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

by William Stacey

  Dilan’s face was tight, but he didn’t seem surprised. “How?”

  Owen related the events of the previous night, how Modwyn had poisoned them with his cure for deep vapors and then murdered the young lord. When he got to his own part—how he had fled—his face burned with shame. Dilan said nothing, merely nodding his head in understanding.

  They walked in silence for a bit before Dilan spoke again. “She sent the ghouls into the keep—so many corpses, an army of the dead.”

  “The others?”

  Dilan shook his head, staring at the ground.

  “Father Craftsman, keep their souls,” said Owen.

  “There’s more,” said Dilan. “I was attacked by one of the hunters.”

  Owen gripped the saddle horn tightly. “They’re traitors, too. Idwal killed Fin, cut his throat. They must be working with Modwyn. They must all be serving her.”

  “Her,” repeated Dilan. “Serina Greywynne. It’s so impossible to accept, even now, even after seeing her with my own eyes last night.”

  They walked on in silence, and Owen’s throbbing headache receded slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was no more than a whisper. “Dilan, I… I failed them, failed my oath. I ran from her last night, like a coward.”

  Dilan looked away quickly. “You’re no coward. It was the Dread. It emanates from her, like a poison.”

  “What now?” Owen asked.

  Dilan ran his hand through his hair and nodded toward the hills before them. “We cross those, but it won’t be easy. We have some water—not much—a bit of food.”

  “Weapons?”

  Dilan hefted the longsword. “This amazing weapon. Did you… feel it?”

  “I felt it,” said Owen. “I’d be dead if not for its magic.”

  “It’s longer than I’m used to, more like a great sword, but it’ll do.”

  Owen, like all other guardsmen, understood how to use a two-handed sword, as well as other weapons, but his training had focused on sword and shield, spear, and axe. A two-handed great sword was a knight’s weapon, intended to either beat down a plate-mail-wearing opponent or batter past pikes. Furthermore, if Sight-Bringer had indeed been crafted by the mysterious, long-dead Illthori—the “precursor race”—then it had not been designed for the use of men at all.

  “Why are we headed for the ridgeline?”

  “We have to warn the others, but we’d never get through the swamp.”

  “Can we get over those hills?”

  “I think so. They don’t look that high.”

  Owen considered the hills. They certainly weren’t anything like the mountains back home, but their summits were still high enough to be cloaked in mist and low-hanging clouds. The slopes looked rough, covered in thick brush and trees. Owen and Dilan were at least an hour’s ride away still, but even from there, he could see steep gullies and crevices. A small river or stream must have cut through the range because he saw a valley with thick dark-green vegetation.

  “There, I think.” Dilan pointed to a crevice between two of the larger hills. “That looks like a pass. We should be able to get through it, maybe even before nightfall.”

  Owen considered it. “I’m not sure I can manage that today. Maybe we should camp, hunt, recover our strength.”

  A look of concern flashed through Dilan’s eyes, and he glanced behind them. “We can’t do that. I think we’re being hunted.”

  “Her?” Owen’s fear spiked. Once again, he recalled Serina’s bloody hands rising from the corpse pile.

  Dilan shook his head. “Men on horses. I saw them briefly earlier. I think it’s Idwal and his brothers. Blood fiends can’t move about in daylight, or so the legends say.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, Owen.”

  Owen looked behind them but saw nothing.

  “They can’t let us go, Owen, not after what they’ve done, not after freeing… her.”

  Owen felt his anger build. “They’re hunting us? We’re warriors, not marsh ticks. Let’s kill them, take their horses and supplies.”

  “Don’t be the fool the others think you are. There’s twice as many of them, and they’re mounted—all of them. They’ll be moving faster than we are, and they’ll have bows. We’re tired. You’re hurt. I’ve been walking all morning—and we have one sword.” Dilan shook his head. “I’ve been hunted by men like these before. If we fight them in the open, we’ll die.”

  “What, then?”

  “Run, or at least walk as fast as we can and get over those hills. Port Eaton is on the other side and Stron’s Watch.”

  “We can’t go near Port Eaton. If Idwal has turned traitor, then the rest might have as well.”

  “Agreed, but we do need to cross those hills.”

  Owen scooted forward and patted Gale’s flank. “Okay, then, get on. Gale can carry two, at least for a bit.”

  Gale, bless his sturdy heart, didn’t so much as whicker in protest, and riding double, the two men headed for the ridgeline and safety.

  Chapter 35

  Idwal

  Idwal pulled on his horse’s reins. He raised his hand, motioning his brothers to stop as well. They rode across the low ground, avoiding the heights, not wanting to spook their prey. The two men they hunted were doing the same, so they likely realized they were being tracked, for all the good that would do them. Idwal and his brothers didn’t know that part of the island, but they could follow two men and a horse easily enough. They were getting closer. Their prey was not that far ahead, near the base of the hills, where the forest grew thicker.

  So they’re trying to cross the hills and come out near Port Eaton, Idwal mused.

  Idwal ground his teeth, determined not to let them get away. With only one horse, the soldiers could either ride together—and tire the animal out—or take turns riding and move at the speed of a walking man—either way, Idwal and his brothers were going to catch them soon. Once they were close enough, they’d bring them down with arrows and take the sword back to the queen. He felt giddy with excitement, like a little boy, when he thought about giving the sword to her.

  The queen lives. It’s amazing, impossible, a miracle.

  Once, she had brought their people to the brink of conquest over the mainlanders—only Stron the Butcher and his foul blade had stopped her, a blade Idwal would present to the queen.

  Perhaps, he mused, the gods hadn’t wanted her free all those years—at least not until a strong enough leader had emerged among the people, one ready to lead the islanders and other Fenyir clans to conquest and glory—a leader like Idwal. He was a modest man, a humble, pious man, but he knew he would rise to the occasion. Perhaps in time, she would even make him like her, immortal. All he had to do was kill two northern dogs and bring her a sword. Running his fingers over the wooden beads braided into his beard, he smiled and then spat into the high grass.

  He would have killed them for nothing.

  Chapter 36

  Owen

  Owen walked beside Gale, with Dilan just behind him. The powerful colt had brought them both to the base of the hills but couldn’t carry them up the rising incline. As Owen looked up the incline, the wind gusted behind them, carrying with it the unmistakable neighing of a horse. Both men turned and stared.

  How close was that?

  Thick brush and trees along the base of the hills surrounded them. They had made good time over the vale’s hills, but from there, the journey was going to be rough—a hard uphill slog. Dilan stepped away, approaching a massive oak tree, its limbs long and gnarly, like grasping arms. Several of the thick branches reached almost to the ground. Standing behind one the width of his wrist, Dilan pulled it back, straining with it for several feet. When he released it, the branch whipped back into place with a resounding crack, throwing leaves through the air. Returning to grab Gale’s reins, Dilan led the animal past the oak, shuffling his feet in the dirt.

  Owen stared at the obvious tracks. “Dilan, no one’s that stupid.�
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  Ignoring Owen, Dilan removed the rope from Gale’s saddle and ran back to the branch. He fumbled with the rope, unraveling its weaves, untwisting the smaller narrow lengths so that they soon resembled knotted hair. Then, using Sight-Bringer to hack off a branch the length of his forearm, Dilan held it between his thighs and used the longsword to shave off its end, creating a wicked point. He held it up and raised a thick eyebrow, utterly unconcerned that he had just used one of the kingdom’s holiest treasures to chop wood.

  Owen shook his head. “It won’t work. They’ll see it.”

  “It’ll work. They know we’re close. They’ll want to kill us and be done with it.”

  Using the unraveled weaves of rope, Dilan lashed the pointed stick to the tree branch he had tested earlier, tying it at a right angle.

  “They’ll see it,” Owen said.

  Dilan braced himself against the branch. “Hurry.” He pointed at the branch. “Use those muscles.”

  Together, they forced the branch back and tied it in place with a slip ring, with one of the unraveled weaves extending back across the trail as a trigger. Dilan paused and listened, staring back into the trees behind them. He wiped the sweat from his eyes before yanking several handfuls of grass and very carefully setting them over portions of the twine.

  Owen could still see the twine, but he had to admit the grass did break up its outline. “They’ll still see it,” he repeated.

  “No, they won’t.” Dilan ripped a strip from the hem of his gray undertunic and carefully placed it on a branch on the other side of the trap at shoulder height. Then, he stepped back and appraised his work, clearly pleased with himself.

  Owen grabbed Gale’s reins, and they climbed the steep terrain. At any moment, he expected to feel an arrow in his back. They should stand and fight, he knew, while they still could. Dilan was going to get them both killed.

  The hunters are going to see the trap.

  Chapter 37

  Idwal

  Idwal stopped his mount, climbed down, and examined the ground. The tracks were fresh. The two men had dismounted some time before, to walk their horse. The animal must have been nearly exhausted, and the men wouldn’t be in much better shape. The hunt would soon be over. His eyes narrowed as he examined the trail. Likely, they were terrified, knowing they were running out of time. The ground was churned, as if they had gone over it several times.

  Why?

  His lips pursed as he stood back up, hands on his hips, surveying the terrain around him. One of his brothers, Hyrol, eighteen years old, ran up next to Idwal, leading his horse by the reins, excitement in his bright eyes.

  “There.” Hyrol pointed with his hunting bow and ran past Idwal.

  Squinting, Idwal saw something indeed hung from a branch, not twenty feet away, in the direction the two soldiers were traveling. After a moment, he recognized the piece of fabric, as if one of the soldiers had caught his shirt and, in his flight, had ripped it loose. Idwal didn’t hunt men—he hunted marsh ticks and other game—but he was no idiot. Pieces of clothing don’t just rip free.

  “Wait!” he yelled. “Don’t—”

  Hyrol looked over his shoulder, confusion on his nearly beardless face. At that moment, something heavy rushed forward from the path ahead, whipping through the air and dislodging a storm of leaves. Hyrol squealed like a pig as a heavy branch struck him. His horse screamed and bolted away, but Hyrol hung bent over the branch, his intestines hanging out of his back from the spike that had impaled him.

  Idwal stared at Hyrol, a coldness rising from his core. “No!” he finally managed, running toward his youngest brother as his other brothers cried out in concern behind him.

  Hyrol, still living, tried to turn his head. Idwal leaned around his younger brother, hugging him. Irdlin and Agastor joined him, their faces white. Hyrol tried to speak but instead only spat up a gout of blood. Examining the wound, Idwal knew in a moment it was mortal. No man could survive such a horror.

  “Don’t… don’t let me… don’t.” His brother grasped at him, his fingers surprisingly strong, but then, Hyrol had always been a strong lad.

  He screamed as they pulled him free, blood spraying from the wound, the size of a man’s fist, through his torso. They laid him out on the blood-soaked ground and waited with him. Idwal held Hyrol’s hand in both of his while Hyrol whimpered and begged, asking for their long-dead mother. When the lad’s breathing, wet and strained, finally stopped, it was almost a relief.

  Idwal closed his brother’s dead eyes. His frustration and loss burned away in a fiery rage. This is my fault. I should have expected something like this. The two men were dangerous, having killed three of his brothers. He saw his hatred mirrored in the faces of his two surviving brothers, Irdlin and Agastor. They were going to do far worse than just kill these men.

  “We go slower now,” Idwal said. “More carefully.”

  Agastor gazed down upon Hyrol’s corpse. They had always been close. “We can’t just leave—”

  Idwal leaned in and grasped the back of Agastor’s neck, pulling him in close so their foreheads touched. “Brother, we will come back and honor him. Now, we kill his murderers. We avenge him.”

  Agastor gritted his teeth and acquiesced.

  Idwal glared at the trees ahead of them. The two men weren’t going to get far. He wasn’t going to just kill them, he was going to skin them alive and use their flesh to make a sheath for the longsword—a fitting gift for his queen and a tribute to his dead brothers.

  Chapter 38

  Owen

  Owen leaned into the slope, breathing heavily, concentrating on placing one foot ahead of the other. Thick foliage surrounded him, but he knew the hunters were still coming. Surprisingly, Dilan’s trap must have worked after all, because they had heard a man screaming in pain a while back. He hoped it would slow them down enough to allow him and Dilan time to get over the pass.

  Maybe it’ll just make them angrier.

  The sun was directly overhead, baking them. Dilan had chosen their path well, and they were most of the way up the pass. The climb, though, was exhausting, far steeper than it looked from a distance. He needed to stop soon, or he wasn’t going to last much longer, but he knew he couldn’t. If he fell behind, they’d catch him. He no longer wanted to stand and fight. Dilan had been right. He was in no condition to make a stand, especially out there in the open, with only one weapon between the two of them. Gripping Gale’s saddle, he let the strong animal pull him along, with Dilan leading the way, trying to find the easiest path.

  “Dilan,” Owen wheezed. “How… how much farther?”

  Dilan moved back and stared into Owen’s face. “Drink,” he said, thrusting the nearly empty waterskin into Owen’s hands.

  Owen shook his head. “Almost empty.”

  “Drink,” Dilan repeated. “We’re nearly at the summit. Then, it’ll all be downhill.”

  Owen drank the last of the water, almost immediately feeling some strength return, but he could have drained a river, he was so thirsty. He kept going, slowly but inexorably forward, with Gale pulling him along. The black colt was heroically strong. Owen knew they wouldn’t have made it that far without him.

  Then, like magic, they came out over the top of a sloping, bush-covered ridge and saw the sea, the bay, and the smoke rising from cook fires in Port Eaton. “Thank the Craftsman.” Owen leaned against Gale. “How much farther do you think?” he asked.

  Dilan paused as he looked out over the descending terrain. “Hard to say. But we should reach the base before nightfall.”

  “Can we rest for a bit? I’m exhausted.”

  Dilan glanced back the way they had come and then shook his head. “Have to keep going, make Stron’s Watch. I haven’t seen or heard anything, but—”

  Gale screamed and reared up, knocking Owen down. Something flashed past his face, leaving a hot burn on his cheek, and his fingers came away from his face bloody. Gale staggered to the side several steps then collapsed onto his
flank, wheezing in agony, an arrow shaft jutting from his throat. Owen, climbing to his feet, stared at the horse in confusion, but Dilan tackled him, throwing him to the ground behind the wounded horse. More arrows hit the animal. Gale screamed and tried to rear up but couldn’t.

  The hunters had caught up to them.

  Dilan crawled forward, snatched the patrol bag from Gale’s saddle, and crawled back to Owen, dragging the bag with him. He cast a frantic gaze at Owen. “We have to run. We need to get some distance, or they’ll just move around, find an angle to hit us.”

  Owen shook his head, trying to reach out for Gale.

  “Owen!” Dilan yelled. “He’ll be dead soon enough. Can you run?”

  Owen stared at Gale, whose large black eyes were clearly in agony. “Give me the sword,” he told Dilan.

  “Owen!”

  “The sword,” he repeated, holding his hand out.

  Shaking his head, Dilan handed him Sight-Bringer. The moment Owen touched its hilt, power and energy flowed into him, revitalizing him. He crawled forward, up to the dying horse, not worried for an instant that the animal, maddened by pain, might kick at him.

  “I’m sorry, Gale. You were a noble horse.” Owen placed the blade against the horse’s throat and cut it open.

  Hot blood sprayed in his face, and Gale thrashed and shrieked once and then lay silent, the light of life gone from his eyes. Dilan was there a moment later, prying the sword from Owen’s bloody fingers. The moment he took it back, weariness rushed back into Owen.

  “Can you run?” Dilan asked.

  “Yes, but it has to be now.”

  “Let’s go!”

  Dilan stumbled to his feet and sprinted, bent over, carrying both the sword and the patrol bag. Owen followed but stumbled and fell to his knees. As he pushed himself back up onto his feet, another arrow thudded into the earth inches from his fingers. He ran, gasping and wheezing, after Dilan.