get it up on Kobo soon. 

ICYMI: Fortunes of War Now Available

 

Every night that he dreamed, he dreamed as a wolf. Even in his nightmares, when man-shaped figures crowned with branching antlers reared up out of the mist and reached for him with clawed hands. Fear, despair, and empty, gnawing hunger – all of it came to him in his wolf shape. A shape he was trying hard to pretend he did not possess.

And so he hated to sleep. And he sat up most nights with his back pressed to the hard, timber wall of the hay shed while his pack lay flopped all around him, paws jerking as they enjoyed their own dreams, noses twitching; the occasional thin howl pierced the rustle of hay and, in the distance, the low calls of owls.

Tonight, he sat with his arms folded, pinching his own side every so often when his gritty eyelids grew too heavy to hold up any longer. It was too warm in the shed, with the insulating hay and all their combined body heat. Then again, he was over-warm all the time, the wolf burning hot beneath his skin. He’d taken to wearing sleeveless tunics and jerkins, like Ragnar had always favored. He loathed the concession on his part, the way it was yet another similarity they shared.

Just as he loathed the way Ragnar, the only other wolf awake, watched him now from his place reclined across three bales, head propped on his arm. His body was relaxed, utterly still, his expression unguarded; his eyes glowed blue as gemstones, fixed unblinking on Leif.

Leif growled, softly, in warning. But he didn’t mean it, truly, and Ragnar could tell.

Damn the emotional perceptiveness of wolves, himself included.

“What?” Leif asked, when the staring continued.

Fortunes of War dropped yesterday! There's plenty more wolf angst where this came from. You can grab it for Kindle or Nook, with paperback hopefully getting approved soon. 

 

New Release - Fortunes of War

Fortunes of War is live! The latest Drake Chronicles installment picks up right where Demon of the Dead left off, with Náli fleeing the Selesee emperor, Romanus Tyrsbane, in the Between. We catch up with everyone, but most of the action focuses on Leif, Ragnar, and Amelia. Armies are on the move, and the enemy's motivations become murkier. Get a coffee, grab a snack, and settle in, because this is the longest volume yet in the saga. (Kindle version says 555 pages, but it's only 432 in paperback.)

The Kindle version is live now, and the paperback should be live within the next 48-72 hours, per Amazon. I should - Internet speed permitting - have BN and Kobo versions live soon. I'll hold off on my spoilery debrief until the book has been live for a week or two, so until then, happy reading! 

“Choose who you wish to be,” he said, softly, “or the fortunes 

of war shall choose for you.”

War looms on the horizon for the kingdoms of Aeretoll and Aquitainia, a war they’ll fight together, as the allies begin to plan their cooperative marches through missives sent via falcon. But in Aeres, Náli arrives with news of the enemy: he’s met the emperor of Seles, Romanus Tyrsbane, beyond the veil in the Between, and the emperor, it seems, is searching for Oliver. With Náli’s help, the three Drakes must now learn how to go walking between worlds, guarding their minds and their magic from an enemy who can reach out and touch them from afar.

Restless in a way he’s never been before, confused by his anger and his new instincts, Leif takes his wolfpack and departs early, traveling quickly and in secret toward the Southern camp in Inglewood. At his side, urging him to let his wolf take charge, is Ragnar. Cousin, war prize, thrall, wearing Leif’s torq, and testing all of Leif’s patience. He knows it’s foolish to trust him, but Leif cleaves to him regardless, distrustful and resentful of everyone who cannot understand the man – the wolf – he’s become.

Leading a ragged army of Southerners and woodland outlaws, Amelia spends her days planning their next move, and her nights walking in a world of dreams, visited by a pair of wolves with blue eyes and an irresistible allure. A letter from Oliver forewarned of Leif’s arrival, but nothing could have prepared her for the way her first glimpse of the prince rattles her to the bone.

For Oliver, the long march South is full of sword lessons, saddle sores – and clandestine meetings in the Between with the emperor himself. He’s only spying, he reasons, and he can stop anytime he wishes…can’t he?

Fortunes of War is the fifth installment of the ongoing high fantasy Drake Chronicles series, which is intended for adult audiences. It is not a standalone, and the series must be read in order. Dragons, shapeshifters, family drama, and romance abound as our heroes march toward a terrifying enemy, at the mercy of the fortunes of war.