The Road of Bones: The Ashen Series, Book One($23.00Value)

Description

In this epic and immersive Viking-inspired romantic fantasy, a woman fleeing a ruthless assassin accidentally joins forces with a group of mercenaries and must use all her cunning to escape with her life—and heart—intact. Silla Nordvig is running for her life. The Queen of Íseldur has sent warriors to bring Silla to Sunnavík, where death awaits her. When her father is killed, his last words set Silla on a perilous quest: travel the treacherous Road of Bones—a thousand-mile stretch haunted by warbands, creatures of darkness, and a mysterious murderer—and go to Kopa, where a shield-house awaits her. After barely surviving the first stretch of road, a desperate Silla sneaks into a supply wagon belonging to the notorious Bloodaxe Crew. To make it to Kopa, she must win over Axe Eyes, the brooding leader of the Crew, while avoiding the Wolf, his distractingly handsome right-hand man. All the while, the queen's ruthless assassin hunts Silla obsessively. Will Silla make it safely to Kopa? Or will she fall prey to the perils of the Road of Bones? Demi Winters is the author of romantic fantasy books featuring softer female leads, grumpy heroes, and immersive worlds. Lover of all things fairy tales, fantasy, and romance, Demi lives in British Columbia, Canada with her husband and two kids. When she's not busy brainstorming fantastical worlds and morally gray love interests, Demi loves reading and cooking. Chapter 1 Skarstad Silla Nordvig believed in the little signs the old gods left for mortals—­red skies to foretell surprise, the flíta to usher in change, and the black hawk as a herald of death. Above all else, she knew that bad fortune came in threes, so it should not have come as a surprise when those wretched bells started ringing. She jumped in fright all the same. After washing the bread dough from her hands, Silla dried them on the coarse material of her homespun skirts. Ashes, she thought. This week was truly taking a toll on her. It had all started to unravel when Olaf the Red had requested tenancy payment a week ahead of schedule, stretching their threadbare budget beyond its limits. Next, Silla had burned her thumb while pulling barley cakes from the embers, dropping the full batch into the cookfire. Grains were growing more and more costly—­after three long winters in a row, crops were stunted, and the harvest would be grim. Silla had earned herself a stern verbal lashing for her mistake. And now the third instance of ill fortune this week—­those foulsome bells. Silla smoothed the floral embroidery along the belt of her blue apron dress, the same worn by all of Jarl Gunnell’s domestic hands, and made her way outdoors. The jangle of iron keys signaled the arrival of Bera, Jarl Gunnell’s wife and head of the household. Silla quickly found her place in line, fingers threading tightly together as Bera counted them. “Twelve. All right on your way, you lot,” she said in a gentle voice, ushering them out. “Let us hope this is swift. For all involved.” A light breeze caressed Silla’s face and pulled a few chestnut coils from her tightly woven braid as she stepped along the path. For a gray day, it was pleasantly warm, the sun obscured by clouds. A wasp buzzed at her face, and she swatted it away. Birds twittered from the gardens of the homestead. It was almost peaceful for a moment. Until the following toll of the bell, long and so loud, it set Silla’s teeth on edge. She matched her steps to the others, keeping her eyes on the blue skirts of the girl ahead of her. They walked in a single line, making their way down the rutted lane. Silla didn’t have to look to know Jarl Gunnell and his men—­warriors, stablemen, and field workers alike—­would be following behind. The jarl was one of the few members of nobility who did not use enslaved thralls brought over from Norvaland, but if he had, they would join as well. The bells were nothing if not the great equalizer, demanding the presence of every Íseldurian over ten winters of age, regardless of class. Silla glanced toward the stables but could not see her father. He’d be there, somewhere among the field workers, in his dirt-­stained gray tunic. He’d be wiping grime from his face, worrying about her, about them, deciding they’d lingered too long in Skarstad. It would be time for a fresh start. Another one. They walked along the packed-­dirt road and through a gate in the stockade walls of the village, past timber homes topped with thatched roofs. While orderly woodpiles were stacked neatly before the homes, the cabbage yards overflowed with kitchen herbs and vegetables. Skarstad itself was small and unremarkable, interchangeable with most towns in Sudur lands. Silla should know; she’d lived in so many of them. Neatly laid out and encircled by tall defensive walls, it held two main thoroughfares that intersected in a central, tree-­lined courtyard. The mead hall was neatly maintained, the stoops well swept, the square stained with b