Vikings, Witches, Cellos & Metallica
Vikings, Witches, Cellos & Metallica
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I had a little too much fun with Photoshop and made a 2-minute Movie Trailer for my new book's Kickstarter launch. Take a peek at: https://youtu.be/RfCit0JxdgU
'cause Nothing
Else Matters ;)
'cause Nothing
Else Matters ;)
G A M E O F T H R O N E S M E E T S V I K I N G S A G A S
G A M E O F T H R O N E S M E E T S V I K I N G S A G A S
PROPHECY – The Doom of Hamarrfjord
Once full moon bleeds and sky turns red,
Vile shadows crawl upon the land.
Old foes and new, strike, forces blent,
Like wolves of Fenrir’s bloodthirst pack.
As brothers clash, and kin slays kin,
Hel’s lies spread deep like deadly thorns.
A woman bold defies the Norns,
breaks customs old, absorbs black sin.
Her zeal flames ash to bright renown,
With warrior's strength to seize her goal.
Yet fate shall mar both heart and soul,
to raise her queen, without a crown.
C O M I N G T O B O O K S T O R E S N E A R Y O U S O O N
C O M I N G T O B O O K S T O R E S N E A R Y O U S O O N
M E E T T E A M B E R G R Ú N
M E E T T E A M B E R G R Ú N
Bergrún Lilith Gullveigardóttir
“What you must understand is that you are a good person, and I’m not. You are the total opposite of me, yet you’re the person I wanted to be if I could start over. I can’t. I’m a black witch. I need to kill humans to stay alive. And I chose that fate willingly.”
Rikard Thure Svensen
“A vicious cycle, once fueled by violence, keeps spinning. I’m not a monk believing forgiveness is the highest of virtues; I was raised a warrior. But I can show respect to the dead—men bound by their upbringing as much as I am. Once a man is dead, he isn’t an enemy anymore.”
Stina Hilmarsdóttir
“I’m not wise. I’m neither learned nor have traveled far. I’ve only left my home once, when I was fourteen, and fate’s bitter wind blew me here. I never had many friends. You could say I’m still a child. I truly know little. But I know if someone lies, especially if she lies to herself!"
Harold Fisk Svensen
“I am my own man, with my own ship. I’ve seized the chance to avenge our dead. What do I care about foreign lands? I care only for the wealth of my kin, the honor of my clan, and the defense of my home. Hamarrfjord needs a strong leader."
M E E T T E A M T O R I L
M E E T T E A M T O R I L
Toril Ingrið Gustavsdotter
“We’re mired in the past. Our feet squelch through mud while the world around us dances in golden halls. I want more; we need more! We can either march to our doom alone or sail into the future as part of a mighty fleet.”
Olver Bror Agnarsen
“You dare big words before a crowd, Harold Svensen,” Olver whispered, dropping the false smile. “Meet me alone one night, and I’ll demonstrate why I’m the First Shield of Hamarrfjord, not you. Now, leave your little brother with the sheep and come along.”
Edda Ingmarsdotter
“The name is Ulva, not Mistress Ulva, just Ulva—I’m a thrall. But don’t think for one crow’s caw I’m like you. I’m not your friend. Don’t care if you live or die as long as the work gets done and the old men in the village remain happy. Have I made myself clear?"
Gustav Haakon Larsen
“You’ve doomed us, you idiot! Times are changing, and the world doesn’t give a crow’s shit for your honor. The Danske King has embraced the White Christ and is eager to spread the rule of the cross. We can’t waste our men on ancient squabbles. We need new allies, not old enemies!"
T H E W O R L D O F N O R S E M A G I C A N D V I K I N G S
T H E W O R L D O F N O R S E M A G I C A N D V I K I N G S
In a world that scorns ambitious women, the witch Bergrún was never given a choice. Humiliated and cast aside by her own people, she turned to the forbidden powers of ancient Norse magic not for simple revenge, but for justice. Her goal is absolute: find a Viking warlord, seduce him to her cause, and lead his army to conquer her homeland of Heillaður, where she will forge a new order from the ashes of the past and rule as queen.
But the capricious Norns, the weavers of fate, have their own designs. When her plans to exploit an old feud between neighboring Viking clans go awry during the bloody raid, she finds herself bound not to a fierce conqueror, but to his idealistic younger brother, Rikard. A young warrior who speaks of peace and honor, Rikard is the antithesis of everything Bergrún believes is necessary to survive. He challenges her ruthless worldview, forcing her to confront the humanity she has long suppressed.
Their volatile alliance is forged in the viper’s nest of Hamarrfjord, home of a clan tearing itself apart under a dying Jarl, a scheming cousin, and the threat of encroaching empires. To survive, they must learn to trust each other, even as their goals pull them in opposite directions. Bergrún stands at a crossroads, where her lifelong mission to claim her crown is threatened by the one man who could save her soul.
Kingmaker – The Raven’s Bloody Crown is a relentless tale of grim-dark fantasy, where the lines between heroes and monsters are blurred by bonds of blood and sacrifice, and where the prophezied path to the throne is paved with the ruin of not only enemies, but of the heart and soul itself.
R E A D A S N E A K P R E V I E W
R E A D A S N E A K P R E V I E W
Prologue – Ten Years Earlier
Prologue – Ten Years Earlier
Svartvik burned. Billowing swaths of smoke rose into the air, weaving between the banks of low-hanging clouds. Orange flames danced on the roofs, tendrils reaching skyward despite the ceaseless rain. The acrid smell of burning timbers, livestock, and worse clung to the wind. It reached far out to sea, where Bergrún’s ship beat against the current with mighty oar strokes. She stood at the stern, her long, raven-black hair whipping in the wind. Her hands grabbed the railing, her muscles taut, and her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the destruction of her home—the last vestiges of her human past.
She had tried, hadn’t she? Despite the humiliation of being looked down upon her entire life—a girl daring to have ambitions, a smart-mouth from the lowest rung of a backwater society, an outsider in looks, dreams, and physical strength—she had given them a choice. No longer powerless, no longer weak, she’d offered them a path forward, requiring only the necessary retribution. They must have known what consequences their refusal would bring. They’d felt how the power had shifted, had seen the lines drawn in the sand, never to be crossed.
She hadn’t demanded their feigned adoration; nobody was forced to grovel in the dirt. In fact, very little in their pitiful lives needed to change. Still, they chose to poke a dragon in the eye, blinded by their stubborn pride and bitter spite. And then, when the inevitable happened, they screamed in panic, begged for mercy, pleaded utter ignorance as the fiery breath engulfed them.
The deed was done, the rotten tree chopped down, and from the ashes of its smoldering timbers, Bergrún would build a better world where the random luck of birth counted for nothing against the power of will and the will of power. But first, she must leave. The fires devouring her childhood and youth still blazed too hot. The smoke’s noxious odor stole her breath and stung her eyes, causing tears to pool in the corners.
The witch swiped the moisture away, disgusted. Her jaw was set, her shoulders stiff. She jerked her gaze away. Behind her, the oars creaked as eight men labored to propel the ship. With their eyes downcast and their voices reduced to grunts, they were nothing but sheep—frightened animals, yet with enough sense to protect their hides. Soon their toil and sweat would move the vessel past the shallows, and she would order the mainsail hoisted.
Her gaze sought the horizon. Beyond the restless sea lay a world of hidden secrets, daring ventures, and limitless opportunities. The wind would guide her destiny for a while, until she returned, ready to claim the rightful place her new nature demanded.
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