Wyreth's Flame

By Meredith Mansfield

Sometimes the gift of the right story to tell at the right time is a blessing. Sometimes it's a curse. But the Norse gods don't leave Astrid much choice, either way.
On the eve of a desperate battle, with her father lying mortally wounded, the gods give her a story about the first dragon to learn to breathe fire. As usual, the story doesn't come with instructions. It's up to Astrid to decide if the story is meant to calm the frightened children or encourage the dispirited men. Or if she just might be able to do both with the same story. All their lives may depend on her skill with a story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meredith Mansfield
• Release date: Mar 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393639589

Book preview

WYRETH’S FLAME

By Meredith Mansfield

Text Copyright 2014 Meredith. Mansfield

All Rights Reserved

Cover Image:

© Gertot1967 | Dreamstime.com

Table of Contents

Wyreth’s Flame

Bonus Material

About the Author

Wyreth’s Flame

Astrid stared at the glistening red scales of the dragon hide pinned to the wall behind the high table. The dragon her father had killed to win this land. She blinked as a story, fully-formed, entered her mind. The images played out against the backdrop of metallic scales. Knowing it was only a vision, she still had to force herself not to take a step back when the red dragon breathed a spurt of blue flame in her direction. The gods gave her only these mental pictures. It would be up to her skill to put words to them and bring the story to life.

Not a new experience for her, but this was a strange time for the gods to gift her with a tale. And such a story. Looking around the great hall, she couldn’t imagine telling this fable here and now. Even her gift for storytelling couldn’t make tonight’s gathering anything but dismal. Yet she knew the gods weren’t giving her a choice. They never did.

The room was unnaturally quiet and somber, despite the number of people assembled there. Even the children sat solemn and silent. The men drank too much, ignoring the food set before them in favor of swift oblivion. Her father would never have permitted that on the eve of battle, but her father lay in his chamber behind the hall racked with fever from the wound in his gut. Haakon Dragonslayer, felled by a puny skraeling’s flint-tipped spear. His men drank to keep from thinking about facing a similar fate tomorrow. They had no hope.

These men needed a leader. There were warriors here, men like Ranulf who could lead the men in the battle—if he’d only get his face out of his drinking horn. But the men also needed the heart to fight. So why had the gods given her a story that seemed aimed at the children? Surely the men needed her gift more. She ran the story through in her mind. Maybe, with skill, it could be aimed at both and serve more than one purpose.

Her gift was in her voice and the telling of a tale. She could soothe, inspire, or enflame with her words. She would need to do all three tonight.

A warm touch, like a hand on her shoulder, followed her as she stepped down from the dais to where the children sat huddled at one of the center tables. As if the gods approved her