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

by William Stacey

  Within the storm of bats, he had difficulty finding a target at first, but one of the hunters held a torch and was waving it wildly about, shrieking in fear. Owen, covering his face with his forearm, moved through the bats toward the man. Bats smashed into him, shrieked, and flapped away.

  From the other side, Dilan came at the distracted men, swinging the longsword in both hands. He severed one man’s outstretched arm at the elbow, slicing right through his short bow at the same time. Then he took the man’s head off with the reverse cut.

  The man with the torch staggered toward Owen, terror in his eyes. Owen slammed his shoulder into him, knocking him back into the water. The torch went out with a hiss, and the cavern went black, with the only light glowing from the opposite tunnel opening where they had left their torch propped up against the rock wall. Ignoring the bats, Owen dropped on top of the man and hammered down at his face with the rock. He connected solidly, hearing the crunch of the man’s face under the impact. The man yelped once, almost in surprise, and Owen hit him again and again and again.

  Strong arms grabbed him from behind, pulling him off his foe. Owen spun and flailed out with the rock, just missing the new attacker.

  “Owen, stop! It’s Dilan. Stop!”

  In his rage, Owen took several deep breaths before being able to gain control of himself once more. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he could just make out Dilan’s face.

  “It’s over. We’ve won.”

  “They’re all dead?”

  “No. One ran.” Dilan moved away, picking Sight-Bringer out of the water where he must have dropped it when he pulled Owen off the dead hunter. Then, Dilan stalked off down the far tunnel. As he turned away, Owen saw an arrow jutting from Dilan’s left shoulder. Moments later, Dilan was back with the torch, which sputtered weakly.

  “You’re hurt,” Owen said.

  “Later. You?”

  “No… no, I… don’t think so.”

  Owen gazed down at the man he’d been fighting, but his face was beneath the water. Owen wasn’t sure he wanted to see what he’d done to him.

  Horse-boy, good for nothing but breaking bones.

  Dilan splashed through the pool, retracing their steps. “We need to get outside again before the torch goes out on us.”

  Owen stumbled after his friend. Behind them, the bats still shrieked, the sound of their flapping wings chasing after them.

  #

  When Owen and Dilan emerged from the silver mine, their torch was little more than a smoking stump, but they were out. Owen inhaled deeply, grateful for the fresh air and grateful to be alive. He shielded his eyes from the glaring late-afternoon sun. Three horses, small mountain ponies, were tied to a nearby tree. The animals stamped nervously at the sight of the two men, the smell of fresh blood still on them. Owen went to them quickly, calming them, speaking in a reassuring voice.

  Dilan paused, his face white as he looked over his left shoulder at the arrow still jutting from it. Owen moved back to help Dilan sit down on a rock. Then, he examined the wound. The arrow protruded from the flesh at the back of his shoulder, which was bleeding around the shaft, but not too heavily. It had buried itself in the muscle—as good a location as any for an arrow wound, but all arrow wounds were bad, always creating internal injuries. If anyone pulled the projectile free, Dilan would start bleeding heavily. Owen went to the hunters’ horses and dug around in their saddlebags until he found some jerky and water. Returning to Dilan, he gave him the waterskin first.

  Dilan nodded in gratitude, his face flushed with sweat, and drank deeply. “How bad?”

  “Just a small puncture,” said Owen. “Almost nothing.”

  Dilan snorted, shaking his head. “Right.”

  “Can’t do anything about it here. We need to get to the fort, get some real help.”

  Dilan took a bite of jerky and chewed it slowly, as if the effort was almost too much, and then swallowed.

  “Can you ride?” Owen asked, gazing out over the forested land before them. They were close to Port Eaton. Owen could even see the gleam of the white walls of Stron’s Watch, high up on the hill overlooking the town. “We’re just southeast of the keep, maybe an hour’s ride, maybe less.”

  “Do I have any choice?” Dilan asked, his head dropping to his chest.

  Owen knelt down in front of his friend and looked into his face. “You’ve kept me going, Dilan. Now I need you to focus as well. We’re almost there.”

  Dilan nodded weakly. Owen took Sight-Bringer from Dilan’s weak grip and helped him climb atop one of the ponies. Mounting another pony, he took the reins of the last animal and led them northeast, skirting the edges of Port Eaton, toward Stron’s Watch.

  #

  By the time Owen led Dilan up to the gatehouse of Stron’s Watch, a small group of men were waiting for them, including Keep-Lieutenant Sayer. Three guardsmen stood beside Sayer, each carrying a spear. Sayer’s eyes narrowed as he watched Owen climb down from his pony, leaving the wounded Dilan mounted. During the ride around Port Eaton to the fort, Dilan’s condition had worsened, and he had swayed in the saddle, his head drooping.

  Sayer’s gaze went from Owen to Dilan to the longsword thrust through Owen’s belt. “What’s this then, Toscovar? What are you doing here? Where’s the captain?”

  “I don’t know,” Owen said, which was the truth. The last time he had seen Keep-Captain Awde was in the Great Crypt, just before Modwyn murdered Lord Palin. “But I think he must be dead.”

  Sayer looked as though he’d just been gut-punched. “Dead? What in the Father’s name are you talking about?”

  Through the open gatehouse, the reeve, Wendel Dert, was rushing over, a scowl on his ruddy face. Behind him, helping the elderly priest, Father Cotlas, was Lady Danika.

  “Betrayal,” Owen said. “Modwyn and the hunters have betrayed us.”

  “Truth,” mumbled Dilan. “And Serina Greywynne is alive… free.”

  Sayer’s unbelieving gaze darted to Dilan. “What nonsense is this?”

  “What’s going on?” asked Dert, his face flushed. “Who are these men?”

  “Deserters, I’m thinking,” said Sayer.

  “I’m no damned deserter,” said Owen, feeling his face heat.

  The three nearby guardsmen exchanged glances with one another and moved closer.

  “Lieutenant,” said Lady Danika. “What’s happened? Why have these men returned? Where is my brother?”

  “Get back, my lady,” snapped Dert. “These men are deserters. They’re dangerous.”

  She frowned at Dert. “No, of course they’re not.” Then she saw Sight-Bringer, thrust through Owen’s belt. Her eyes widened. “Is that…?”

  “Sight-Bringer,” answered Father Cotlas as he reached out a trembling hand, letting his fingers trail over the surface of the blade. “I’d never—not ever—forget that weapon. It’s been decades since I saw it last, in Stron’s hands as he went into the catacombs to kill Serina.”

  Dert’s face reflected his astonishment. “That can’t be—”

  “May I?” Lady Danika held her hands out.

  Owen drew the magnificent weapon and held it before his eyes as he stared at the perfect steel of its blade. Then, he dropped down on one knee and handed the sword, hilt first, to the Lady Danika. We crossed the sea for this sword, braved the Feldwyn Swamp and its monstrous ticks, and lost so many fine men. “My lady, Sight-Bringer. Blood Fiends’ Bane, the Sword of Justice.”

  She hesitated, as if also overcome by the moment, then reached out and gripped the hilt in both hands. As she did, her eyes widened in astonishment, and she took a sudden deep breath. “It is Sight-Bringer.” Then, she looked from the sword to Owen and then Dilan. “Your friend is hurt.”

  At that, Dilan slumped forward, against his pony’s neck. Owen rushed to catch him, but one of the guardsmen rammed the butt of his spear into Owen’s gut, knocking him to his knees.

  “Here now, enough of that,” said Lady Danika sharply.
/>   “My lady, please,” said Dert. “This is a dangerous matter.”

  When Owen could breathe again, he glared at the warrior who had struck him and was still standing over him, the spear point near Owen’s face. Angry though he was, Owen forced himself to be calm. The situation was a misunderstanding, that was all. The other guards moved to lift Dilan down from the pony, but Dilan fell as they did, and they lay him upon the ground.

  Father Cotlas rushed over to help. “I don’t know what’s happened, but this man needs help.”

  Lady Danika, still holding Sight-Bringer, turned on Owen. “Where is my brother?” Her voice edged toward panic.

  “Your… your brother is dead, my lady,” answered Owen. “Murdered by Modwyn. I saw it myself. He used… used your brother’s blood to feed Serina Greywynne. She’s alive.”

  Dert barked in laughter, glancing around at the others, incredulity on his shiny face. “Serina Greywynne? That’s the best you can do, a ghost story?”

  “It’s the truth,” said Owen. “She’ll be here next.”

  Lady Danika dropped Sight-Bringer, which clanked against the stones of the gatehouse. “Dead?” she whispered, her anguish clear. “And what of Brice… of Keep-Captain Awde?”

  Owen sighed. “I think he must be dead as well, my lady—as are all the others. I didn’t see, but my friend…” His eyes darted to Dilan. “My friend was there. Serina sent ghouls to kill them. Only we escaped.”

  “My lady, don’t listen to these lies.” Dert moved closer, licking his lips. “Tell her,” he snapped at Sayer, who stood back, clearly confused and overwhelmed.

  Sayer’s eyes shifted nervously, but then he nodded. “The reeve is right, my lady. There’s no way the captain is dead. More likely, these two stole the sword and made their way back here. That one”—he pointed at the unconscious Dilan—“was always going to be trouble. I warned the captain about him. What did you two do?”

  Tears ran down Lady Danika’s face, and she threw her head back and howled in anguish. Father Cotlas immediately left Dilan and rushed to help her instead. She collapsed against his chest, sobbing and mumbling something about a red moon. Father Cotlas led her away, back into the keep.

  Dert glared at Owen then Dilan before bending over and picking up the longsword. He paused, staring in abject wonder at the blade. “This really is Sight-Bringer,” he said in a whisper, almost to himself. Then, his gaze snapped back to Owen. “Lieutenant, maybe they’re deserters—maybe they’re not—but until we understand what has happened, I want them secured.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” said Owen.

  As he braced himself to rise, the guard before him moved his spear point closer.

  “You have to listen to me,” said Owen. “Serina Greywynne is out there. She’ll come with the night.”

  Dert snorted, his eyes filled with contempt. “Serina Greywynne.”

  “Wait,” said Owen.

  “Just you try it, Horse-boy,” snarled the guardsman. “Just you try it.”

  Dert, Sight-Bringer in his hands, walked away, back to the keep’s tower.

  Part Three:

  The Siege of Stron’s Watch

  Chapter 43

  Idwal

  By the time Idwal stumbled down out of the hills and arrived at the alehouse in Port Eaton, the sun had long since gone below the horizon. He had failed the queen and failed his brothers. He needed help if he was to retrieve the sword—help from men drinking away their pitiful lives inside that alehouse. The two-story building was the focal point of the town. The men would gather there to drink and complain about fishing, bad crops, and the gods-damned mainlanders that were the root of all their problems.

  He hesitated before the entrance, listening to the sounds of the men inside. The last time he had been in there, the others had been angry with him for agreeing to take the mainlanders inland, but that evening, he needed their help. As galling as asking for their help was, the only other option was to return to Serina and admit his failure. He pulled the door open and staggered inside toward the sounds of laughter and conversation—sounds which abruptly died at his entrance.

  As always, several dozen men filled the alehouse. The large common room was poorly lit by candles and the central fire pit. The innkeeper, a fat old fool with a cleft tongue and with a harlot for a wife, stared at Idwal, his eyes dim. Idwal knew how he must have looked, standing there covered in his brothers’ blood, gripping his hand axe. He scanned the crowded common room, noting open hostility in many faces. Several men slid aside as Idwal reached the bar, giving him room.

  “Something strong,” he told the innkeeper.

  The man stared at him stupidly for several moments, but when Idwal smashed the side of his hand axe against the bar top, the fool finally moved, pouring several fingers’ worth of flame-rot into a clay cup and placing it in front of Idwal. The smell of the alcohol, a local home brew, was almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. Idwal drank it in one swallow then wheezed and coughed as the fiery liquor ran down his throat.

  He squinted at the innkeeper. “More.”

  The innkeeper, still glaring stupidly, poured him some more. Idwal turned to face the rest of the men, silently watching him, including his once-friend, Galvin, the barrel maker, a big ruddy-faced man of middle years with a great shaggy brown beard.

  Galvin stepped in front of Idwal. “What’s happened, then? Where are your brothers?”

  Idwal downed his second cup of flame-rot, which went down only slightly more easily. “Dead.”

  “All of ’em?” asked Galvin, astonishment in his gravelly voice.

  Idwal nodded. Astonished whispers swept through the room.

  Rage burned in Galvin’s eyes. “This is what comes from taking their silver, from spitting on our laws. The gods have cursed you for leading them there, to her once-home.”

  Idwal hawked and spat onto the rush-covered floor. “Think so, do ye? No, master barrel maker, I haven’t been cursed.” Idwal let his eyes drift over all of them. “My faith has been rewarded. Something wondrous has happened, something we’ve waited our entire lives for.” He let his teeth flash in the dark room, feeling his blood rush through him, reenergizing him. His eyes brimmed with tears as he thought about her. They don’t understand, but they will.

  “You’ve lost your mind out there, in the wilderness, as well as your brothers,” Galvin said.

  Idwal laughed. “You understand nothing, man—nothing. She lives. I went to bring her back, to free her—and I succeeded! Serina Greywynne once again rules this island!”

  Disbelief had a sound, Idwal realized, and it was silence. Some men stared at him in openmouthed disbelief, but others glared with hatred and distrust.

  Galvin was the first to speak. “Are you insane, man? What did those mainlanders do to you out there?” Galvin shook his head, not waiting for Idwal to answer. “I’ve always liked you, man, but you’ve gone too far this time. You led our enemies to holy ground. You’ve been damned by the gods for this.”

  Idwal shook his head. “I saw her. I spoke to her.” He pointed at them with his hand axe, using it to punctuate his words. “You all failed her,” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth, “especially all you graybeards that were around when Stron came through! She was never killed, only ever trapped. Abandoned by all you!”

  The alehouse erupted into yells and angry accusations, all directed at Idwal. At least four of the old men in the room had been alive when Stron’s army had come through, and they led the jeers directed at Idwal, accusing him of lies, of heresy.

  “She’s alive, you fools!” he yelled, to be heard over their uproar. “She’s alive, and she’s coming, and she needs you to act like men again, like your fathers once did.”

  “The moon was red last night!” yelled Starlin Meergs. He was well into his seventh decade, stooped and tired, but he had been a young soldier during Serina’s rebellion. As the ruckus quieted, he pushed his way through the others to stand before Idwal, wide-eyed. “I saw it
. Saw it with my own eyes: red, just as it were when she raised her ghouls.” Spittle ran down his chin into his gray beard as he watched Idwal. “Is it really true? They said… they all said she were dead. Dead.”

  “It’s all true.” Idwal reached out and clasped a hand on Starlin’s frail shoulder. “She sent the dead from the catacombs—your honored ancestors—to rip the Wolfrey soldiers apart, killed all of ’em, too.” He turned to point in the direction of the fort that had sat silent sentinel over them for decades. “Most of the mainland soldiers are already dead and rotting. All that’s left alive now is them that hide up on the hill. We need to pull them out, hang them like they hanged your brothers, your fathers, your grandfathers. We need to show the queen that we can still act like men because she’s coming, and she’s going to finish her war. Glory is coming. Retribution is coming.”

  Pandemonium and furious jostling swept through the common room again, like a fire. They cried out that Idwal was a liar, shaking their fists at him.

  Then, one man, Gars, a gap-toothed cretin of a local sheep farmer, grabbed Idwal by the collar and shook him, yelling, “Liar!” right into his face as he shoved him back against the bar.

  Rage pounding in his ears, Idwal smashed his hand axe into Gars’s temple, caving it in. The room went deathly silent as Gars fell to the floor, his legs twitching, blood pooling around his head. Then, as if released from a spell, they all rushed in, grabbing Idwal and disarming him. Someone punched him in the gut, taking his breath away, while another yanked out a handful of his hair. He fell to his knees, and someone kicked him in the chin.

  Galvin rushed in, roaring and pushing back the others. “Enough!” the large barrel-maker yelled. “Enough of that, I said. That’s not our way.”

  Two men lifted Idwal up, holding his arms behind his back.

  “Galvin,” Idwal gasped. “Thank you—”

  Galvin shook his large bearded head, his eyes hard. “Don’t thank me, murderer, we’re gonna hang you.”

  A chorus of agreement resounded through the common room, followed by men rushing forward and spitting in Idwal’s face. Rage swept through him, followed by panic. He roared like a lunatic as they dragged him outside into the cold night air. He lashed out, trying to kick at them and tear free, to spit and insult their mothers and their sisters, but he was powerless to resist so many men.