It’s here!

The technical glitch is sorted and Tales from the Northlands is up and running. It’s a 99c/p volume so it won’t break the bank, and if you enjoy stories, you’re in for a treat, because no one could tell stories better than the Norsemen, and though I’m not a Norseman, you might be able to forget that when you’re reading them.


Just to repeat myself, this is what they’re all about..

These five short stories are set in the Northlands: a modern Swedish department store, the windswept east coast of Anglo-Saxon England, and the fjords of Viking Sverige.

A rickety wooden escalator carries a child from his safe, comfortable world of department store Christmas glitter to the midnight zone inhabited by legendary nightmares.

On the windswept east coast of Northumbria, a Saxon thegn avenges his murdered chief by selling his village to the sea wolves, and a ruthless war leader prepares for battle, gloating over the blood dream sent him by the wicce.

In Viking Sverige, Jussi and Solveig plan a future juggling bride price, parental expectations and the knarr they have yet to acquire, but their future falls beneath the shadow of the mountain.

Antar seems like the answer to Inna’s dream of escaping the bleak steading on the fjord, but her father and his chosen son-in-law have other ideas.

What links these tales is the North Sea that beats the coast, brings the cold and the long ships, laps the winter nights in snow, when the wind howls stories of trolls and giants. It brings the herring, the sea mews and the grey seals, and it joins a people with the same vision of the world—harsh, vivid and full of magic.


You can get Tales from the Northlands here


And there are, of course, free copies in exchange for a review. Though if Regency romance is your thing in historical fiction, these stories might not be for you.

Keeping calm and writing on

Instead of plodding ahead with yet another manuscript that may never see the light of day, I have decided to go back to my favourite, and I think my best story, and have another try at selling it. It’s a saga set in an alternate ninth century, wrapped up in fantasy. Here is a bit from the beginning.



Una lay curled up with her face to the wall and the dying fire warming her back. She heard her father stumble home and throw his boots by the door, her mother get up from their sleeping place in the alcove to bar the door. In a few moments the only sound was her father’s snoring. But Una could not find sleep. Her mother’s fanciful story of the Guardians had woken the Valdur general who murmured inside her head. Sigmarr. She formed the name in her thoughts and the deep voice was there, filling her head with his murmurings.

She closed her eye, but behind the eye band, the other eye saw, the eye that was no longer there. Shadows moved behind the eye and she peered over the battlements of a high tower onto a devastation, charred and blackened by fire and the ravages of war. At her side she felt Sigmarr’s presence and she was not afraid. Just infinitely sad.

Una, listen, the voice whispered urgently. Look. This is Vænnland, the land of your ancestors. Listen to its story. Sleep and watch.

Una closed her eye tight and shook her head. An army moved below the battlements like a dark sea. She moaned, not wishing to see the beasts that hid in the shadows of that sea.

Una, sleep and listen and see.

Una gave up the struggle and let herself drift into sleep. Drifting, she spread broad wings and became a gull, to soar high over cities of white limestone and pink and green marble, with graceful towers and peaceful gardens and great buildings where the Valdur housed wisdom of all kinds and shared it with the people. Her gull’s eyes saw the teeming fish beneath the waves. The gull flew inland and Una trotted, a red vixen, across rich and prosperous farmland and through forests rich with game.

She became an Elder of the High Council and read the star runes in the night when the Beast fell from the sky. She helped cast the runes of power that would bind the Beast in the deeps. She watched as the Beast raged in its chains and hurled the ocean from its bed in monstrous waves. The High Council was safe, high in the Vardgnæfa, the watchtower set on the highest hill behind Westwater, but the Vænnlanders fled screaming in terror from the devastation of the city and into the mud-filled woods beyond.

In the ruins of the farmland along the banks of Westwater, the Vænnlanders picked their way through the corpses of their livestock and the wreckage of their homes looking for their lost and dead. They raised angry eyes to the tall Vardgnæfa and Una heard their dark mutterings as they buried their dead.

Una became a salmon and swam the furious currents, through the turbulent deeps. Blood and ash clouded the water. The Beast was silent, but waves of pure wickedness pulsed through the walls of its prison, sending visions of red blood and carnage coursing through the ocean. Giant morays were drawn inexorably to the place, their primitive senses filled with the taste and scent of raw, bloody flesh.

The salmon Una beat her tail to avoid their path, but the morays paid the fish no mind. The fury emanating from the Beast reached out to the terrible creatures, ensnared them, and spawned the servants of the Beast, the servants that would stride through the waves and destroy the Valdur. The servants that would release their master.

Sacks of grey, gelatinous eggs throbbed and shivered with life. Grey larvae wriggled free, biting and tearing at egg cases and other larvae in blind savagery. As they grew and developed, gorged on the flesh of their brothers, the servants kicked their way to the surface, their lungs craving air, dissatisfied with the taste of salt water. As they rose heavily from the depths, they grew thick leather garments, salt-laden and water-drenched, their pale fish eyes blinked in the grey light of a winter morning and they clawed heavy cowls over their scaly faces.

Una salmon leapt and became a gull that soared, a trotting vixen and finally a girl sleeping in an uneasy troubled dream—a dream of Guardians marching heavily up the pebble strand, and troll-children with an expression of sorrow and pleading in their eyes, one blue as the sky, the other brown as a bird’s wing.

Triolet: A-Viking

This beast is docked in Bordeaux, blotting out the sun’s light and generally blocking the view. I hate these things but other people love them. I’ve had to borrow a pic of ‘Viking Star’ because my phone refuses to hand over the photos I took this morning.

Photo ©Pjotr Mahhonin


Is this how Norsemen go a-viking

In blunt-nosed hulks they sail the seas,

Swift dragon ships not to their liking?

Is this how Norsemen go a-viking

These warriors, paunchy poses striking

In floating palaces rigged to please?

Is this how Norsemen go a-viking?

In blunt-nosed hulks they sail the seas.