Bridget Bramble and the Dragon Ship: Chronicles of Oakenwald, #2

By Aurora Springer

Step into the magical realm of Oakenwald with Bridget Bramble and the Dragon Ship.  

Bridget Bramble hopes to make a home with her beloved elf, Windswift, in the peaceful land of Oakenwald. But her dreams of a peaceful life are smashed when news arrives of a fleet of enemy ships threatening the southern shores. Bridget and her partner are recruited into a perilous mission to scout the roads to the southern port of Ebbasmouth. The dangers increase as they travel farther from the elf queen's domain. Will Bridget's handful of spells and Windswift's keen sword be sufficient to defeat their enemies and ensure the safety of the warded land? 

 

Epic fantasy adventure and romance with darker overtones. This story weaves elements of folklore and a quest for a safe haven in a land where magic is real and dangerous.  

Book 2 of the Oakenwald Chronicles

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aurora Springer
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223517511

Aurora Springer

Aurora Springer is a scientist morphing into a novelist. This year, I achieved a lifelong ambition by becoming a published novelist, after years of working as a professional scientist. I have composed science fiction and fantasy stories for as long as I can remember. I was born in the UK, and have a PhD in molecular biophysics. Currently, I live in Atlanta, USA with my husband, a dog and the requisite two cats to lie on my laptop. My novels allow me to express humor and a wild imagination with weird new characters and worlds, while exploring serious questions. My published works include science fiction romance novels and a short fantasy novella.

Book preview

Bridget Bramble and the Dragon Ship

by

Aurora Springer

Step into the magical realm of Oakenwald with Bridget Bramble and the Dragon Ship.  

Bridget Bramble hopes to make a home with her beloved elf, Windswift, in the peaceful land of Oakenwald. But her dreams of a peaceful life are smashed when news arrives of a fleet of enemy ships threatening the southern shores. Bridget and her partner are recruited into a perilous mission to scout the roads to the southern port of Ebbasmouth. The dangers increase as they travel farther from the elf queen’s domain. Will Bridget’s handful of spells and Windswift’s keen sword be sufficient to defeat their enemies and ensure the safety of the warded land? 

Epic fantasy adventure and romance with darker overtones. This story weaves elements of folklore and a quest for a safe haven in a land where magic is real and dangerous. 

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidence.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright © 2023 Aurora Springer

All rights reserved.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

On the day they exchanged their marriage vows, Bridget Bramble and Vancele Windswift were summoned to the elf Queen’s council of war.

A horn blared.

Its deep notes vibrated through the canvas walls of the Stitchery where Bridget Bramble was carving an acorn on a button of red oak.

Rattled by the strident sound, she dropped her carving chisel on the table and glanced at her new husband.

The elf had entered the Stitchery a few minutes earlier, and straddled the other end of her bench to watch her create the charmed buttons.

The sight of his handsome visage with a smile warming his cool gray eyes swept a thrill of delight through her. He loved her. He had chosen to marry her, a mere human woman, instead of the beautiful, conceited elf princess offered by his queen. His calm demeanor reassured her. The raucous blare had not alarmed him.

He answered her unspoken question, ’Tis the summons to the Queen’s Council.

A council of war, she grumbled. Hen’s teeth, the councilors will be yattering back and forth for the rest of the day, and I’ve only made five buttons. Why don’t you go without me? I won’t be much help.

Indeed, your skills will be invaluable. His long silver-blond hair swayed as he leaned forward to caress the back of her hand. Your buttons can wait. Put away your tools, dear wife. Marshall Emrys invited both of us to attend the war council.

She retorted, Your uncle made the invitation sound like an order. Memories swirled through her mind of the assault on her old village in far-off Barringsland. The brutal raiders had killed her brother and his wife. They had plundered the cottages, set fire to the thatched roofs, and dragged away her neighbors. She choked back a sob, and blurted out the true reason for her reluctance to attend the council, Oh Van, I don’t want a war.

He wrapped her in a comforting embrace. Birdie, none of us wish for war. That is why the Queen is holding a council meeting. She wishes to discuss what we can do to avert war with Emperor Raglan. 

She wrinkled her nose and sighed, Then, I must go to the council whether I can help or not.

Aye. You must attend.

She kissed him, grateful for his sympathy.

Brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, he said, Put away your tools.

She replaced the small chisel and knife in their slots and tucked the kit inside her leather satchel. Venting an annoyed groan, she surveyed the buttons she had already made. Inspired by gratitude, she had carved five buttons for Queen Krisolde on roundels of golden oak wood provided by the carpenter. She had etched different designs on the buttons, a five-petaled flower like a violet, a crescent moon, a five-pointed star, an oak leaf and a butterfly. Each one held a beneficial charm for fortune or good health.

Vancele’s new bracer of supple leather lay beside the buttons. Her husband had the highest claim for her talent. As her first task before she began work on the elf queen’s buttons, she had carved a button of ivory-hued birch wood inscribed with an acorn inside an oak leaf. This button, infused with her best protective spells, was woven into the lacing of the bracer.

She offered the gift to her beloved husband. Here’s your bracer with a special button.

He hugged her again. I am proud to wear one of your enchanted buttons. He fastened the bracer around his forearm. A smile twitched on his lips and he asked, Are you ready to go to the queen’s tent?

Obedient to her partner’s coaxing, she swept the other charmed buttons into her purse and placed the satchel in the wooden chest in the corner of the tent. Dame Maire had given her the chest to store her belongings until she found a more permanent residence.

Vancele stood, sunlight glinting on the gold leaves embroidered on his fine tunic of pine-green silk, and held out his hand. Come, Birdie.

Bridget glanced down at her clothes. She had changed the fox-red gown for her old trousers, freshly cleaned by the elf maids, and a russet-brown tunic of elfin silk from Dame Maire’s stock. Doubtful about her garb, she asked, Are my clothes suitable for this council? Or should I wear my new dress?

You look charming, lovely witch and button maker.

Accepting his judgment, she nodded. He had served Queen Krisolde for many years and must be familiar with the court’s etiquette, whereas she had arrived only yesterday and knew little about the elves of Oakenwald, their Queen, and their customs.

He clasped her hand, raised the tent flap, and guided her outside. As they exited, he said, ’Tis generous of Dame Maire to give you a work space in her tent.

Bridget smiled, suspecting he intended to divert her thoughts away from the coming meeting. Maire is kind. Yet, she is also practical. She talks about using my buttons on the pretty dresses and fine tunics sewn by her maids. Dame Maire managed the Stitchery and the adjacent canopied compartments with their attendant elf maids. 

Pressing her fingers, he said, A delightful notion. I predict your charmed buttons will be treasured throughout the Queen’s realm.

Bridget chuckled. If you are correct, I’ll be kept busy for years.

They paused outside the tent for a moment to admire the view in the center of the Queen’s rath. The Stitchery lay on the circumference of the wide space under the spreading branches of the Great Oak. The bright light of the midday sun filtered through the leaves overhead, dappling the raised roots and carpet of mosses on the ground.

Hand in hand, Bridget and Windswift walked past the dressmakers’ tents and strolled toward the bole of the Great Oak at the very center of the Queen’s rath. An elaborate canopy of maroon cloth embroidered in gold patterns had been erected on the opposite side of the main path through the rath. Ornate tassels decorated the corners of the canopy and a sentry stood at the entrance. The sentry was one of the Southern elves, judging by his ebony hair, brown complexion, and garb of a crimson tunic with loose sleeves. Bridget deduced he was guarding the temporary residence of the Devan party.

Reluctant to meet their arrogant leader, Deva Ganja, or his obnoxious daughter, Princess Shuka, she turned away to gaze at the central space. Under the umbrella of leafy branches, fair-haired elves and a handful of humans sat on the surface roots of the oak. Their heads were bent together in gossip.

Bridget guessed their conversation was focused on the news of the fleet of dragon ships in the harbor of Ebbasmouth and the war council called by Queen Krisolde. The elves and humans gathered on the roots of the Great Oak were all strangers to her. She missed Vancele’s sister, Elissa, with her welcoming smile and cheerful voice. But Elissa and her husband Gwillam had left the rath earlier, after renewing their invitation for the newly wedded couple to stay at their home.

At the base of the huge oak, a white canopy hugged one side of the massive, gnarled bole. Two elves stood on guard beside the entrance to the Queen’s inner court.  

Other people were ambling in the direction of the canopy.

Prominent among the shorter elves and men, Huglik, the troll messenger sent by Ferrymaster Hunnar, strode in the vanguard. The troll bore two curved horns and his bald head was a mottled green hue. He wore a sleeveless blue jerkin over knee-length britches and walked barefoot.

Bridget recognized a man with brown curly hair from the group she had seen at breakfast with the troll. Nobody carried weapons. Queen Krisolde prohibited visitors from bringing their weapons into the rath.

Bridget tightened her grasp on her husband’s hand and whispered, Why does the Queen fear an attack from Raglan’s army? Aren’t the borders of Oakenwald protected by elf warriors and magic?

He bent closer and explained, The path we traveled, over the enchanted bridge and through the forest, is indeed well defended. It is the major road from the south into the Queen’s realm. The swift river and steep gorge are treacherous and challenging to cross, although they are not impregnable to a determined assault. Much of the border with the outer lands is less well protected. We cannot place guards along the entire length of the border and often must rely on erratic magic.

Like kelpies? She quirked a grin, recalling the water horse she had tricked at the creek on her journey to the Gray Mountains.

True. Certain magical beings, such as kelpies, are bound to our service and protect our borders. Even the trees will bend to our defense at urgent need.  

She mused, I remember the sharp-thorned bushes edging the forest where we entered Oakenwald.

The scarlet barrier of thorn trees is indeed one of our defenses.

From behind them, the bell-like tones of an elf called a salute, Hail, good Windswift.

Twisting around, Bridget saw a heavyset male elf striding nearer. His blonde hair was cropped short and he was clad in a sleeveless leather jerkin instead of the typical long-sleeved tunic. His bare arms rippled with muscles, he wore fingerless work gloves, and his fingernails were capped in a silvery metal.

Windswift said, Good day, Wayland. I did not see you at the feast yestereve.

Humph, I care little for festivities. Throwing a glance at the tasseled maroon tent, he added, Nor for these southern visitors.

Aye. They provoked me with their insults.

I heard of the provocation and your rebuff. Smiling at Bridget, he said, Please introduce your new bride.

Deducing his sincere friendship with Vancele, she returned his smile.

Windswift nudged her forward. Bridget Bramble, maker of charmed buttons and my delightful wife. Meet the queen’s armorer, Wayland Silverfingers.

Bridget offered her hand. Good day, Master Wayland. Are you a silversmith?

He clasped her fingers gently in his gloved hand. I work with all types of metal and I maintain the armory for the Queen’s guards.

Wayland’s forge is on the outskirts of the rath, Windswift explained. He also bears responsibility for storing the weapons we must submit before we are permitted to enter the queen’s abode.  

Aye. Your sword has seen heavy usage since I last checked the blade.

True. I have fought with both monsters and men in my travels. He patted Bridget’s arm. As has my witch wife. She has devised a number of beneficial spells.

A glimmer of curiosity in his gray eyes, Wayland looked at her and cocked his head. You’re a true witch? Rumors have flown across the rath about your magical skills.

Blushing under the smith’s gaze, she said, Most of my spells are designed to cure ills. I’m a herbwife and tended the sick in my old village of Woollensted in Barringsland. She scrunched her brows in sorrow. My old life ended when Raglan’s men pillaged my village and killed my brother and his wife. I fled the invaders and sought the road to Oakenwald. My father’s family come from the Foxen clan and they left Oakenwald two generations ago.

Windswift added, Bridget and I met on the journey. To my great benefit.

And mine, she whispered.

As they approached the entrance to the canopied court, Bridget hushed in apprehension at meeting the awesome Queen Krisolde.

The guards greeted them and waved them inside.

Clearly, Windswift and his new witch wife were expected.

After you, good Wayland, Windswift invited with genial courtesy.

Muttering an indifferent grunt, As you please, the armorer marched under the tent flap. 

Torn between pride and trepidation, Bridget entered beside her elf lover. 

The spacious interior of this silk-walled tent covered two surface roots of the Great Oak and had space to accommodate a dozen people. The canopy roof was rolled back, leaving the webbing frame, and exposing the wrinkled bark of the tree trunk and its arching branches of green leaves.

As on the previous evening, Queen Krisolde Whitestar occupied the seat nestled in a cavity in the central bole. Her silver blonde hair cascaded over her grass-green gown, and the silver circlet adorned with a golden acorn proclaimed her royal status. An oval shield with her acorn device was mounted on the tree trunk above her head. Her two chief advisors flanked her. Flaxen-haired Marshall Emrys stood at her right hand, while Tristam Eagleeyed, the dark-haired wizard, provided a sinister contrast on her left.

The troll, Huglik, stood next to Emrys. Massive and green-hued, the troll towered a head above the tallest elf in the tent.

Bridget flung a glance at the other attendees. They sat on the roots at a distance of two or three paces away from the regal Krisolde. The armorer, Wayland, had taken a seat on the root opposite an elf lady with long silvery braids and a large white raven perched on her shoulder. Two human men sat beyond the two elves.

Windswift bowed to the Queen.

Simultaneously, Bridget bobbed a curtsy, flushing in embarrassment at her plain tunic and worn trousers.

Queen Krisolde offered a kind smile and greeting, Oak’s peace to you, Bridget Bramble and Vancele Windswift.

Raising their clasped hands, Windswift said, Gracious Majesty, Bridget and I were married this morning in the presence of my uncle, Marshall Emrys.

Be assured, your union has my blessing. May you live together for many joyful years. She swung a delicate hand to indicate the back of the tent. Please be seated. Feel free to speak with your neighbors while we await the final invitees.  

Cupping her elbow, Windswift steered Bridget around the troll and to the rear of the tent.

She kept her gaze on the ground, demure among this superior company. As she stepped by the armorer, she glanced up and met his amused gaze.

Windswift halted by the elf lady with the raven. Good day, Mistress Laurelyn. May we sit by you?

You are welcome, Wanderer. Her eyes twinkled in a smile. I am pleased to meet your new wife.

Thank you, Mistress Laurelyn, Bridget stammered. I’m Bridget Bramble.

The white raven fluttered its feathers and stared at her out of sharp pink eyes.

Uttering a tiny chuckle of amusement, the elf woman said, My companion, KrikKrak the White Feathered, wishes to greet you.

The white raven cocked its head and uttered a sound, a croak of Hello.

Blinking in surprise, Bridget murmured, Hello KrikKrak.

The raven bobbed its head in reply.

She risked a glance at the elf Queen. Krisolde sat in the cavity in the huge oak bole. A benign smile on her face, she was listening to the wizard. Her golden-haired counsellor was talking with the troll. They seemed unperturbed by the ominous news from the south.

On her husband’s urging, Bridget sank onto the root beside Laurelyn and her white raven.

Two men, human by their appearance, sat on the adjacent root.

Mistress Laurelyn indicated the two men. Meet our neighbors, Eorl Edric of the Kingfisher clan, and Harald, brother of Eorl Torsten of the Beaver clan.

Eorl Edric, a comely young man with auburn curls, offered an amiable smile, saying, Good day, Mistress Bridget and Master Windswift.

The older man with gray threads in his shaggy brown hair and beard simply stared at her. A hunting dog lay by his booted feet, a hound with curly white fur flecked in brown spots.

Windswift replied in his