A Fire of Roses
Dragon Riders of Skala, Book Two
Pauline Creeden
Melinda R. Cordell
Contents
A Fire of Roses
1. Barrow
2. Puffin Friend
3. Thralls
4. An Audience with the King
5. Prisoner of War
6. Healer
7. Raising the Dead
8. The Bite of the Shrew
9. The Value of an Oath
10. A Powerful Kick
11. Confrontation
12. Delicious Fish Platter
13. A BARGAIN STRUCK
14. A CALL FOR HELP
15. WHIRLWIND
16. OLD LEATHER
17. “EVERY VIPER BITES.”
18. LUST FOR POWER
19. RUBY AND DIAMOND
20. ROSE-LIGHT
21. BLOOD-LIGHT
22. CORAE
Continue for a preview of the third book in the series, A Crown of Flame
A First Meal
Continue for a preview of the Dragon Riders of Skala Prequel
A Whisper of Smoke
Copyright © 2018 by Melinda R. Cordell & Pauline Creeden
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
A Fire of Roses
The Viking world is torn apart by warfare, and there is no rest for the weary.
Barely recovered from surviving her exile, Dyrfinna lands in the enemy’s camp. The king has stolen her sister, captured her allies, and turned one of her closest friends against her. But that’s the least of Dyrfinna’s worries.
A greater foe has risen up, a magician who desecrates the bones of dragons to gain power for herself and raise an army of undead dragons from the dead—an army of unbelievable power. To overcome this new threat, Dyrfinna must steal her crew out of captivity and sail them into their most costly battle yet.
Only one has the answers they need, but can the Vikings trust the word of a dragon who wants them dead?
This is the second book in the Dragonriders of Skala series.
Historical note:
You’re not going to be able to write a homework paper on the Vikings from the history in this book. (Well, you could, but you’d likely get a bad grade.) Some things in this story did exist, such as D’mt, the Empire of Aksum, and the adulation and breeding of the rose which was huge in the Persian empire. Anything about plants will be true to life because I used to be a horticulturist; please buy my gardening books. The rose breeding regimen in this book that is used to get new varieties, for instance, is correct – it really does take a lot of crosses to get a good rose.
In this book I called lichen a type of moss, which is not taxonomically correct. Lichen is actually several different kinds of fungus and cyanobactera living in a symbiotic relationship to make this funny little plantlike organism—BUT I didn’t want to slow the story down by explaining cool, though anachronistic, scientific facts.
Coffee did originate in Aksum, which is now Ethiopia and Eritrea, but it didn’t show up in the historical record (as far as we know) until 1500 AD. This story takes place somewhere between 900 and 1000 AD. So, coffee probably didn’t exist in Sweden when this story was taking place – unless some Moors found some delicious coffee in Aksum and were so taken with it that they ran with it, pell-mell, across northern Africa, old Spain, and into Sweden. Which, when you look at the trade routes that the Moors navigated back in those days, is entirely possible. The Moors were a smart people. Indeed, if you ran across some coffee in your travels, I’m sure you’d take it with you straight to the land of the endless winters so you could wake the heck up when it still looked like nighttime outside.
I’m sure there are some history sticklers out there saying “Tut-tut! Pish-posh! Citations needed!” Well, my stickler friends, as far as I know, coffee didn’t exist in Sweden at this time—but neither did song-magic, dragons, undead ramblers, or puffin armies. Thank goodness this is a fantasy novel! So if I want to breed roses, drink coffee, fight with swords, befriend puffins, and fly dragons in some crazy Viking world, I’m going to do it, and all at the same time if possible.
Writing is fun!
Melinda R. Cordell
Nodaway, Mo.
1
Barrow
While lying on the fresh soil of Ostryg’s grave, Gefjun remembered the last great night of her life, the night when she fought a duel with Ragnarok and won.
Ostryg was holding her hands by the cook fire that night. Gefjun’s hands felt so small in his, and he said, “Aw! Whose hands are cold?” and he’d warm them in his like he always did. One of the many ways they fit together, balanced each other out.
Her friends, Dyrfinna and Skeggi, were sneaking away to steal dragon eggs, or try to. Dyrfinna had asked Gefjun for a diversion, so Gefjun provided one, as she always did for Dyrfinna, while she got left behind.
Though if Dyrfinna wanted to go traipsing out to a dragon isle and get herself killed, that was her business.
Gefjun shook her head.
“You don’t have to do this duel.” Ostryg let go of her hands and arranged the wood in the campfire so it would blaze up more.
Gefjun rolled her eyes. “You don’t need to build the fire up so much. We’re going to be leaving it here in a moment. I’m fighting a duel, remember? I know I don’t have to. But on the other hand, it’s going to be fun.”
Ostryg smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m just building the fire because I want to see you better.”
Gefjun made a pfft noise at him, though she was charmed.
He came around and took her face in his hands, gently stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “You have no idea how happy you make me. You are simply gorgeous.” He kissed her on top of her head.
Gefjun melted and leaned against his chest, and his arms went around her.
Ostryg’s voice rumbled through his chest against her ear. She loved that rumble. “After all I’ve been through in life, I can’t believe that I got you,” he rumbled. “I can’t believe that you’re really mine. I keep thinking that surely something is going to go wrong. You know? Because being with you is too good. It’s too good. And who am I to deserve something this good?”
Gefjun stood on her tiptoes and pulled his face down to hers so she could kiss his forehead, a holy kiss. “You’re Ostryg. You’re the man I love more than anybody else on earth. And you deserve every good thing that this world can give you.”
His eyes fell. “I don’t,” he said quietly. “My family is just too awful. I used to help them, you know. They’d all say, ‘Come on, bring your knife,’ and I’d grab my knife and go on whatever mission it was.”
“Well, you don’t do that any more.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“Old habits die hard. Once in a while, I start feeling guilty. I keep thinking I should go back to them. But I don’t want to go back to those ways.”
“Then don’t,” Gefjun said firmly, looking into his flame-blue eyes. “Don’t go back to that nest of assassins. Stay with me.” She held his hands tight. “I need you. I need you in my life more than anything. You’re my rock, don’t you see that? The one solid place in the world where I can stand and be at peace.”
They looked into each others’ eyes, their foreheads touching, until they both started to grin.
Then Ostryg started making faces.
She swatted his arm, laughing. “Stop! You’re ruining the moment.”
&nbs
p; “Only the best for you,” he said, pretending to be drunk.
“Ugh!” she said, rolling her eyes, and he stopped his act to laugh.
After a moment, he became serious, watching her. Gefjun’s laughter quieted. “What?” she asked.
Ostryg gazed into her eyes as if he never wanted to look at anything else again.
Then his face got a little red, and he couldn’t look at her. He blurted out, “I don’t want to talk about feelings. I hate talking about that stuff. But ... but I need you. In my life.”
Gefjun looked up into his face, her body all atremble, her heart pounding in her ears. “I need you, too.”
Ostryg’s face got even redder. And he stammered, “Would you … I want to marry you. Would you ... um ...?”
Gefjun squealed and flung her arms around his neck. They held each other tightly. Yes, yes, yes!
And they kissed.
“Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you,” she said through the kisses.
They pulled back, catching their breath.
“I was half-scared you would say no,” he said.
Gefjun rolled her eyes again. “To you? Are you crazy?”
Ostryg said, “Well … yeah.”
They laughed again.
Then she pulled her sword. “Come on, sweetie. Watch me put on this show.”
“You really want to do that duel now? After all this?”
Gefjun swung the sword in great circles the way their swordmaster had shown them so long ago. “Yes!” she cried. “I can take on the whole world! BRING ME GIANTS!” she cried to the sky, arms extended, sword held high.
Ostryg laughed. “Okay, I guess.”
“Come on. I’m feeling good. And now I have you at my side forever. Took you long enough, though.”
“You weren’t waiting that long.”
“Oh yes, I was.”
Arm in arm, he led her toward the dueling ground where she was going to duel with Ragnarok. He was more mountain than man, but he also loved kitty cats.
Of course, she won.
That had not been so long ago.
But now, as Gefjun lay on the fresh dirt of Ostryg’s grave, that memory was forever ago. A forever she’d never get to experience again.
Several warriors murmured in fear to see her lying there. She’d been there for three full days. The bodies, once buried, took on a new existence and rattled around inside the grave-barrow, undead, unalive.
Gefjun used to believe those stories as well, though this had been more of a childhood fear that had given her delicious thrills when she’d swapped horrifying stories late at night with her friends … her former friends.
Now she didn’t care. She even wished that Ostryg would dig his way up and drag her down with him. That would be far, far better than enduring this awful pain that would never end, that swallowed her whole. No matter who brought her food or water, she didn’t want it, and what little sleep she’d gotten had been plagued with nightmares.
Gefjun still lay next to the grave when Jarl Sinkr, their commander, came over.
“Juni,” he said, calling her by her pet name. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t know Dyrfinna would do this. Otherwise I would have stopped her.”
He was trying to talk to Gefjun but looked very awkward, weeping and wringing his hands while standing over her. Gefjun just lay on the grass on her back, staring in the air.
But Sinkr looked so wretched that, despite the pain in her heart, she felt as if she had to comfort him, as if it were her job. So she pushed herself to her feet and stood.
He took her hands and wrung them in his. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I would have stopped Dyrfinna if I’d known what was going to happen. I was so sure that Ostryg was going to kill her. I was sure of it.”
She released his hands. “I’m not here for your…” She forgot what she was trying to say, as if her mind, exhausted by grief, just dropped the sentence.
“Dyrfinna should have died. Not him. Not Ostryg.”
“I’ve already seen enough of people being hurt by these ….” She couldn’t think of the word she wanted, so she gave up talking and sank back down by Ostryg’s grave, ignoring everything taking place around her.
The ships were ready to leave. They were leaving Ostryg behind, leaving him in this hill of dirt, in this land where nobody knew him, far away from her, and she’d likely never see his resting place again.
It hurt her very soul that she’d lost his physical body. His soothing touch. His beautiful hands that played the bells so sweetly. His voice, his gentle song. His hands on her shoulder, on the small of her back, or smoothing her hair.
And she had to leave this sacred place where he would lie forever.
“It’s time to go,” others were saying. Her friend, Skeggi, said it, and the nurses who had worked with her on the battlefield. Ragnarok stood nearby, not saying anything, but he looked ready to cry. Gefjun wept now, then sobbed, and every sob felt as if it had been ripped out of her.
But in the end they finally led her, stumbling, away.
On board the ship, she sank down next to Rjupa. The burned dragonrider was a mess of bandages that had been soaked in comfrey infusion. They all needed to be changed, rinsed in the herbal water, squeezed out, and placed on her burns again to keep the skin cool.
Gefjun had told Sinkr that they needed to have a separate ship for the wounded, but Sinkr had just made a rude sound at her with his lips.
“Vikings don’t do that,” he scoffed. “They don’t need hospital ships. Just keep your wounded in the back of the ship and they’ll be fine.”
She’d steamed away, sick. That idiot. There was never any safe place on a ship during a battle. He’d probably never seen a battle on a ship before.
Gefjun did the best she could by squeezing the wounded at the back of Dyrfinna’s old ship. Svala stepped up with Ulf to command Dyrfinna’s ship, since Dyrfinna had been exiled to a dragon isle—good riddance to her. Skeggi ran his ship with one of his friends that used to work with him on his grandpa’s ship.
He wanted very much to have Rjupa on his ship.
“Which of you has more experience? Which of you can sail fast and order a crew better?” Gefjun said, her head in her hand. She was too sick at heart to look around.
There was silence for a moment from Skeggi, Ulf, and Svala.
“Grandpa had me running the ship when I was eleven,” Skeggi said, “but he was on board the whole time.”
“You got me beat,” said Svala.
“Skeggi, then we can put the wounded on Svala’s ship, and you keep the warriors on your ship. We can bind the ships together, and you can lead the warriors in an offensive fight.”
That sounded like something Dyrfinna would have said. Gefjun’s teeth clenched at the thought and she shut up.
But the battle came on fast. The queen’s fleet was already outnumbered, because Sinkr had been an idiot three days ago and sent six of the queen’s ships out of the battle lines, allowing them to be cut off and surrounded while King Varinn’s ships rushed into the gap and started wreaking havoc. In one swoop they’d lost six ships, then more because Sinkr was an idiot.
“And we are seriously going back into battle again with these guys?” Gefjun snapped, sitting down on the deck next to Rjupa.
Rjupa moaned. She’d flown through a huge fireball. Her face and arms were burned. All over she had blisters and raw flesh. Gefjun kept pouring cool water over her, kept placing poultices over her, cool tinctures of herbal waters and bandages. She sang to Rjupa, trying to ease the pain, and gave her a little poppy now and then when it seemed that her pain grew worse.
Gefjun threw herself into her work as medic, hardly noticing the days as they went by, losing weight as she barely ate, and only sleeping when she was so exhausted that she blacked out and the nightmares couldn’t haunt her. Sunrise to sunset she tried to help her charges heal, with little progress.
And then the queen’s defense failed.
The attackers poured over the side
of their ship like wolves. Gefjun stepped carefully through her patients, as she’d left only enough room for her feet between each suffering wounded person, to grab her shield from where it lay at the side of the ship and swing it up onto her arm. She drew her sword, then went to stand before her wounded to try and protect them.
Ostryg would have been right here with me, she thought, and her heart failed at what she had lost … what Dyrfinna had taken from her.
If Dyrfinna hadn’t been an idiot and killed Ostryg, he’d have been here right now, and she’d be commanding the ship, and none of this nightmare would be happening. But no.
The first attackers came up toward the wounded, and she struck them off with her sword or thrust them away with her shield.
Several of the wounded pulled themselves to their feet to stand at her side.
“Ragnarok,” she said to the gigantic Viking who had joined her. He had a very bad head wound that was already bleeding through the bandage she’d put on a short while ago. “No. Lie down.”
An oncoming attacker laughed at Ragnarok. “Look at you, brave man, with that head wound. I bet you’re seeing double.”
Ragnaork pulled a second sword. “I have two swords. One for each of you.”
Then the attacker was cleaved in half by an ax from behind. He fell, revealing Skeggi with axe in hand, a grim look on his face. “Juni, how are you holding up?” He spun and took out another attacker.
“Dyrfinna is an idiot, a complete and utter fool, and if she hadn’t been an idiot, none of this would be happening. So I’m not doing the best right now. Thanks for asking.”
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