The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset)

by William Stacey

  “I once knew a man named Reese,” Keep-Captain Awde said. “Good man. From Shellat’s Fief to the east.”

  Dilan nodded. “Artur, my older brother. You’re Brice Awde, aren’t you?” Dilan asked.

  “I am.”

  Owen took a sip of his beer and then drank fully half of it in one swallow. He tore off a chunk of brown bread and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing while watching the exchange.

  “Then you served with Artur during the Clegg Hills Uprising.”

  Keep-Captain Awde smiled, his hard eyes softening. “I did. I liked Artur. He always made me laugh.”

  Dilan sipped his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing several days’ worth of dirt. “Used to make me laugh, too.”

  “Used to?”

  “Artur died. Three months ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. He saved my life once.”

  “Yeah, Artur did that a lot, too,” Dilan said as he pulled his bowl of stew in close and bent over it with his spoon, attacking it.

  At the sound of Dilan’s noisy slurping, Sayer’s eyes tightened. Sayer practically worshiped Brice Awde, Owen knew, following him about like a puppy. Right then, Owen was sure Sayer wanted to knock the bowl of stew out of Dilan’s hands and tell him to be more respectful. If the captain was annoyed, though, he didn’t show it.

  Awde leaned back against the wall, watching Dilan. “Why’d you help us, Dilan? Why not just walk away? The people who drink in this place are friends of the Ballards. They won’t love you for this. You can’t stay here.”

  “Nowhere else to go.” Dilan raised his hands, palms up. “And no silver. I need work.”

  “Work? You saved my man’s life for work?”

  Dilan leaned forward. “It’s like this, Captain—”

  “Keep-Captain,” Sayer said.

  Dilan glanced at Sayer and then continued. “It’s like this, Keep-Captain. I’ve known lots of men like the Ballards, predators that would kill anyone for anything—don’t care who they hurt, long as they get theirs.”

  “And you’re not like that, Dilan?” Awde asked him.

  A heavy silence settled between the two men before Dilan leaned back, pushing his nearly empty bowl of stew away. “Maybe I was afraid that if things kept going the way they were, I’d do just that. Become just like them.”

  “What is it you want, Dilan?” Awde asked.

  “I’m trained. I can fight.”

  Awde inclined his head. “Yes, we saw that in the stable. Who trained you?”

  “I was with Artur in the Mountain Rams before I was discharged.”

  “The Rams are fighting in the northeast. A border dispute backed by the Lyrians. Why would the Rams discharge you now?”

  “They didn’t want my service anymore.”

  Sayer snorted. “You a deserter, Reese?”

  Dilan glared at Sayer, and Owen tensed, preparing to throw himself on the young man if necessary. Owen was bigger, probably stronger, but Dilan could handle himself. He’d already demonstrated that.

  “No,” Dilan replied through clenched teeth. “I’m no deserter. They don’t need me anymore, that’s all.”

  “And you think I do?” asked Awde.

  “I can fight.”

  “Wouldn’t have been in the Rams if you couldn’t.”

  “Artur saved your life,” Dilan said. “You owe me.”

  “You’re not Artur.”

  “Keep-Captain,” Owen said, speaking up for the first time, “I’d be dead if not for him.”

  “Mind your own damned business, Horse-boy,” snapped Sayer.

  Without taking his eyes off Dilan, Awde raised his hand to the other man, silencing him. “I’ve thanked you already, Dilan, and I’ve warned you about staying here, but you’re not telling me everything. There’s fighting in the northeast. It’s a small war, I admit, putting down rebels, but the Rams would need all the men they can get. If they don’t need you at a time like this…”

  “I’m not a deserter.”

  “Not saying you are. Just saying I’m not willing to take a chance.”

  Dilan ran his hands over his face and looked about himself. “I can’t stay here. Not after taking your side.”

  “No.” Awde glanced at the kitchen entrance, where moving shadows were visible. “I wouldn’t even stay the night if I were you—not even in the stable.”

  The color drained from Dilan’s face, as did his previous haughty demeanor. He sat forward, looking very young, and ran his hands through his straggly hair. “Please. I have nowhere else to go… nothing.”

  “Family?”

  Dilan shook his head.

  “Well, drink up, man,” said Awde. He glanced at Sayer. “And there’s a reward for helping. Give him ten silver crowns. That’ll do you a while, until you find something more permanent.”

  Dilan exhaled heavily, looking defeated. “Is there no way—”

  “No.”

  Dilan stared at the table as Sayer counted out the silver pieces, placing each one before the young man. That was a good sum of money, Owen knew—more than he made in a month as a man-at-arms. So why do I feel so sorry for Dilan Reese?

  “How’d Artur die, anyway?” asked Awde.

  “Prophet’s Bridge.”

  Sayer paused, his hand holding a silver coin over the others. Owen stared at Dilan. Even that far north, they had already heard the stories—quickly becoming a legend—of how a small company of the Rams, eighty-eight men, had held back a surprise raiding party of Lyrian-backed rebels, over a thousand men. For an entire day, the Rams had fought a defensive battle at Prophet’s Bridge, holding the rebels from crossing the river while the residents of a nearby town fled. In the end, the Rams had saved the town’s citizens from slaughter, but the victory had come at a staggering cost—every single man defending that bridge had died.

  Awde ran a hand back through his short hair, nodding. “I’m not surprised. A man like Artur doesn’t go out of this world easily.” He raised his mug. “To Artur Reese.”

  “To Artur Reese,” they all toasted, including Dilan.

  Awde placed his mug back on the table. “My condolences, Dilan, but here’s some free advice. Whatever has gone wrong in your life, fix it! Be the man your brother was. Don’t make someone like me hang you from a tree.”

  Dilan nodded but looked away.

  “Thought you said you served with your brother in the Rams,” said Sayer. “How come you weren’t with him when he died?”

  Awde turned to glare at Sayer and opened his mouth, but Dilan spoke first.

  “I was.”

  A log sparked and snapped, crackling in the fire pit as Awde and Dilan stared at one another.

  “I heard every single one of those men died,” Awde finally said.

  “Well,” said Dilan, “that would make for a better story, wouldn’t it?”

  “Aye,” said Awde, “it would. Also makes survivors… inconvenient.”

  “Aye,” said Dilan, “it does. Good thing I was the only one.”

  Awde rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger. “Sir Hrolf Westgen still commands the Rams, doesn’t he?”

  “He did when he told me to get the hell out,” said Dilan.

  Awde snorted. “Once saw him have a man whipped for delivering bad news.”

  Dilan cocked his head to the side. The corners of his mouth turned up just slightly. “You must have seen him on a good day, then.”

  Silence stretched out, and the fire crackled again as Awde stared at the young man with the thick eyebrows. “All right, Dilan Reese. I’ll give you a job. Don’t give me cause to regret it.”

  #

  Much later that night, the four guardsmen, accompanied by the newest recruit in the castle garrison, Dilan Reese, as well as the two surviving Ballard brothers, approached the gatehouse of Castle Dain.

  The day’s events had drained Owen, and he was glad to see the castle outlined against the stars. He cast a glance at Emrys Ballard, stumbling
along behind his brother. Both Ballards looked miserable—for good reason. Duke Oskaley would be unlikely to grant mercy to men who had not only murdered an itinerant merchant but also tried to kill one of his guardsmen. Both Ballards were going to hang. Surprisingly, that didn’t bother Owen as much as he had once thought it would.

  The faces of the guards on duty at the gatehouse were grave. Each had tied a strip of black cloth around the cross guards of his sword—the traditional sign of mourning in the north. The sergeant of the guard, Mollister Eggers, stepped forward to meet Keep-Captain Awde.

  “What’s wrong?” Awde asked him. “What’s happened?”

  Eggers removed his half-helm. “I’m sorry, sir, but the duke died earlier this night. May the Craftsman receive him.”

  “Died? How?”

  “A sickness took him. He went fast.”

  “The new physician, Modwyn?”

  Eggers shook his head. “Was with him but couldn’t save him.”

  Awde swore then dismounted and removed his own helm. He knelt down, muttering a prayer. Owen, Fin, Sayer, and Dilan were quick to follow.

  Owen’s thoughts were a tempest. Duke Oskaley had presided over his trial for attacking Orin. Duke Oskaley had given him the choice of swearing five years’ service or banishment. What now? Do I now owe four more years of service to a teenaged boy?

  Chapter 4

  Danika

  Danika followed Palin up the circular tower stairs to the Moon Tower’s open-air summit, a round platform surrounded by a shoulder-high crenellated stone wall built simply but solidly—no ornamentation, no statues, no carvings. In the southern duchies of the kingdom of Conarck, especially the capital, castles were built more ornately, with beauty and aesthetics in mind, but in the north, defense and practicality were the only considerations.

  Danika faltered when she saw Modwyn waiting for them on the summit. She fought down a momentary flash of distaste at the sight of the effeminate physician. She didn’t like him. Nor could she say exactly why. Modwyn had been unable to cure her father, but that wasn’t why she disliked him so much—although that certainly didn’t help. No, her aversion to the young man had been there the moment he had entered her family’s service. Modwyn Du’Aig—tall but thin, with his dark hair slicked back and his painstakingly trimmed goatee—just made her skin crawl. She knew she needed to give him a chance. After all, he was a stranger, and she thought she should be more charitable, but she just couldn’t help how she felt. Every time she parted from his company, she felt his slime rubbing off on her.

  Forcing down her distaste, she joined Palin. In the courtyard below, she could hear Brice Awde’s strong voice as he drilled his soldiers, followed by the clash of wooden sword against shield. The soldiers had been out there all afternoon and into the early evening, well past the point that the garrison soldiers should still be training, but the Dain family’s keep-captain was notorious for working his men hard. Since her father’s passing, two days before, he had been drilling the men particularly hard, as if they needed to be ready for anything. She appreciated his efforts but knew they were unnecessary. Palin was her father’s only son. His claim to the duchy was solid, rock solid—despite the conniving of their cousin, Harold, in the king’s court.

  Modwyn bowed, a sly smile on his oily face. She forced herself to smile back—she’d treat the man with the respect his station deserved despite her misgivings.

  “Master physician,” she said, “please tell us what was so important that we had to come all the way up here.”

  Just for a moment, his eyes darted from Palin’s to hers, as if he had been surprised that she would speak before her brother, the male. Modwyn clasped his hands, a solemn look on his face. “My Lord Dain, Duke of Wolfrey, my lady, thank you for seeing me.”

  The king had yet to bestow that honorific to her brother, but Danika let it go. The man was just trying to be polite.

  “Why are we here, Doctor?” she asked again. “There is much yet we must do to prepare for our father’s funeral.”

  “Yes, of course, my lady. Please trust me. It was necessary.” Modwyn glanced past her, to the stone stairs leading down, as if making sure they weren’t followed by a spy.

  “And?” Palin raised his eyebrows.

  He’s tired and irritable, too. He’s too young for all this. So am I.

  Modwyn shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “My lord, before he passed, your father… spoke.”

  Danika’s face flushed with heat. “You told us he died without waking,” she said. “So quickly that there was no time to find us, to let us say farewell. Was that a lie?”

  Modwyn backed away from her, stumbling into the wall behind him. “What? No. That’s not what… He did die quickly… It’s just… If only there had been a servant about. I yelled for help, but no one came, and I couldn’t leave my patient.”

  Danika closed her eyes and composed herself. Not his fault. Be calm. Remember who you are. When she felt capable, she nodded and spoke in a curt tone. “Just… Go on, Doctor. What did he say?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Palin. “He spoke to you?”

  “Your father did become lucid,” Modwyn continued, “but only for a few moments. Then he truly did pass—peacefully. Believe me, my lord, I know my craft.”

  “Doctor,” Danika said, hearing the irritation in her own voice, “what did our father say?”

  “He… he thought me his priest, and gave me his deathbed confession.”

  The air atop the tower seemed to go chill. “He confessed… to you?” she finally whispered.

  Palin glanced nervously at her, stepping closer. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You took our father’s confession? You’re no priest. You can’t absolve his sins.”

  “My lord, it was not my fault. I wasn’t trying to deceive him. I tried to tell him to wait, but he was so near death, his mind was nearly gone. It happens sometimes, so we try to ease our patients’ passing.”

  Danika, her eyes closed, inhaled deeply. “What… what did he say?”

  “He spoke of Greywynne Island, my lady. He spoke of… that day, all those years ago—in the Great Crypt. He spoke of her, of Serina Greywynne.”

  “My father never spoke of that day,” snapped Danika. “Not once.”

  “My lady, he knew he was dying, that this was his only chance. He needed to talk, to… confess, to meet the Craftsman with a clear conscience.”

  Palin’s lips trembled. “To you?”

  “My lord, he mistook me for the new priest, Father Bowen,” Modwyn said.

  Palin turned away, running his palms over his face.

  Danika put her hand on Palin’s shoulder while asking the doctor, “And?”

  “He spoke of the battle with the blood fiend, of your uncle Stron. My lord, he said… he said he betrayed your uncle, left him to die, buried in the collapse of the entrance to the Great Crypt—while he fled.”

  Danika advanced on Modwyn, her rage unchecked. “What lies are these?”

  Modwyn cast a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder at the courtyard below. “Not lies, my lady. I tell the truth. Your father carried this burden all his life. He said he ran away after Serina was killed. In the confusion of battle, Belion the battle mage broke his staff and caused a magical explosion. That was what brought down the ceiling, not the destruction of Sight-Bringer. Your father, realizing he stood to inherit Stron’s title and lands, fled, leaving his own brother to be trapped alive.”

  “Lies!” cried Palin, half drawing his sword.

  Danika moved quickly, grabbing his arm. “Palin, no! You will be the duke. You must be calm.”

  Several tense seconds passed, but then Palin looked away, nodded, and slid his sword back into its sheath. “My… my apologies, Doctor.”

  “Go on, Doctor,” Danika said.

  Modwyn, a layer of sweat glistening on his face, continued. “My lord, these are your father’s words, not mine. He needed to die with a clear conscience. He needed to admit
his crime before meeting his brother again in paradise.”

  “But that’s not what happened,” said Palin, shaking his head. “Stron struck down Serina, killing her, but when the holy blade struck her black heart, it shattered. That’s what brought down the ceiling. It was the Craftsman himself who buried them, all but my father—so he could live to tell others.”

  Modwyn shook his head. “No, my lord. That isn’t true. Sight-Bringer was not destroyed. Belion brought down the entrance to the Great Crypt.”

  Danika swayed in place, trying find balance in her life. This is all wrong. That wasn’t what happened.

  “Your father lived with this shame for forty-eight years,” Modwyn said.

  Palin’s lip trembled. “No, that can’t be.”

  Danika stepped closer to put her hand on Palin’s forearm. “Serina?” she asked.

  Modwyn’s eyes widened. “What? No, of course not, my lady. Serina is dead. Your father confirmed that Stron did indeed kill her with Sight-Bringer—and, after almost fifty years, there’s just no way she could still live—but the important thing is that the holy blade didn’t shatter after striking Serina down. Your father only said that to forestall attempts to go back, to dig out the entrance.”

  “But that would mean…” Danika faltered, unable to say the words.

  “I’m sorry, but these were your father’s own words, his deathbed confession.”

  Palin bent over, placed his hands against his knees, and breathed deeply, swaying in place. Danika, her hand upon his back, stared at the physician. “Are you… are you sure?”

  “My lady,” said Modwyn. “I do not know if your father was telling the truth or not, but this is what he told me. I don’t believe he would lie, not at the end of his life.”

  “But our father sealed the entrance to the catacombs after the battle. He said he only just escaped.” Her voice was small.

  “No, my lady. Your father abandoned his brother and sealed the catacombs so he could become the Duke of Wolfrey. He left Stron there… and the sword. That’s why he sealed the catacombs, to hide his betrayal.”