“All this land,” said Hrawlgir as he dismounted and walked about the hilltop, “all abandoned. What a waste.”
Owen pulled a waterskin from his saddlebags and upended it, drinking deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The islanders think this land is haunted by the ghost of Serina. It’s taboo for them. They’ll never work it again, nor will they let anyone else work it.”
Few trees dotted the hill lands. What little vegetation was growing there were mostly stunted bushes. The river began at the tall ridgeline to their south and ran north to the coastline. They were too far away to see the Promiscuous Sea, but sometimes when the wind picked up, Owen could smell it.
“There’s something here.” Hrawlgir squatted in the grass, brushing the stalks aside.
Still atop Gale, Owen saw shards of rusted metal and rotted straps of leather. A prickling itched at the back of his neck. “What is it?”
Hrawlgir made a noncommittal grunt and pulled something free of the grasping weeds. It had been half-buried in dirt, and Hrawlgir shook it, revealing an old helmet, rotted and falling apart. A single chin flap remained, dangling from it.
Hrawlgir stared at Owen in confusion. “It looks like one of ours.”
Owen stood up in his stirrups once more, examining the hilltop more closely. “There’s more, about us.”
Hrawlgir dropped the helmet and brushed his fingers against his pants. He stalked about. “Father bless me, there are bones on the ground.”
Owen dismounted and moved about, spreading the stalks of grass aside with his hands. “Bones everywhere,” he said softly.
All about them lay blackened bones and rusted metal, the remains of warriors and their weapons—here, an axe head, the wooden handle long gone; there, the rusted sleeve of a ring-mail coat.
“Stron’s army, or at least a part of it, must have fought a battle here,” Owen said.
“Owen”—Hrawlgir bent down on one knee to examine something—“here’s something… different.” The tremor of fear in Hrawlgir’s voice was unmistakable.
Owen stared over the other man’s shoulder at the half-buried remains Hrawlgir was examining. Some moments passed before he finally realized what he was looking at, covered by decades of dirt—a rusted suit of plate-mail armor. Unlike the rest of the hilltop, no grass or weeds grew there. The ground around the armor for at least a foot in every direction was bare, discolored—as if it had been salted. The plate mail was corroded and flaking but still showed the intricate designs that had once been etched into it. Such a suit of armor would have been worth a fortune—not the armor of a soldier but that of a knight or a prince. A great helm lay half-buried and still mostly intact at the top of the chest plate.
Hrawlgir let his fingers trail over the plate mail. “Who in Stron’s army could have—”
“No one.” A shiver ran down Owen’s spine. This armor hadn’t belonged to a man at all.
Owen bent down and yanked the great helm free of the dirt. Unlike their half-helms with leather chin flaps, that knight’s helmet had completely covered his face and head, leaving only a slit for the eyes, reinforced by brass with intricate flanges. As Owen held it up, dust and dirt—and who knew what else—poured out. In revulsion, Owen dropped it and wiped his palms against his pants as he stepped back. “Blood fiend.”
Hrawlgir swore. “The bones are all around it—here and here.” He moved farther back, pointing. “Skulls… fragments of skulls.”
“Must have been one of Serina’s captains. They said she always chose the best warriors to serve her, turned them into monsters against their will. How many men did it kill before they brought it down, I wonder?”
“How did they bring it down at all?” Hrawlgir asked. “They didn’t stake it. The armor’s intact.”
“Priests.” Owen looked about himself at the bones of the dead. “Some of these men must have been priests.”
“Or wizards. A wizard could have burned one of them with magical fire.”
“Maybe, but I know of only one wizard who fought with Stron—Belion, the battle mage.”
Hrawlgir moved back toward the horses, which stamped nervously, perhaps sensing the foulness around them. “We need to go.”
Owen nodded, putting his back to the remains of the demon. “Let’s leave the dead be.”
Both men mounted their horses and rode back down the hill.
A blood fiend? And I touched it.
#
Later, Owen and Hrawlgir met up with Dilan and Fin again. While Owen and Hrawlgir had been unsuccessful in their search, the other two had found a suitable fording spot. They all rode back to the main party and led them to the narrow, gently sloping bank. While several of the wagons still became stuck in the mud on the far bank, they managed to push and pull them all across before the afternoon grew too late.
Owen and Hrawlgir had reported the remains of the Wolfrey soldiers—and the blood fiend—to Keep-Captain Awde and the others, and Father Bowen promised to return to bury the remains and say a prayer, but that would have to wait until after they had found Sight-Bringer. The northern dead had lain on that hilltop for forty-eight years, so a week or two more would make no difference.
Once again, they found the remains of the old road, and Owen, riding Gale ahead of the others, led them northeast across the hills of the Haunted Vale toward the high cliffs along the northern coast, where they would find Serina’s ancient fortress. When they reached the base of the cliffs, Owen heard the crashing of waves on the other side. They had forced their way completely across the island.
The dirt path led up the cliffs, twisting back and forth in a series of switchbacks. Seagulls circled above them, crying out. As the sun dropped below the horizon, they saw high, dark walls rising above them—Greywynne Fortress, Serina’s ancestral home. Half a century before, Stron and his northern army had breached those walls and sacked the fortress. Owen had assumed they would find nothing more than ruins, but the fortress remained mostly intact despite the decades, merely abandoned, not destroyed. As they approached, the walls seemed to grow, looming over them.
The Greywynnes had been an ancient noble family, with vast holdings and once-great wealth. That fortress—far larger than Castle Dain—was proof of that. Its long curtain wall was three times the height of a man, with round stone towers spaced regularly along its length. A large gap ten paces across remained in one portion of the wall, where the stones had collapsed inward. Owen figured that must have been where Stron and his army had forced their way in. Somehow, they had brought siege equipment up there in what must have been a massive undertaking.
Keep-Captain Awde and Lord Palin rode past Owen, taking the lead through the dark, silent towers of the gatehouse. The walls, cracked and crumbling with age, were overgrown with weeds. The gatehouse was designed in such a way as to funnel visitors between the outer and inner gatehouse. Arrow slits built into the walls on either side created a killing ground. Owen warily watched those slits as they rode past, imagining enemies watching them.
No one spoke as the expedition rode into the fortress. The only sounds were the crashing of the waves on the far side, the creaking of harnesses, and the clomping of the horses’ hooves. Past the gatehouse, the inner wall rose before them, higher even than the outer curtain wall. Owen stared up at it, amazed that Stron and his forces had somehow taken that monstrous fortress.
They rode into the fortress’s ward, its courtyard, a vast open space. Once, it must have been filled with structures, stables, and warehouses, but it sat nearly empty. Judging by the charred, weed-covered skeletal remains everywhere, Stron’s army must have put the wooden buildings to the torch. Only one wood-and-stone structure remained, against one of the far walls, a large stable with dozens of stalls. The main keep, built entirely from stone, awaited them, a single round tower jutting from its summit.
Keep-Captain Awde turned in his saddle to face the column of men, horses, and wagons. “We set up camp here in the courtyard,” he called out loudly enou
gh for all to hear. “Tomorrow, we’ll explore the keep, see if it’s safe to move inside.”
The men set about, preparing camp. Owen secured Gale with the other horses in the stable near the inner gatehouse. The animals were skittish, clearly uncomfortable with the place—as were the men. Just for a moment, Owen felt a prickling in the back of his neck, as if he were being watched. He stared up at the keep, scrutinizing the dark windows, but saw nothing.
“Help me with the tents?” Dilan asked, startling him.
Owen nodded and moved to help him.
Chapter 19
Owen
Hours later—with the camp established in the courtyard, sentries in place, and everyone fed—Owen, Dilan, Fin, and Hrawlgir sat by one of the many small campfires. Many of the Wolfrey soldiers were already asleep, exhausted after their ordeal in the Feldwyn Swamp, but Owen and the others were still too wound up.
“Do you think,” asked Fin, his eyes darting to the walls of the keep, “that if we were to climb to the top of that tower, we’d be able to see Echo Isle and the ruins of the monastery?”
Owen shuddered. “Why would you want to?”
“You know,” said Fin, “just for the history. That’s where her rebellion started. That’s where she became a… well, you know.”
Dilan, running a sharpening stone over the blade of his sword, snorted and shook his head.
Fin frowned at him. “You’re not from Wolfrey. You wouldn’t understand. My grandfather fought and died with Stron. Those might have been his bones Owen and Hrawlgir found.”
Dilan paused halfway through a stroke with his stone and met Fin’s gaze. “You’re wrong about that. Even in Shellat’s Fief, we grew up with the tales of Serina and her undead army. I just don’t know what good it would do to see the ruins of that monastery now, after all these years. Leave the dead be.”
“I don’t want to see that monastery,” said Hrawlgir with a shudder. “The stories about what the witch did to those men…”
“That’s why Father Craftsman cursed her,” said Owen, “why he made her a blood fiend.”
Dilan ran his stone along the length of his blade again. Sparks flew off, burning brightly for an instant before fading away. “Think so, do you?”
“You find this amusing?” Owen asked. “Torturing and sacrificing an entire monastery of holy men—and all because Serina was angry at the king?”
“Angry at the king?” Dilan shook his head. “The king murdered her father, her brothers, almost destroyed the Greywynne family.”
“They were traitors,” said Hrawlgir.
“Oh, aye, I have no doubt,” said Dilan. “Especially after the king arrested them and seized all their holdings on the mainland.” He pointed at them with his sharpening stone. “Every single king that’s ever moved against a political opponent has claimed that they were traitors. History favors the winners. The losers all become villains.”
“You’re saying that Serina Greywynne wasn’t a monster?” Owen asked. “All those villages she destroyed, all those people she killed? What crime did they commit?”
“I’m saying Serina was many things at many times—a master sorceress, the last of her line, a proud woman. Look about yourself. Look at this place! She was like a queen here. If her rebellion had been successful, there’d be different tales told now about who was and wasn’t a traitor.”
“More likely, she’d have drained the kingdom of every last drop of blood. She was a soulless monster.”
“Aye.” Dilan stared at his blade. “She was at that, and maybe much worse.”
“So why defend her?” asked Hrawlgir.
Dilan sighed, his face red in the glow of the crackling fire between them, his eyes sad. “I’m not defending her. I’m just trying to show that not everyone felt—or feels—the same way. Nothing is ever as simple as you might think.”
“Why?” asked Owen.
“I knew a man in the Rams,” Dilan said, “a Greywynne Islander named Shabsil.” His teeth flashed as he smiled at the memory. “Huge, ugly—smelly—man, with the same bright-red hair as the rest of them and a long, shaggy beard, but he was also a good man and a good friend… once you got to know him. Mind you, it took a long time to earn his trust. He knew Shellat’s Fief was in the north, so he had lumped me in with you lot, considered me little more than just another Wolfrey man.”
“They all hate us?” Fin asked. “Still? After so many years?”
“They still hate you,” said Dilan. “And likely will for another fifty years. You committed the greatest of all sins: you killed their dreams.”
“Dreams of conquest,” said Fin.
“Because of Serina?” Owen asked.
“Aye,” said Dilan, “because of Serina. These people, they’ve never accepted us. Shabsil once told me that the Fenyir word for mainlander is the same word for stranger… or enemy. These people have always lived separately… differently than we have in the kingdom.”
“They’re still part of the kingdom,” snapped Owen.
“Tell them that,” said Dilan. “Not only do they not care for us, they don’t much hold with our beliefs—our Father Craftsman. They still worship the old gods, their ancient gods.”
“Heathens,” said Hrawlgir.
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly in these islands,” said Dilan. “Axe and sword, sea and storm, the old gods—Wodor, Hrum, Orkinus—that’s who these people worship. A hundred years from now, they’ll still worship them. The Greywynnes were about as… progressive a family as you’ll ever find among the Fenyir Islands. When Serina’s father, Tarlock Greywynne, gave his blessing for the church to build a monastery on Echo Island and begin to preach the ways of Father Craftsman, it was a huge deal for these people—world shaking—but it never took, especially after Serina… did what she did to those priests.”
Owen shivered, once again feeling ghostly eyes upon him. Echo Island wasn’t that far off the northern coast of Greywynne Island.
“These people—all the Fenyir clansmen, not just the Greywynne islanders—live separate from us, existing from the sea, fishing, sailing… raiding. Don’t kid yourselves—they don’t give a red rat’s ring for the Kingdom of Conarck—or any of us. But to them, the Greywynnes were kings, their own royal family.”
“The Fenyir Islands were never more than just another duchy,” said Owen. “Not a kingdom. The Greywynnes were just another royal family. Thinking they were more, that’s how their treason started.”
“As far as these people were concerned,” said Dilan, “Serina was a queen.”
“She was no queen,” Owen said. “Tarlock Greywynne was a duke. That made Serina, at best, a lady.”
“Shabsil never spoke of Serina,” said Dilan. “And understand this—every man in the Rams was my brother, including Shabsil. There was nothing we wouldn’t do for one another, but he wouldn’t discuss her. When some of the others tried to get him to talk of her, he’d become angry, violent—and this was not a man you wanted violent. But one night, when Shabsil was very, very drunk, he spoke of her, spoke of the shame he and his people endured at our hands. In the kingdom, they say that Tarlock Greywynne, the last duke of the Fenyir Islands, plotted against the king. The king, suspecting his treason, summoned the duke and all three of his sons to the capital. There, they were arrested, imprisoned, and executed.”
“They admitted to their crimes first,” said Hrawlgir. “Everyone knows that.”
Dilan frowned at Hrawlgir, raising his thick eyebrows. “And so would you if you were tortured, but you’re wrong—they didn’t all confess. Shabsil said the old duke never confessed. They say everyone breaks under torture… eventually, but Serina’s father, Tarlock, didn’t. In the end, he was simply executed along with his sons, and the Greywynne estates and ships seized—all except this island, this fortress, where Serina’s rebellion started. Because she was a woman, the king never considered her a threat.” Dilan shook his head and snorted.
“Serina was always more than just a lady, Owe
n,” Dilan continued. “They say magic ran deeply within the Greywynne bloodline, particularly in the women, and Serina more so than others. Long before she became a monster, Serina Greywynne was already a powerful sorcerer, a necromancer. Some—including Shabsil—believed that she was even more powerful than Stron’s famous battle mage, Belion.”
Fin leaned forward and met their eyes. “Do you think… Is it possible… I mean if Sight-Bringer has survived… what of Serina?”
Owen shivered. “Not according to Lord Palin. His father confirmed she was dead.”
“But still,” insisted Fin.
“She must be dead,” said Dilan. “After all these decades, only her ghost could haunt this place, and that I don’t doubt. Even if she were a wizard, she couldn’t cheat death.”
Owen shook his head. “She was a witch, not a wizard. Any powers she had were dark. No, Dilan. You’re wrong. Serina Greywynne was a petty little island witch, a heathen, who sold her soul to Old Grim and murdered the monks on Echo Island—priests who were under her family’s protection. And for this, Father Craftsman cursed her and turned her into a blood fiend.”
“Aye, that’s the story, isn’t it?” said Dilan.
“You don’t believe that?” asked Owen.
Dilan shrugged. “I have no idea, Owen. This all happened long before I was even born. But I know Shabsil didn’t believe the Greywynnes were traitors.” Dilan began sharpening his sword again. “Shabsil would tell you that our king falsely accused the Greywynnes just to seize their wealth. If you were to bring up Father Craftsman’s blood-fiend curse, he’d laugh in your face—before punching it. These people don’t believe in our Father Craftsman or Old Grim. He’d tell you that Serina wasn’t cursed for killing the monks but rewarded for embracing the old, true gods.”
Once again, the wind picked up, howling through the walls of the fortress.
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 11
