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

by William Stacey

  A small, thin woman—a warrior-queen in a ring-mail coat with long blond hair tied in braids—swept into the hall behind the ghouls. At first, Dilan thought she must have been wearing a mask, but then he saw the upper half of her face was painted with intricate blue designs. She didn’t walk as much as she flowed—like a spirit, leaving a shimmering distortion behind her, as if Dilan were watching her from across the flames of a bonfire. Even from where Dilan stood, dozens of paces away, he could see she was beautiful—and horrible—with impossibly all-red eyes. The entire front of her ring-mail coat glistened with fresh blood. She paused, staring at Dilan, and then she smiled at him, opening her lips and exposing her fangs.

  Then fear washed over him, and although the horror made no sense, he knew just the same—that was Serina Greywynne, the necromancer, the witch, the Blood Queen of Greywynne Island. With a cry of inhuman rage that shook him to his core, she swept forward, like a tidal wave, singlehandedly rushing in on the shield wall. It should have been ridiculous—a lone woman, barehanded, attacking a shield wall.

  It was horrifying.

  She shattered them utterly. In an instant, she was among them, a blur of fangs and talon-like hands. The shield wall disintegrated before her. She lashed out, and a severed head flew through the air. She gripped one man by the leg and swung him at the others like a club, knocking them over as if they were merely toys. Behind her, the ghouls swept into the broken line, pulling the men down to tear at them. Everywhere Serina moved, she brought horror and death. She rammed her entire hand through a guardsman’s body, mail armor and all, her fist coming out his back.

  Just then, something grasped at Dilan’s ankle, and looking down, he saw a ghoul, headless, legless, but still clawing at him. In revulsion, he brought his sword blade down, severing the ghoul’s wrist, and kicked the hand free. Everywhere, men screamed and died.

  Everyone is dying.

  But then, Father Bowen stood his ground before the demon, confronting her with the power of his faith. She paused before him, her arms drenched in blood. He held his Craftsman’s hammer out, dangling it before him from a leather cord around his neck while he chanted, praying loudly, his visage stoic, although Dilan was certain the man was terrified.

  When Dilan had been a young boy, his mother had told him tales of Serina and how some of the most pious of the priests had been able to stand against her undead captains and even immobilize them with sheer force of will and prayer while other men came forward and drove wooden stakes through their black hearts.

  Bless you, Father Craftsman, for sending us a man like Father Bowen. He’s given us a chance this night.

  Dilan’s gaze darted about—there, not five feet away, was the broken shaft of a spear! He darted forward, dropping his sword and shield to pick up the spear. He ran straight at Serina’s motionless back, intent on driving the spear through her heart.

  Another ghoul grasped at his legs, tripping him. He fell forward, dropping the spear as Serina stepped forward and gripped Father Bowen’s outstretched hammer. With complete contempt, she yanked it free and threw it aside. Father Bowen’s eyes grew wide in terror as she reached out, gripped both sides of his head, and squeezed. His head shattered, drenching her in blood and gore.

  Dilan kicked at the hands grasping at his legs and climbed to his knees. Serina turned and saw him and smiled at him again, Father Bowen’s blood and brains dripping off her face.

  Dilan’s courage shattered. He ran, as did all the others, intent only on escape. Dilan bolted past several pockets of still-struggling men. He smashed into someone and saw the terrified bearded face of Marlin Ornkey before the press of men running and dying pushed them apart. He couldn’t stay there. Nothing but death was there.

  Then, somehow, he was past the ghouls and out of the hall. He sprinted for the keep’s entrance and the inner ward. Reeling off a wall, he staggered past the keep’s entrance and out into the cold red night. His heart pounded, his breathing strained. From somewhere deep within his soul, he knew he shouldn’t be running, that he should stand and die like a man, but he couldn’t help it.

  The horses were screaming, as mad with fear as he was. As he reached the stables, a guardsman tried to stand before him, babbling at him. Dilan barreled past the man, barely noticing as he knocked him down. The horses were stamping and snorting, desperate to break free. Spittle ran down Dilan’s chin, and he gasped for air, his limbs shaking.

  The guardsman who had tried to stop him was back on his feet. He grabbed at Dilan’s shoulder again, but Dilan shoved him away again. The man drew a sword. Then, a new man rushed into the stable—one of the hunters—and rammed a spear into the back of the guardsman, killing him. The hunter yanked his spear free then screamed in rage as he rushed at Dilan. Only Dilan’s training with the Rams saved his life, as—at the last moment and acting on muscle memory, he spun inside the man’s clumsy attack, striking the spear shaft with his palm, kept turning, and elbowed the hunter hard in the jaw, cracking it. Then, he was in close against the man, well inside the reach of his weapon. Dilan elbowed him again, and the man howled incoherently as he fell back, dropping his spear. Dilan caught it, spun it about, and rammed the metal spear point up into the underside of the man’s chin, through the roof of his mouth, and into his skull. Dilan stumbled back, dropping the spear, his skin flushed with a cold sweat.

  He needed to get away from there—away from her—immediately. The first two horses he approached wouldn’t let him get near them, but the third did.

  Gale… it’s Gale.

  The tall black colt was trembling, eyes wide with fear, but he remained still long enough for Dilan to throw a saddle over him. Hanging on a peg on a nearby wooden wall was a prepacked patrol bag, ready for the next time Keep-Captain Awde needed to send out men to scout the surroundings. Dilan grabbed it, tossed it over the animal without even looking inside it, and mounted. He rode the colt out of the stables at a gallop and out into the red night.

  Gale needed no encouragement. The horse bolted, and Dilan hung on, letting the animal pick his own path in the night. They galloped through the inner gatehouse and then the outer and then down the winding trail leading from the fortress. Still shivering, still gasping for air, Dilan focused only on staying in the saddle. He didn’t look back until they were near the bottom of the winding trail.

  Dilan could still hear the screaming.

  Chapter 31

  Modwyn

  Modwyn stepped gingerly over the corpses of the Wolfrey soldiers, wishing to keep blood off his boots. The hall was worse than a slaughterhouse, with bodies and pieces of bodies lying strewn everywhere. Human blood gelled beside the desiccated body parts of the undead—many of which were still twitching. Modwyn’s skin was clammy, and his pulse was racing. He didn’t care about the fate of the soldiers—they had been little more than animals to begin with, but he hadn’t expected so much… carnage.

  Are all battles like this?

  Those ghouls that hadn’t been hacked to pieces stood silently along a wall, awaiting further orders from their mistress. His eyes kept drifting to them, certain that only Serina’s will kept them from killing him and Idwal and his brothers. Serina—her beautiful face storming with emotion—strode purposely among the bodies of the Wolfrey dead, still searching for the sword she blamed Modwyn for losing. As frightened as Modwyn was of the ghouls, he was far more terrified of her.

  The sword has to be here. It has to.

  His gaze darted to Idwal, standing dutifully nearby and watching Serina like a loving dog. Serina’s rise had altered the dynamics between the two men, Modwyn realized. Where before, Idwal had been almost subservient—following all of Modwyn’s orders—he wouldn’t even acknowledge him anymore. Modwyn felt a knot of anger at the man’s betrayal, growing in his belly. That damned peasant had never truly been loyal to him, yet releasing the queen had all been Modwyn’s doing. Without him, Serina would still be trapped in torpor. However, despite all I’ve done, who does she reward with eternal life? T
hat damned idiot warrior, Awde! The injustice was staggering.

  Modwyn sighed, forcing himself to approach Serina. Her beautiful red eyes held a wild, manic look as he approached. Her entire upper body was drenched in blood, as if she had dunked her head and shoulders into a bath of gore. Modwyn lowered his gaze before her and stared at the ground dutifully. She was still barefoot, and even her small, delicate feet were drenched in blood. Fifty years of lying trapped beneath the ground, buried within a corpse pile, had rotted all of her clothing. She would need new garments—clothing fit for a queen. He smiled, thinking of that bitch Danika back at Stron’s Watch. She seemed almost a match for Serina in size. Perhaps Serina would give Danika to Modwyn as a reward.

  She laughed then, a soft titter that hinted at madness. “It’s not here. I can’t feel it anymore. All those decades and now… nothing.”

  Modwyn glanced up. “Majesty, I… I’m sorry, but you’re free now. What matters some old sword?”

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, but when she opened them again, they were livid with rage. Unbelievably fast, she gripped him by the collar of his physician’s robes and lifted him—one-handed—into the air. “An old sword? Fool! That sword is Sight-Bringer, an Illthori relic. It. Kills. My. Kind. Do you have any idea how many of my childes have been slain by that thrice-damned sword?”

  Modwyn couldn’t think clearly. His eyes focused on her fangs, so close, only inches from his face. “I… My queen, I… I don’t—”

  “I should have destroyed it myself decades ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to—it’s still an Illthori talisman and contains priceless, long-forgotten magic from another age.”

  “Your majesty,” said Idwal, sliding up beside them, “my brothers and I have looked for the sword but found only Wolfrey blades. Not a one of them carried a sword with a woman on the hilt. We’ll keep looking, but I fear… at least one of them escaped.”

  Serina dropped Modwyn. He lay on his side near her bare feet, gasping for air.

  “Escaped?” Serina addressed Idwal. “Of course one escaped, and of course he has Sight-Bringer. The gods mock me, test me. Stron the monster used that foul weapon against my childes—would have used it against me as well. I will have it back. It’s too dangerous to be out of my hands.”

  “They won’t get far, my queen. I will kill them. For you, I will kill anyone.” The look on Idwal’s ruddy face was one of utter devotion, his eyes shining in the torchlight. Behind him, three of his brothers edged closer.

  “Why do you say they?” asked Serina.

  “One was the guardsman in the Great Crypt.” Idwal sneered at Modwyn. “That one’s poison didn’t work on him, nor did he make sure he were dead. That guardsman were the one what took the sword and ran. My brother Hywal and I went after him, but Hywal didn’t come out of the catacombs, and now I fear my brother must be dead. I think the guardsman leaped from the hidden dock into the waters of the sea. If so, it’s still there. He must have drowned.”

  Serina shook her head and ran her fingers over Idwal’s cheek, leaving trails of smeared blood. The hunter shuddered with pleasure.

  “No,” she said. “The sword has moved away. I can no longer feel its foul presence—and I would if it were close by—even underwater.”

  Idwal bit his lower lip and nodded. “Then he’s gotten free somehow, got out of the water, managed to avoid getting smashed like an egg by the rocks. Another of my brothers were murdered in the stables. Likely another soldier got away as well.”

  Modwyn climbed to his knees, his throat still sore. “Please, great-aunt. It’s not my fault, but I can—”

  “It is his fault, my queen,” said Idwal. “It was his fool plan to use the marsh-tick poison on the others, but he didn’t make sure they were all dead. He let that soldier steal the sword. Had I known, I would have—”

  “Lies! Outrageous lies!” Spittle flew from Modwyn’s lips as he rounded on the hunter. “I freed her—not you! This was my plan. I am her loyal servant. You’re just a foul, dirty peasant.”

  Serina said nothing, but a small ghost of a smile danced across her bloody lips.

  “My queen, I am loyal,” said Idwal, glaring at Modwyn. “Me and my kin have always been loyal. This one—for all his claims of kinship—is an outsider. Even if he were of our blood, he’s hidden as a craven among the mainlanders all his life. He isn’t one of us and never will be.”

  “Damn you, you cretin.” Modwyn advanced on Idwal, a murderous rage gripping him. He stopped when he saw Idwal had slid his hunting knife free of his sheath and was holding it loosely against his leg. Modwyn’s gaze snapped to Serina. “Please. I live to serve you. I would be as you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Smiling, Serina swept forward and gripped Modwyn, pulling him in against her bloodstained armored breast. Her lips nuzzled his cheek, his neck, murmuring soft incoherent whispers into his skin. She was so cold. Urine soaked his hose, and he whimpered.

  “Please… please… I love you,” he whimpered. “I only wish to serve you.”

  Her tongue darted out, licking the side of his neck. “You have failed me. You are not worthy of the gift.”

  His legs went weak. Had she not been holding him up, he’d have fallen. The hall spun about him as his heartbeat pounded in his ears.

  “Please. Please don’t.” Despite his terror, he felt his erection grow as she nipped at his throat. “Please… please… I would serve you.”

  “You will serve me,” she whispered. “But in a manner more appropriate to one such as you—as a blood thrall.”

  Holding him tightly against her with one arm, she gripped the front of her ring-mail coat and ripped it apart, sending metal rings popping and flying, exposing her naked breasts. She gripped one of them, the veins visible against her pale white skin, and pulled Modwyn’s head toward it. She squeezed her nipple and tugged on it, and watery pink fluid, blood mixed with what looked like mucus, oozed from its tip.

  She stared down at him with tenderness, as a mother might gaze upon her baby. “Drink.”

  “Please, no.” He whimpered.

  “Come, take mother’s milk.”

  “No… no, please.”

  She turned her attention to Idwal. “You will take your brothers and kill these men. You will bring Sight-Bringer back, do you understand?”

  “Yes, my queen,” said Idwal.

  “Please, please,” begged Modwyn. “I freed you. I’m loyal. I’m of your bloodline, your own blood.”

  She gripped the back of Modwyn’s head with one hand and forced his mouth over her nipple. Modwyn gagged on the putrid fluid, which smelled like the infected flesh of plague victims but tasted far worse. He tried to pull back, but she held him tightly against her breast as she made soft cooing noises. Unable to avoid doing so, he drank—then he gagged.

  “What… what of the other soldiers, the ones in the keep?” Idwal asked.

  “What keep?” Serina asked.

  “Stron’s Watch they call it, my queen, near the bay. There’s one more Dain there—but just a girl.”

  “Another Dain?” She tightened her grip on the back of Modwyn’s head as he writhed, his lips crushed against her nipple. “How many of those foul Dains can there be?” She sighed. “Just bring me the sword. I’ll deal with this keep—and this last Dain-child.”

  Modwyn winced as blinding pain wracked his body. His spine arched—so forcefully that he feared it would snap—and still she held him tightly, his screams muffled by her breast.

  Then the pain grew far, far worse.

  Chapter 32

  Dilan

  Dilan let Gale take him south of the fortress, along the shoreline. As they followed the beach and moved farther away from the fortress, Dilan’s horror began to recede, and his thoughts cleared. His shame threatened to crush him. He had fled, leaving his comrades to Serina and her ghouls. What kind of a man am I? He had fled after Prophet’s Bridge as well, but that had been different, he told himself—he had had no choice then. Is it a
ny different this night?

  The old warriors had described an overwhelming aura of terror that had always surrounded Serina—the Dread. Only Stron, with Sight-Bringer’s help, had been able to stand against her, encouraging others to do the same. He didn’t know if he had experienced that same Dread, but Dilan had never—not ever—felt such soul-crushing fear as he had earlier that night. At the time, it had felt like someone else had run away and he had been a helpless prisoner in his own body.

  Whether it was foul magic or not, he had still run away, leaving the others to their fate, and he was alone on a hostile island. What now? Stron’s Watch. He needed to get back, to warn the others, the men they had left behind to garrison the fort. Serina would be coming for them next.

  He let Gale move along the shoreline. He knew he would’ve made better time along the old road, but he never would’ve found it in the dark. Besides, if he rode cross-country at night, he risked injuring Gale, which would leave him on foot. At that point, the shoreline was the best path.

  Looking back over his shoulder, he stared at the dark fortress on the cliffs, growing smaller. The waves crashed against the beach, flowing in and then receding, casting cold mist into the dark night. The smell of salt washed away the stench of dead flesh but could do nothing to clear his inner turmoil. Serina Greywynne, the legendary necromancer and blood fiend, was alive and free.

  What fools we were, thinking we could come back to this haunted place. We woke her.

  As he rode, he rummaged through the patrol bag. As expected, it was packed for a single day of scouting, no more. Inside the bag, he found a waterskin, some dried fish, flint and stone, several torches for night patrols, and a short length of rope. However, the bag contained no weapons, and that was his greatest concern. He had no way to defend himself.

  Fall was coming. Already, the days and nights were getting colder, but all he had to wear were his pants, undertunic, and boots. When the sun rose, he was certain he could once again find the old road and follow it into the Feldwyn Swamp again, but he knew he would have to face the ticks alone.