On behalf of Rachel at Rachel’s Random Resources I’m thrilled today to be hosting a giveaway and an extract from Nancy Jardine’s historical fiction novel, After Whorl – Bran Reborn.
Giveaway to Win x1 signed paperback of After Whorl: Bran Reborn to one UK winner; X1 kindle copy worldwide
*Terms and Conditions –Worldwide entries welcome. Please enter using the Rafflecopter box below. The winner will be selected at random via Rafflecopter from all valid entries and will be notified by Twitter and/or email. If no response is received within 7 days then Rachel’s Random Resources reserves the right to select an alternative winner. Open to all entrants aged 18 or over. Any personal data given as part of the competition entry is used for this purpose only and will not be shared with third parties, with the exception of the winners’ information. This will passed to the giveaway organiser and used only for fulfillment of the prize, after which time Rachel’s Random Resources will delete the data. I am not responsible for dispatch or delivery of the prize.
AD 71 Northern Roman Britain
Ravaged at the Battle of Whorl, Brennus of Garrigill is irrevocably changed. He embraces a new identity as Bran, vowing to avert Roman domination of Brigantia. Though how, when he and Ineda – his healer’s granddaughter – are forced to labour for the Roman IX Legion? Trading with the usurpers provides opportunities for gathering information, but after they are attacked by a Roman patrol, Ineda cannot be found.
Distraught with her loss, can Bran find a new occupation?
The adventures of the Garrigill Clan continue…
Purchase Link http://viewbook.at/heritis
AD 71 Northern Britannia, Brigante Territory
The hamlet of Marske is meant to be abandoned after the Ancient Roman Legions have cleared out any survivors – but old Meaghan, a local healer, defies the Romans to tend a warrior survivor of the recent battlegrounds of Whorl. She has no idea who he is but he’s in a sorry state…
“Rest easy, warrior. Lie still.”
The softly-spoken command made his body stiffen again, something still preventing movement. It was not the horse. No horse stink, dead or alive, came to him, the heat he experienced was not one of a thriving animal’s flanks. Whatever pinned him down was not a direct weight upon his back like the horse had been. He had no idea where he was, but he was not on the battlefield at Whorl.
The searing heat of his body dissipated, replaced by a dread shiver as memories of battle raged around him, resurfacing too well. The battlefield at Whorl was a fearsome place. Used to border skirmishes he had killed a number of enemy tribesmen in the past, but had never experienced combat such as at Whorl. Battle with a Celtic enemy was entirely different from engagement with the Roman Army.
No warlike chanting, or usual bellows of aggression, preceded the Roman surge of attack. The sounds heralding an advance were issuing from only one soldier, his whistle and cries echoed by others as they pressed closer, thickly crowded together in little huddles behind their curved shields. Their tight clique was almost impossible to penetrate with his long sword as he swung it above his head, readying it for another lunge. Three shields faced him tightly packed; the javelin thrusts the only menacing movements his opponents were prepared to make.
He risked a glance alongside. His fellow Brigantes were confronted by similar disciplined clusters, and none could go closer to him, for Celts always needed the distance to wield their longer blades. He jerked his head sideward to avert a javelin thrust that threatened to pluck out his eye.
“Keep your head steady.”
He could not stop looking, or moving. One missed manoeuvre and he would be in the otherworld. Whoever gave him such orders to remain unmoving had to be completely witless. No tribal warrior ordered another during a bloody battle. It was each man for himself; everybody knew that. He shook his head in disgust. How could he obey such foolish commands?
His sword hewed down another hapless auxiliary whose shield was dislodged, the arm lopped off first before he hacked the legs out from under the man. A cry at his left had him whipping around, a lone auxiliary now attacking him. The glint of his helmet and metal mail blinded him, the sunlight stunning his senses. It was impossible to attack the head, and nearly impossible to slash through the mail-clad chest of the soldier, though he tried anyway.
“Lie still! Do not break the tether or it will go ill for you.”
Tether? Panic seized him. He would not be bound by Roman scum!
The voice urged him to do the opposite from his desires, so he ignored it. He felled more of the enemy, his shield bashing more than his sword arm which seemed to be weakened, though he could not work out why. Though, he only brought them to their knees after he had worked out their weak spots. Neck, forearms, knees and shins. He hacked at those places wishing for a Celtic farmer’s sickle, rather than his long sword. That would cleave them much more effectively using his left hand. A sideward swipe would use less power since his sword arm was now useless.
The unexpected blow to his rear whipped him sailing up into the air. The horse? Breath rushed from him, the light around him even more blinding before a violent darkness descended.
“Rest. I have no more need to turn you. You are clean now.”
He thumped down to the ground sending up a silent prayer to his god, Taranis, thankful he had not dishonoured his Brigante tribe. His god would know anyway, but he wanted it noted that he had not been vanquished by his enemy. A strange idle thought occurred before he drifted into sleep once more.
Did Taranis account for the fact that the horse was most likely a Roman one?
“If the goddess wills it, you will live…”
He knew from somewhere deep inside that the words did not come from Taranis, though he no longer cared. Still, his hatred of the Roman scum continued.
Author Bio – Nancy Jardine
Nancy Jardine writes historical fiction; time-travel historical adventure; contemporary mystery thrillers; and romantic comedy. She lives in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, where life is never quiet or boring since she regularly child minds her young grandchildren who happen to be her next-door neighbours. Her garden is often creatively managed by them, though she does all the work! Her husband is a fantastic purveyor of coffee and tea…excellent food and wine! (Restorative, of course)
A member of the Historical Novel Society; Scottish Association of Writers; Federation of Writers Scotland; Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Independent Alliance of Authors, her work has achieved finalist status in UK competitions.
Social Media Links –
Amazon Author page http://viewauthor.at/mybooksandnewspagehere