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

by William Stacey

  “Why wait?” asked Keep-Captain Awde.

  Modwyn looked away. “Because the protections will… make us sick as well, nauseous, perhaps a bit unsteady. It’s best to wait until we have no other choice.”

  “What stupidity is this?” Keep-Captain Awde asked.

  “It’s not stupidity. It’s necessary. Would you prefer to be slightly ill or dead?” Modwyn glared at the captain, his lower lip trembling slightly.

  “It’s all right,” said Lord Palin. “We’ll wait until we’re inside as the doctor suggests. This man”—he pointed at Fin—“can sound the alarm if anything happens, go back for more help.”

  “Master Idwal can help as well, I’m sure,” said Modwyn.

  “Yes, of course,” said Lord Palin. “And we’re happy for your service, man.”

  Idwal inclined his head. “‘Tis an honor, my lord. The times are different now. Maybe this expedition will help us all forget the past and start over again.”

  Lord Palin smiled. “Yes, I’d like that. The past needs to stay in the past. A new start.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said Idwal with a slight bow of his head.

  Keep-Captain Awde, wearing only his padded undertunic, held his hands out to Fin. Fin stared at him in confusion for a moment.

  “Lantern, man, and the axe,” the captain said.

  Grinning at his own foolishness, Fin handed both to the keep-captain, who then dropped down on his belly at the tunnel opening. He put his wrist through the loop on the bottom of the axe handle, placed the lit lantern ahead of him on the dirt, and crawled into the opening. Within moments, his wriggling legs were out of sight, the lantern’s light receding. Seconds later, the captain called out to them, saying he was through. Lord Palin followed next and then Modwyn. Then, it was Owen’s turn.

  Owen, following the keep-captain’s example, looped his axe handle around his right wrist, dropped down, and crawled into the tunnel. His shoulders and back scraped the rocks above him. He hated being in the tunnel. Fin had been the one working within it before, pushing the stones back to Owen to pile up. Maybe I should have let Fin go, after all. He saw the light from the lantern ahead of him at the other end of the tunnel, and he pushed on, shoving with his knees and pulling with his elbows. His breathing was amplified in the tight space, and he knew that he needed to calm himself, that he was getting himself worked up. He couldn’t help how he felt. All that rock was hanging over him, threatening to bury him. He had to get through, had to get out. Never should have come. Never should have volunteered. Then, just as his panic welled up within him, his head emerged into open space. A moment later, someone grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. The others stood about, staring around themselves in wonder.

  Keep-Captain Awde held the lantern high, the haft of his axe against his thigh, and Lord Palin stood beside him. Modwyn had been the one to help Owen up, and the doctor turned his gaze to the chamber surrounding them—a scene unlike anything Owen had ever seen.

  The giant cavern opened before them, extending even beyond the considerable reach of the lamp’s light, but what the lamp did expose was vast, magnificent. Ancient brown skulls stared down at them, completely covering the walls. Someone must have nailed them all in place, Owen realized. The surface of the floor was all tiles, a mosaic of black and white, with the same strange lettering he had seen at the landing. At regular intervals stood giant, sturdy pillars supporting the arched stone ceiling high above them. Each pillar was easily six or more feet in diameter, and each base was carved into the likeness of a snarling human visage so that it appeared as though giants were watching them. In front of each pillar sat a huge cast-iron brazier at least four feet across. As far as the lantern’s light reached stood even rows of crumbling stone coffins and larger stone vaults—the remains of countless generations of the Greywynne family. A thick layer of sparkling dust lay atop everything, shining in the light of the lantern. The winged griffin of House Greywynne was prominent everywhere, etched into all the coffins or sitting as statues atop vaults.

  “The Great Crypt,” whispered Modwyn, almost reverently. “I never dreamed…”

  “What?” asked Owen.

  The other man shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Lord Palin reached out and gripped Modwyn’s forearm. “Doctor, the protection you spoke of?”

  “Yes, of course, my lord.” Modwyn knelt and rummaged within his satchel and laid out four strips of cloth, each long enough to serve as a mask. Next, he removed a small glass vial, unstopped it, and proceeded to pour several drops of a thick, dark fluid onto the rags.

  Instantly, a vile stench washed over Owen, making his eyes water.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Modwyn grimaced. “It’s harsh, I know, but a little sickness now will ensure the effects of the deep vapors don’t take us by surprise.” He held out a piece of cloth to Lord Palin.

  “Doctor,” said Lord Palin, looking ready to faint. “Is this really—”

  “It is, my lord. Please believe me. It will make you sick and dizzy, but you must resist removing the mask. If you do, it won’t work a second time.”

  Keep-Captain Awde stepped closer to Modwyn, gripping the wrist of the other man. “You first, Doctor.”

  Modwyn paused, and a look of uncertainty flitted through the doctor’s eyes, like that of a cornered animal.

  What’s going on here?

  Modwyn glared at the keep-captain but then tied the cloth behind his own neck and wore it, masklike, over his face. He breathed deeply, staggered for a moment, but then righted himself and met the keep-captain’s eyes again. “Satisfied?”

  Awde sighed and held his hand out for a strip of cloth. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As Owen tied his cloth over his face, a wave of nausea rushed through him, making his legs go wobbly. He bent over, trying not to vomit, and slowly concentrated on breathing, first one breath and then another. His vision grew dim, and he found it increasingly hard to concentrate. The others looked just as unsteady. Lord Palin was bent over, gagging, but Modwyn was beside him, patting his back. Keep-Captain Awde forced himself erect and staggered forward, his axe-head trailing on the tiles behind him. Lord Palin followed, swaying drunkenly, but when Owen tried to follow, he fell to his knees. He shook his head, his vision blurry.

  Modwyn knelt next to him, his hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” Modwyn’s voice sounded disinterested, and his gaze was directed away, toward Keep-Captain Awde and Lord Palin, who held each other up as they staggered forward. The keep-captain had dropped his axe several paces back.

  “I… sick,” Owen managed, closed his eyes, and shook his head once more. “Catch… breath.” His eyes closed again, and he was aware he was lying on his side.

  “You stay here, soldier,” said Modwyn. “Rest a bit, but keep the mask on.”

  Something was… wrong with Modwyn, but Owen couldn’t put his finger on it. Before he could ponder it anymore, another wave of revulsion swept through him. Modwyn moved away, quickly catching up to the other men. Owen closed his eyes to stop the chamber from spinning, and when he opened them again, he saw that Modwyn was supporting Lord Palin and had taken the lantern from the keep-captain, who stumbled along behind them. Owen rolled onto his belly, his cheek lying against the cold stone tiles. His blurry eyes tried to focus on something just before him—Modwyn’s mask. That’s what had been bothering him about Modwyn. He wasn’t wearing his own mask.

  Why not?

  The answer surged through him, momentarily burning away his lethargy and clearing his thinking—Modwyn has betrayed us! With trembling fingers, Owen yanked the cloth from his face and pushed it away. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to stay awake. Can’t sleep… Must… move.

  He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to his knees. The gigantic crypt spun wildly around him. He breathed deeply, feeling as if he had been drinking fire. He swayed in place, but his gaze slowly focused again. His limbs, impossibly heavy, trembled uncontrollably, refusing
to move properly, but somehow he managed to stagger to his feet. Stumbling forward, he fell against one of the stone vaults, using it to catch himself and remain upright.

  Where are the others?

  He pushed away from the vault, almost falling again as he lurched forward. He made his way thus, farther into the Great Crypt, stumbling from vault to coffin, always heading in the direction of the lamplight. The vaults and coffins seemed to blur, to move on their own, as if he were drunk.

  Then, Owen felt something… different. He felt a vibration in the air, a throbbing that coursed through his entire body—it seemed to be pulling at him. Stumbling forward, he staggered toward a large stone vault. The stone griffin perched atop its roof leered menacingly at Owen. The mysterious, unearthly throbbing in his skull grew stronger as he approached the vault.

  He slowly circled the vault, leaning against it for support. As he came around its corner, he stared in disbelief at the sight before him—the skeletal remains of a large man in full plate armor, still standing upright, pinned right through his chest plate into the stone vault wall by the strangest longsword he had ever seen. The sword’s hilt was carved out of white stone into the shape of a bizarre, unworldly naked woman. Her outstretched arms composed the sword’s quillons—its cross guard—and her animallike hoofed feet formed the pommel. The blade itself was longer by at least a foot than any other sword Owen had ever seen. It was double edged, with a long fuller containing perfectly formed but indecipherable runes, extending most of the way down its perfect blue blade. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Mesmerized, Owen slowly reached out a hand. The moment his fingers touched the blade, a current of energy flowed into him. He yanked his fingers back and stared at his fingertips and again at the blade. Sight-Bringer.

  The Illthori, that strange race who had died out centuries before men had crawled out of caves, had left behind three relics that had become the kingdom’s greatest treasures—the crown, the rod… and the sword.

  I’m actually standing before Sight-Bringer, the reason we’ve come all this way. His gaze drifted about the area around him now, seeing for the first time the dozens of other skeletons. Some of them had been torn apart, with legs, arms, and heads lying separate. All wore mail armor, rusted and falling apart. Among the discarded swords, axes, and pole arms lay shattered wooden shields bearing the Lion of Wolfrey. It looked eerily like the hilltop where he and Hrawlgir had discovered the remains of the blood fiend. This was where the battle with Serina took place, he realized with sudden clarity. Looking behind himself, Owen saw that he hadn’t come that far from the collapsed entrance. Owen’s gaze went back to the corpse impaled by the sword. Stron! It can only be Duke Stron.

  His heart hammered within his chest, and his blood chilled. Only paces away was another vault that had been reduced to rubble, the ground around it black with scorch marks, not unlike the ground where the female marsh tick had been killed. Blackened bones lay scattered among the scorch marks. Was this where Belion had broken his staff, bringing down the entrance?

  At that moment, Owen heard movement, footsteps. Still barely able to stand, let alone fight, he dropped down and hid behind the corner of the vault. Someone had just crawled out of the tunnel, carrying a fluttering torch before him, joined a moment later by another man–Idwal and one of his brothers. The men stalked past, moving farther into the Great Crypt in the direction that Modwyn, Lord Palin, and Keep-Captain Awde had been heading. Idwal had been with Fin, guarding the entrance.

  Owen stared at the corpse of Stron, at the strange longsword pinning him to the wall of the vault.

  “Sorry, my lord,” he whispered, grasping the hilt of the sword in both hands. The moment he touched it, power coursed through him again, amplifying his senses. Stunned, he released the sword and staggered back. The moment he did, the sickness and lethargy rushed back in, threatening to knock him to his knees. Magic. It’s real magic.

  He once again gripped Sight-Bringer’s bizarre handle, feeling the occult power of the Illthori relic rush through him. That time, he held on, shoving the longsword upward in an attempt to dislodge it. It held fast. He yanked it down again, trying to rock it free. The blade moved, just a fraction, but enough to drive Owen to redouble his efforts. Grunting under the strain, he shoved the blade up and down. Then, without warning, the sword slid free of the wall all at once. As it came loose, the desiccated corpse of Duke Stron unceremoniously slid off, the plates and bones falling apart.

  Panting, Owen held Sight-Bringer upside down against his chest, its point near his feet. He still felt wobbly and weak from whatever Modwyn had poured on the masks, but the sword’s magic was helping him. He didn’t think he would have been able to go any farther without its help, but Lord Palin and Keep-Captain Awde were in danger, and he had to do something. His skin clammy, his heart pounding, Owen stumbled after the retreating figures of Idwal and his brother.

  The two hunters were moving farther into the Great Crypt and came to a large stone dais the size of a house. Atop the dais sat a massive throne of polished wood, decorated with antler horns and animal hides. Modwyn stood waiting atop the dais. At his feet lay Lord Palin. Keep-Captain Awde lay unmoving behind Modwyn, asleep or dead, Owen couldn’t tell. A monstrous pile of corpses, dozens of them, as high as a man’s waist, lay piled up before the throne.

  As he stared at the pile of dead, a wave of fear and revulsion washed over Owen. Terror such as he had never felt before gripped his heart. The urge to turn and run built up within him the longer he stared at the corpse pile. He closed his eyes, his heartbeat pounding in his ears like a drum. I have no business here. No living man does. Some dark and horrible thing lay hidden away within that pile of bodies, a dark presence that hated all life.

  Just as his terror was about to send him fleeing, the magic of Sight-Bringer throbbed, sending a wave of energy through him, driving away the worst of his fear. He couldn’t run. His duty was there.

  Forcing his eyes open again, he saw that the lantern the captain had been carrying was sitting on the landing, illuminating the corpse mound and the three men standing around it. While Modwyn watched, Idwal and his brother pulled bodies from the pile, throwing them unceremoniously onto the ground around them. Some of the corpses, little more than withered husks, fell apart as the men handled them. Owen’s dread grew again, becoming palpable, and he began to hyperventilate.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “There’s something in there, something—”

  All three men stood staring down at something they had just uncovered—another corpse, but that one wasn’t ancient. It was a young woman, naked but for a rusted old ring-mail coat, filthy with grime and dried blood. Her hair was blond and tightly woven into braids. Intricate blue tattoos covered the entire upper half of her face, like a mask. Her hands lay clasped atop one another on her stomach, as if she were only sleeping.

  It’s Serina Greywynne, Owen realized, the Blood Queen.

  He suddenly grasped the full implications of Stron’s corpse, run through by his own sword—the legends were all wrong. Stron didn’t kill Serina. She killed him.

  She killed everyone.

  Idwal and his brother picked up young Lord Palin and held the boy poised over Serina’s corpse. Once again, Owen’s dread grew. That time, the magic of the sword couldn’t push it away, and his mind raced.

  Modwyn drew a dagger and placed it against Lord Palin’s throat. Owen knew that he had to do something right then, had to help somehow before it was too late—but he couldn’t. His terror froze his limbs.

  “No,” he whispered, spittle running down his chin. “Don’t!”

  With one quick movement, Modwyn cut Palin’s throat, severing an artery. Bright arterial blood spurted over Serina’s pale face, drenching it. A wave of dizziness swept over Owen, and he felt himself swaying.

  I’ve just failed my liege lord—stood by watching while another man murdered him. I’m cursed.

  As horrific as his failure to act was, what happened next wa
s infinitely worse as the corpse of Serina Greywynne suddenly moved, reached up with blood-splattered hands, and pulled the young boy’s head down toward her before burying her mouth against his neck.

  Even from where he hid, Owen could hear her drinking.

  His courage shattered, Owen ran, stumbling back toward the entrance.

  Serina Greywynne, the Blood Queen of Greywynne Island, was alive.

  Chapter 25

  Modwyn

  Modwyn stood before Serina, his pulse matching the excitement in his fevered mind. She’s alive! It’s worked!

  It had seemed impossible, but there she was before him, nonetheless. When the three men had pulled off the last of the withered corpses, revealing her—still young and beautiful, as if she had merely gone to sleep—he knew his plans had worked. Despite having been trapped in that cavern for forty-eight years, she hadn’t aged a day—and she never would. She’d remain young and beautiful forever—as would he once she rewarded him for freeing her and gave him her gift.

  Clearly, she had been trapped when Belion, having no other choice, broke his own staff, causing the cave-in that collapsed the entrance. With no source of fresh blood, she had fallen into a coma-like sleep. The boy’s blood had brought her back, waking her from forty-eight years of nightmare-inducing dreams. All his life, he had studied blood fiends in a futile attempt to be like her, but her godly condition couldn’t be duplicated by mortals. He realized that only she, the master, could pass on her gift and create more immortal beings.

  Her long blond hair was pulled back tightly, tied in braids, in the Fenyir style, interwoven with gems and talismans. A series of elaborate blue tattoos covered the entire upper half of her face. Her eyes—the color of blood—were so beautiful, so otherworldly. As she stared at him in challenge, his heart skipped a beat. The tales of her beauty had been incomplete, unsatisfactory. She wasn’t merely a beautiful woman—she was a goddess. She leaned back upon her elbows atop the pile of dead and then wiped one forearm against her mouth, smearing the blood across her perfect features.