THE RUNEWAR SAGA

ABOUT THE BOOKS

THE THRONE OF ICE & ASH

BOOK 1

A throne in peril, a tragic betrayal, two heirs struggling to save their land, and a prophesied war threatening to engulf the world...

Bjorn, youngest heir to the Mad Jarl of Oakharrow, has always felt more at ease with a quill than a sword. Yet when calamity strikes his family, he must draw a blade and lead a company of warriors into the cold, deadly mountains in pursuit of a mysterious foe. Though he seeks vengeance, an ancient power stirs within him, and the whispers of prophecy beckon him toward an ominous destiny...

Aelthena, Bjorn's sister, was born with the aptitude to lead, and she's eager to prove it. But her society's rules for women, and her love for her brother, restrain her efforts to command. As she walks the fine line between ambition and virtue, enemies of both mankind and myth rally against Oakharrow, and even her allies question her right to rule...

The Runewar is rising - it begins with the fall of a throne.

A harrowing tale of the struggle for power and the dawning heroes who rise above it, The Throne of Ice & Ash is Book 1 of the Norse high fantasy, coming of age series The Runewar Saga. Fans of A Song of Ice and Fire, The Lord of the Rings, and The Wheel of Time won't want to miss this new sweeping epic fantasy!

Scroll below to read an excerpt.

AN EXCERPT OF THE THRONE OF ICE & ASH

BOOK 1 OF THE RUNEWAR SAGA

Murth Goldbritches was staring into the snow-speckled mist when he caught sight of the omen.

To another man, it might have seemed an illusion. A blizzard could fool any eye, and there were no worse storms than those found in the heart of the Teeth. But Murth was no new leaf. A scout of the mountains for nearly two decades, his eyes were still as sharp as any others, and he had seen more than his fair share of the winter's tricks.

"What are you trying to tell me now, you fickle sprites?" he muttered under his breath.

The omen shimmered in reds and blues, barely visible through the snow and fog, the streams of light intertwining and twisting like cavorting youths on a festival day. While enchanting to behold, something about it spoke of violence and fury. If this was a dance, it was a killing dance — another thing with which a scout of the Teeth was all too familiar.

Murth firmed his jaw. Bonewomen might set stock in signs from the wilds, but it did not change a scout's duty.

"Omens be damned, by Jün's mane," he murmured as he turned away from the cliff.

"Seen enough?" Nifil the Suckler grinned as Murth hunched behind the boulder where his companion had taken shelter.

"I see more in a blizzard than you would on a clear day," Murth retorted.

"Ever the charmer! No wonder your wife is so taken with you."

Murth grunted in reply. As much as he adored his wife, she was the last person he wanted to think of. Think of her too much, and he might lose the courage to do what must be done.

He stretched his legs, trying to ease his aching joints. "Best be going. Hoarfrost doesn't take kindly to delays."

"That I know," Nifil agreed, standing more easily than Murth. The lad had barely twenty winters to him and all the optimism of a summer child. Only a boy would think to suckle on an icicle for water and thus earn his Name. 

It'll serve him well, Murth thought, that attitude. As long as it doesn't get him killed.

Strapping on their skis, they made quick time down the slope. With minimal visibility, it might have been a harrowing journey, but Murth had often made the trip up to this overlook. Clearer days afforded a view for leagues around, and he had been hoping the weather might scatter enough to take a look and ensure no foes advanced into Skyardi territory under the storm's cover. But it had been a vain wish from the start. Even if the snows had abated, the damnable mist that covered the valley over the past week would have remained. The foul taste of the fog, reminiscent of spoiled eggs, lingered on his tongue no matter how many times he spat.

As they arrived at the start of the valley descent, Murth stopped and stared down at the snow piled before their skis. Nifil came up beside him. 

"What is it, old man?"

"If I'm the old one, how is it you don't see those tracks?"

There were dozens of sets going to and from the path into the vale. No paw prints, these. Any scout worth his skis could see the impressions were the shape of men's boots. Murth's right eyelid flickered, as it always did when he grew nervous. Is it sign enough? he asked himself. Would Hoarfrost say we did our duty to report on this alone?

But he knew the answer. A scout did not return with an incomplete report. At least, not both of a pair.

He sucked in a deep breath. "Return to Hoarfrost. Report back what we've seen."

Nifil stared at him. "What? Aren't you coming with?"

"You know our code. If there's danger, the second reports the initial signs."

"While the first gets himself killed, is that right?"

Murth grabbed the younger scout by the front of his cloak and wrenched him close so there were only inches separating them. "Listen to me, Nifil, and listen hard. You're to report back to Hoarfrost. If you don't, the entire tribe could be at risk. You understand me?"

Nifil's defiance wavered, but didn't break. "Damned foolish rule. Don't go down there, Goldbritches. Ain't you pissed in the wind enough?"

Murth grimaced. Nifil may not have witnessed how Murth had earned his Name, but he had surely heard the stories — how, on Murth's first day as a scout, he had mistaken the wind's direction and relieved himself just as a gust blew hard.

He hadn't been called Goldbritches, after all, for having a bag of coins in his pockets.

"As your first, I'm ordering you to return to the tribe. Do it, or I'll take it as a personal challenge."

Nifil held out a moment longer, then pushed Murth away. He avoided looking at him as he spoke. "Fine, Murth, fine. Just don't take any chances, hear me?"

Murth Goldbritches gave his younger companion a grim smile. "I haven't pissed in the wind since, have I?"

* * *

He waited until Nifil disappeared out of sight before heading down the valley descent.

The path was narrow enough to be uncomfortable for skis, but not so much that he needed to go by foot. He eased down the trail, keeping his speed in check, for the mist only grew thicker as he descended, and he could barely see more than a few feet in front of him. Even with a scout's eyes, he could scarcely follow the trampled snow down, much less watch for silhouettes that would signal men ahead.

To his surprise, it was not long before the snow thinned, then faded altogether. His apprehension unabated, Murth unstrapped his skis and set them to the side of the path, tucking them inside a large crevice that would hide them from the casual glance. I'll only be a moment, he told himself with little conviction. The fog was thicker than ever, and he could barely make out his hand when he held it before his eyes.

Keeping his gaze to the dark outline of the stone path underfoot, Murth descended. He held his spear, which he used to steer while skiing, before him. Damp air clung unnaturally in his throat so he had to repress a bout of coughing. The smell and taste of rot overwhelmed his senses. Murth blinked rapidly, unable to tell if the sparking lights in his vision were from seeing nothing but flat, gray fog for so long, or if something else brought them about.

Then he recognized the flickers of color.

The omen. It had followed him, its slithering battle continuing. His eyes lingered on it for too long before he dropped his gaze to his feet. His stomach lurched. He had strayed far too near the edge. 

He kept closer to the cliff wall after that.

How long Murth walked, he could not say. His balance felt off, his legs oddly unsteady. Though there was no sound but the scraping of his boots on the stone, he thought he heard something. Hints of songs he sang in summer, or with his daughter when he was home and sheltered on a wintry evening. He smiled, bittersweet memories filling in the empty spaces that the fog left, only interrupted by the vision of spinning lights.

If only to pass the time, he crooned to himself. "Hey-ho, the melt-ing snow — it bears you away, my darl-ing." Only after he'd sung did he wonder why he had. The first rule of being a Skyardi scout was never to make noise when it was not necessary. Murth knew better than to violate that, here, surrounded by fog so thick he could barely see his feet. Enemies could be hidden anywhere along the path and he would never know.

Yet his concerns drifted, made unimportant and rootless in the endless fog. And before he realized what he was doing, he was singing again.

"Hey-ho, the summer goes — come au-tumn, you'll find me call-ing."

His mind began to invent reasons to turn around. Perhaps it had not been men's tracks they had seen; maybe it had been a bear, or wolves, or any of the other creatures that wandered the Teeth. He had been tired and misread them; his eyes were not what they used to be, no matter what he told himself and others.

Please, turn around, part of him begged. An omen is in the fog. Just turn around, Goldbritches, for your daughter's blessed sake. Turn around!

Murth started to obey — he did not want to continue. But at the last moment, he thought better of it and spun back around. For a breathless instant, the swing of his heavy pack put him off balance, and he set his foot down—

Nothing was below him.

He pitched to the side, his other foot slipping from the stone. His stomach lurched. Terror froze him as he sank through the endless fog. He thought of his wife and daughter and how he would never see them again.

An impact. Pain. Darkness.

He pried open his eyes as someone shook him, then flinched back. Beasts shaped like men leaned over him. Through his swimming vision, he saw tusks erupting from the corners of their mouths, and coarse, dark hair that sprouted across their faces.

"Where'd you come from?" they demanded, speaking in his peoples' tongue. "Were others with you? Talk, Jün damn you!"

Murth could find no answer. They did not wait long before lifting him bodily. He sank into oblivion.

Cold water and a sudden slap brought him back. 

Gasping, pain ratcheting through his chest with every breath, Murth opened his eyes again and had to blink something out of them. Blood, part of him realized. He reeked of it, stinking even worse than the fog.

Hands roughly brought him upright, but he could not support himself. He let them hold him as his eyes rolled forward, then widened as he comprehended the nightmare before him.

The hulking figure was cast partly in shadow by the flickering fire it leaned over. Three times the height of a greatbear, Murth knew it must be a statue, an effigy carved by one of the Teeth's tribes — until it moved. Then he saw the tusks, each as long as he was tall and spear-sharp at the tips. He saw the hands, thick-fingered and covered in hair, and large enough to crush his skull.

The immense beast leaned forward and bellowed, and his captors babbled before it. 

I'm going to die. 

He had realized it as soon as he'd woken to a body that was little more than a bag of broken bones. His clothes sagged with his spilled blood. His limbs lay numb about him, absent of life. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision. 

The end was close.

Murth Goldbritches shut his eyes. This was not a world he could understand anymore. Beasts that speak like men. An omen in the fog that fools and tricks. A monster from out of the ancient tales.

Sleep, a dark sleep, beckoned him toward its depths. He hadn't earned his rest; his wife, their little golden daughter — they deserved better than his taking a long nap. 

But, gray gods, I'm taking it.

He was sinking, heavy, ponderous, all feeling becoming lost. He freed his weight from the world and rose along a gentle zephyr. Then, like a leaf thrown into a gust, he soared.

Gods be good, I'm free. I'm free. I'm finally free.

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