Praise for Song of the Valkyrie:

Book Page:
tinyurl.com/y7tyjwql

Read. Rite. Rove. #Vikings


           
"For the reader who is desirous of learning details about this chaotic period Rogers has provided a treasure trove in fictional format." Book Reviews by John H. Manhold



            "What a wonderfully poetic chapter. Some extraordinary prose in here that ripple and dance on the tongue. 'Three times the thunder struck, three times the fear spread like the sharp northwest winter wind cleaving cotton cloth.' A fine example of what I mean.
            "'Flinging and shaking his head, scattering cold, insensate water over the women tending the fire, he cocked among them with his hairy, burly chest puffed out through his open coat, his red eyes wide with a mixture of mirth and rage.' A fabulous line that instantly brings Gudrod to life for the reader, physically, characteristically, and emotionally.
             "This is a fine piece of work, Starred and wishing you all the best with this," 
D.J. Milne.

            "This is a smart manuscript. Your readers are predominantly women who are well-educated and belong to book clubs. They will enjoy reading about this early version of a strong woman against the confines of a brutal society. That said, I can tell you now that your book seems to me to be literary fiction," Margaret South, (producer Beaches, et al).

Available for purchase here:
tinyurl.com/y7tyjwql

Read. Rite. Rove. #Vikings

by Steven Rogers, Historic Fiction, 134,000 Words.

After a brutal abduction, a young queen must earn the love of her new country before she can gain power and vengeance.

Purchase Here:
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Prelude

53. OF GUDROD THE HUNTER.

Gudrod, Halfdan's son, succeeded. He was called Gudrod the Magnificent,

Heimskringla, A History of the Kings of Norway
- Snorri Sturluson

Freya's Lament

            I sit in my hall of diminished guests listening to faded tales and remember. My tears drop into the amber ale, but the guests have seen me weeping so many times, they continue merry-making; they’ve lost the skill of gratitude. Fires crackle primordial sighs in the great hearths that surround us on all sides. Tapestries woven with immortal fingers tell mute tales. Gold and silk abound, harps and lyres twang their tunes. Boasts bellow from beer-bathed lips, laughter echoes on empty ears.
            Wine-sotted eyes from about the room steal lecherous glances at me. I hide my treasure and my jewels behind me, but I know it is to my face and form their eyes lust. Healed from heart piercing points, women who lavished their lives upon their wedded one's wounds now cast their eyes about the room. Reunited war-torn lovers pine for each other over the eternal bridge that bonds them.
            The other bridge, the one distant, past the horizon, is vacant. Its flames no longer burn, no longer glorify the gates of Asgard. The mighty, who once crossed in hordes, have shunned the march, lost sight of our tall gleaming turrets, no longer come. I miss the sound of their singing voices, their human glee as they finger their healed wounds, and their laughter at finding fallen comrades firmer and fitter than their last remembrance. When men pass over the fear of death, the desperate shine that pushes them to glory disappears from their faces.
            Now there is a weariness to their joviality; theirs the tired faces of disappointed expectation. Without the promised war, these men are slovenly. Rusting swords hang beside cast-off byrnies on the walls. An armor of blubber coats once muscle-rippled ribs. More like the whales they hunted in the chase for life, their energetic blaring now whines, not in the quest for victory, but for more wine. Where pride and strength vitalized the hall, envy and gluttony weigh the roof and walls.
            The sight of mighty men corrupted by monotony sickens me. Their fate was a greater glory that eludes them now. The question arises, "When will Surt come out of Muspelheim?" It is tedious. Some say he no longer exists; that none of the frost giants exist. Our new seers bemoan the warming of the planet. Skoll and Hati play in the green fields like farmstead dogs. Fjalar, Gullinkambi, and Sotraud sleep in the roost.
            But my warriors still contend they live in paradise, this paradise of soft cushions and idle time. Yes, there is no pain here, but there is no glory, no achievement. There are no gallant guides to stand above the rest and lead men to greater courage, to higher dignity. These are the heroes of yore, but today they are the sheep of the flock, out to pasture, bleating in the sunshine, and swaying to the slightest breeze.
 
*****
 
            I come from a land of storytellers who sing of heroes who went into the forest to fell the timber and build their ships. They flowed across the seas to settle on the coastlines of the northern countries. They cleared the land of giants, overturned boulders, fought the trolls who lived inside, and made a space for men among the wilderness beasts.
            The Age of Man began when the frost giants fled into the mountains. Men made homes for children to be born and plowed the soil for crops to grow. Wheat and rye they reaped, threshed, hulled, and milled and from them loaves of bread rose and tankards of ale foamed. They ruled the land and the sea and slept under the skies of history. The climate was gentle and prosperity blessed mankind.
            The songs tell of this age and recall the deeds of chiefs and kings. They tell of war and wit, men mighty in strength, tales I've heard a hundred, hundred times. But immortality is a pallor that deadens ambition, as age deadens the curiosity of childish eyes.
            The bards are not as lively as once they were, their rhythm tripped in faulty recollection. The bard recites his lines:
 
Gudrod, Halfdan's son, succeeded.
Called Gudrod the Magnificent,
And also Gudrod the Hunter.
He was married to Alfhild,
A daughter of King Alfarin of Alfheim,
And got with her the district of Vingulmark.
 
            The bard recites on, unaware of his mistake, but the dancers stutter, pause to find their pace in stymied steps that no one notices. They are a squalid hoard. I can bear it no longer.
            "Get up! Get up! You men have reached this high. I'll no longer entertain your debauchery. Out with your whirling whetstones. Down with your rust-gutted blades. Ragnarok may be upon us and you are unprepared."
            Clamor rings in the halls like leaves on an evil wind. Sloth falls into discord and mighty men brawl like boys. No one knows what is about until they circle around. My battle helm flashes in their eyes and my sword charges lightening in the air.
            "Tough tales of men try my ears with brash bravery and swilling swaggery. Who will sing songs of sweet sisters, mothers and wives? Who will tell tales from the quiet cupboard or dim weaving rooms where heroines hail? Who will speak of the woman cast into a man's world -- where laws are hidden by avarice and ambition -- forced to cope, caught and conquered, with only her will and wits?
            "Some slip between the gates of birth and death without adversity, but there is no meaning to a life that doesn't put honor and courage to challenge. What is the worth of a warrior on the field of battle who shirks the contest, hides behind the shield and never thrusts his point of sword? What is the consequence of a life that is never tested?
            "Take my place at table, bard, if you can't entertain me with such a tale and I will sing you a song unlittered by your poetics and alliteration, unspoiled by your crafty kennings. Hear my tale of innocence protected by layers of love, a jewel treasured by family, friends and fealty; a tale that teaches that nothing in the world is immune from catastrophe, nothing given by life that isn't taken away, except one's own heart and valor; a tale of a woman who rises above the coercion of fate to lay her own imprint on history."
 
 

Freya's Priestess


            I knew Aasa lived life to the fullest measure just by looking at her.

Thor's Thunder


            When Aasa looked into the stunned faces of everyone in the crowded hall, the drumming she heard sounded like Thor's thunder raking against the three-foot thick outer walls.

Thor


            I hold the hammer, the oldest tool of man.

Word Reaches Svein


            Torkel looked across the cut to the figure on the opposite shore whose loose clothes flew with the wind;

Odin

            I am the doomed that waits for death
 
 

A Walk to Yonder Rise


            The bow of the dragon ship shook heavily against the rollers of the sea.

Arrival in Borre


            The ships entered the Vik, the broad seaway that leads to the interior of the Northlands.

Courage Fit for a Queen


            Liv took Aasa off to another hut, dragging her lightly by the hand.

The First Morning


            Before the gray of dawn could sweep across the Vik and touch the longhouse with its golden light,

The Morning Meal


            Aasa stepped determinedly up the incline out of the bushes and rejoined Torhild.

Svein's Plan

            "What are we going to do, father?" Svein paced the ground in front of the hall.