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

by William Stacey

  This is happening too fast!

  They tied his hands behind his back, painfully. Then, someone else dropped a rope around his neck. He could only scream in rage—kicking and thrashing—as they lifted him up onto a pony, threw the rope over a nearby tree branch, and tied it off to the tree’s trunk. His thoughts a whirlwind, he could only stare about himself in disbelief. The queen was alive and free, and those idiots were going to kill him. He would miss seeing her set the mainland on fire. The glory, the revenge he so desperately craved, would go to others—to lesser men.

  “Does anyone have anything they want to say before he hangs?” Galvin asked the crowd.

  Some yelled more insults, others spat at him, and still others recommended torturing him first. Idwal had grown up with those men, hunted with them, drank and laughed with them. He almost laughed at the irony.

  “The moon is red,” someone said, almost too softly to hear.

  Whoever it was repeated it more loudly. Then others started swearing softly to themselves as they looked at the night sky. Then Idwal saw it, too—a gibbous moon the color of blood.

  She’s coming.

  “I have something to say,” a man called out from behind the crowd, his accent identifying him as a mainlander.

  Modwyn Du’Aig—no, Modwyn Du’Greywynne—former physician to the Dain family and once accomplice to Idwal, stepped forward, leading a clearly terrified horse. The animal’s eyes were wild, its flanks so badly scored by countless cuts from Modwyn’s spurs that blood glistened wetly as it dribbled down its flanks. No animal could survive that kind of mistreatment. It would be dead in hours.

  “This is none of your business, mainlander,” said Galvin, staring suspiciously at the man and the tortured horse. “We deal with our own here. Go back to your fort.”

  “I didn’t come from the fort. I came from Greywynne Fortress—your queen’s fortress.” Modwyn’s lips curled into a sneer as he walked past Galvin. The physician was a thin man, somewhat effeminate, but that night, he resonated with dread, and the islanders parted way before him. He stepped in front of Idwal, cocked his head, and squinted as if confused by Idwal’s present circumstance. Then, ignoring Idwal, he put his back to him and faced the angry men.

  “Modwyn,” said Idwal, “help me. They don’t believe me. Tell them about the queen.”

  Modwyn extended his arms out to the sides, his palms up. “What this man says is true. Serina Greywynne, your rightful queen, is free once more. Rejoice!”

  The men stared at one another. Collectively, they turned to Galvin, who stepped forward. “You think us fools? Leave us before you join him.”

  “She’s coming, man,” Modwyn said. “She’s coming, and she sent me here to help you find your lost courage. She wants you to take that fort for her.”

  Galvin laughed, shaking his head. “Take the fort? It would take an army to capture that fort.”

  “Exactly,” Modwyn said.

  Then, figures approached from the darkness. They had been traveling along the road behind Modwyn, the road that led through the forest to Feldwyn Swamp. A collective gasp ran through the crowd, and several of the men scurried backward. Modwyn’s horse bolted away. Idwal took several moments to understand exactly what he was looking at, but when he finally did, a ripple of terror washed through him—scores of dead men, the corpses of the Wolfrey soldiers killed by Serina, approached, forming a ring around the terrified crowd. Their eyes were vacant, black. Many of the corpses were missing limbs, and all still had gaping wounds.

  “Rejoice, men of Greywynne Island,” said Modwyn. “Your rightful queen Serina Greywynne has returned. Now, all you need do is fight for her. Kill those mainlanders in the fort.”

  Relief flashed through Idwal as the men at last somberly accepted the truth that Serina had returned. Galvin was the first to drop to his knees before Modwyn, lowering his head to the ground and swearing allegiance. The rest followed almost immediately.

  “Modwyn,” said Idwal. “Thank the gods you came. Set me free.”

  Modwyn turned to stare at Idwal with mock puzzlement in his face. “Where is the sword you were sent after, Master Hunter, the one you blamed me for losing?”

  “The sword must be in the fort by now. But we can still get it, still bring it to her. We can do this.”

  “Yes, we can,” said Modwyn, resting his hand on Idwal’s knee. Then, he raked his fingernails across the pony’s flank, ripping through the animal’s flesh as if it were paper.

  The pony screamed and bolted. Idwal fell, swaying and choking, his vision exploding with lights. His head felt as if it were going to pop off. His last sight was Modwyn’s gleeful face as he lifted his bloody fingernails to his lips and licked them.

  Chapter 44

  Owen

  The tower’s gaol was cold and damp and stank of mold. Owen stared at the locked wooden door, aware a guardsman was on the other side. Dilan lay on his side on a small cot nearby. Wooden boxes and barrels containing consumables filled the rest of the small stone cell. The island garrison is so small there can’t be that many incidents requiring a cell. On the other hand, Dert seems the kind to overreact, so we’ll probably be hanged without a trial.

  Am I joking? he wondered.

  The sun had been setting when they arrived at the fort. The old stories said that blood fiends couldn’t come out during the daylight. If so, she’d come soon. Damn Sayer, and damn Dert! He kicked in the side of a wooden crate, exposing rotting potatoes.

  At the noise, Dilan woke, turned, and stared at him in confusion. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re prisoners. Dert thinks we stole the sword and ran away.”

  Dilan’s head fell back, and he sighed. “Idiot. What about Sayer?”

  Owen bit his upper lip and shook his head. “He’s overwhelmed by all this. Besides, I don’t think he’s ever trusted you, but we need to get out of here, convince somebody that—”

  The lock in the cell door clicked. A moment later, the door swung open, and Father Cotlas, holding a leather satchel in his thin arms, stood in the doorway, warily watching Owen and Dilan. One of the garrison soldiers, a man Owen didn’t know, stood behind him, holding a drawn sword.

  “If you promise not to cause trouble, I’ll tend to your friend,” Father Cotlas said.

  Owen extended his arm toward Dilan and stepped out of the way. The guard closed and relocked the door behind the priest, leaving the three men alone.

  Father Cotlas examined Dilan quickly, expertly. “That arrow needs to come out, or the wound will fester. If that happens, you’ll take fever and die.”

  “Do what you need to, Father,” Dilan said, beads of sweat on his upper lip.

  Father Cotlas opened his satchel, revealing medical instruments and bandages, and set to work on Dilan’s shoulder. “When I’m done, I’ll sew up your cheek,” the priest told Owen. “Should really be Modwyn doing this, though.”

  “He’s a traitor,” said Owen bitterly. His fingers traced the cut on his cheek. It was still oozing blood, but not as badly as before.

  “Yes… well,” said the priest, “I guess we’ll know the truth of it soon enough. Although I must admit I never did like his looks.” He paused and met Owen’s eye. “If what you say is true, then what about Father Bowen?”

  “I don’t know,” said Owen.

  “I do. He’s dead, Father. I’m sorry,” said Dilan. “He was very brave. He actually confronted Serina himself, but…”

  Father Cotlas, his face grave, sighed. “Let’s look at that wound.”

  He began to tend to Dilan, softly probing the flesh around the arrow’s shaft. Dilan, biting his lip, cried out in pain several times. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  After several moments, the elderly priest looked up, his fingers bloody. “It isn’t as bad as it seems. The arrow buried itself in the flesh, but it didn’t go far.”

  Dilan, his face pale and his breathing quick, nodded. “Man with the bow didn’t… didn’t have the time to make a full draw
.”

  “All right, then,” said the priest. “I’m going to have to pull it out. It’s barbed, so it’s going to hurt.” He glanced at Owen. “I’ll need you to help hold him down. He’ll thrash.”

  Owen knelt down and braced himself against Dilan, holding him tightly in place.

  “Owen,” gasped Dilan. “I still need to breathe.”

  “Sorry.” Owen loosened his grip.

  “You seem to know your way around wounds, Father,” Dilan said.

  “I was with Duke Stron and his army, although I was very young.”

  “Father,” said Owen. “We’re not lying. Stron never killed her. I found his corpse—she drove his own sword through his chest. She’s alive, she’s free, and she’s coming here next.”

  Father Cotlas shook his head. “I’m not going to debate this with you. The reeve is in command, and he’s made his decision. You’ll both stay here until we can confirm what’s happened. If you’re telling the truth, then you’ll be—”

  “Father,” said Dilan, “if we don’t get ready for her—right now—we’re all going to die. She’s not like anything you can imagine.”

  Father Cotlas extended a hardened piece of leather to Dilan. “Bite down on this. I’m sorry for what comes next.”

  Dilan opened his mouth and bit into the leather strap.

  Father Cotlas was right. Dilan did thrash.

  Chapter 45

  Father Cotlas

  Removing the arrowhead from the young man’s shoulder took Father Cotlas more than an hour. It took another half hour to clean and stitch the wound, but when he was done, he was reasonably certain the soldier would fully recover—unless Dert hanged him first. Father Cotlas then put several stitches in the young blond man’s cheek before bidding good night to the prisoners. He left the gaol, utterly spent, in need of a glass of wine and a long night’s sleep, although he doubted very much he’d find them that night. The young soldier needed a real physician, but if what the two men had said was true—and he was beginning to believe it—then Modwyn was a traitor.

  And Serina Greywynne—the monster of my youth—is still alive.

  He stared at his trembling fingers, spotted and gnarled with age. When did I get so old? He remembered that day forty-eight years before, when Oskaley, trembling like a terrified colt, had emerged from the catacombs. Serina was dead, he had sworn, as were Stron and all the others, buried in the destruction of Sight-Bringer. His first command had been to seal the catacombs, ordering the priests to place wards. Oskaley had been near witless with terror that day—Father Cotlas had seen it in his eyes. Everyone had seen it, but no one had gone back to check, to confirm he was telling the truth and she was truly dead.

  We all wanted her to be dead. We needed her to be dead so we could go home. Now, here I am, forty-eight years later, an old man now. There’s too much for this to be just a story—the red moon, Sight-Bringer, Modwyn’s betrayal.

  In his heart, Father Cotlas knew the two prisoners were telling the truth. He sighed, his knees aching as he climbed the stairs out of the cellar and stepped out of the tower into the cool, fresh air.

  High above, the moon was burning crimson.

  A cold sweat broke over his skin. Lady Danika hadn’t been exaggerating. The moon is exactly as it was before the battle at Roald’s Farm all those years ago. This is necromancy.

  She is coming!

  He turned and fled back into the tower, wincing as he climbed the stairs to Dert’s chambers. Dert’s office door was closed, but Father Cotlas simply barged in.

  Dert, sitting behind his large wooden desk with Sight-Bringer lying across it, jerked his head up in fright, but once he saw Father Cotlas, his eyes narrowed. “What is it? What’s wrong now?”

  “The moon is red.”

  Dert scowled, rose to his feet, and rushed to look out an open window, sticking his head out and twisting it upward so he could see the moon. His body stiffened. When he turned, fear shone in his eyes, an unhealthy pallor to his skin. Dert’s lips trembled. “A… a natural occurrence… a… a trick of the light. Swamp gas.”

  Father Cotlas shook his head. “None of those things. Necromancy.”

  “No, Father. This is insanity.” Dert rushed toward him, gripped his priest’s frock with his hands, and shook him, his eyes wild. “Can you hear what you’re saying? If it’s necromancy, then—”

  “Then those two men are telling the truth, and Serina Greywynne is alive.” Father Cotlas gripped Dert’s hands but couldn’t move them. He cast a glance at Sight-Bringer. “Think about it. No one has ever gone back there. Then, Lord Palin reopens the catacombs, digs out the Great Crypt. Now, we hear of Modwyn’s betrayal, Serina’s return, red moons, and there—right before your eyes—is Sight-Bringer! We need to rouse the men, get ready to defend—”

  “Enough!” Dert shoved him, sending him stumbling backward.

  Father Cotlas fell hard and landed on his wrist. Sharp, stabbing pain ran up his arm, and he cried out in agony.

  Dert, his face flushed, stepped closer, raised a fist, and shook it down at him. “You’re an old fool.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “I command here until Lord Palin returns, and I will decide what we do and don’t do, not some senile old priest. Serina Greywynne is dead, has been dust since before I was born. I won’t have you frightening my men with ghost stories. If I hear one more word about this from you, I will put you in the gaol with those deserters—now get out!”

  With great difficulty, Father Cotlas climbed to his trembling feet, clutching his wrist. At best, it was sprained—at worst, broken. With the stabs of pain shooting up his arm, it was almost certainly the latter. He shook his head at Dert. He’s afraid, and his fear is going to get us all killed.

  He stumbled out, and Dert slammed the door behind him. Father Cotlas leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing. Tears ran down his cheeks from the pain. What can I do now? No one will listen…

  No. There is one who might listen.

  Chapter 46

  Owen

  Owen watched Dilan sleep. He needed to do something, to convince someone they were in danger, but Sayer and Dert were in charge, and neither man believed them.

  The gaol door opened, and Father Cotlas entered with Lady Danika just behind him. The guard, looking uncertain, stood just behind them. Owen jumped to his feet and lowered his head in respect. Lady Danika’s eyes were bloodshot, her face white. Clearly, she was in mourning for her brother, but hidden beneath the sorrow was a hint of steel, a resolve that Owen wouldn’t have thought a pampered noblewoman would possess. She followed Father Cotlas into the cell, smoothed her dress, and then sat down on a wooden crate, her hands folded in her lap. Father Cotlas closed the door in the guard’s face. The old man looked like he was in pain, and a sling was fastened around his arm.

  Lady Danika looked upon the sleeping Dilan and then at Owen, her brown eyes filled with sorrow. “You will tell me everything that happened. Leave nothing out, no matter how…” Her voice broke. “No matter how much pain you think it will cause me. I need to know everything.”

  “I only saw a part of it all, my lady. I’ll need to wake up my friend.”

  She nodded and then sat patiently while Owen shook Dilan awake. Despite clearly still being in pain, Dilan sat up, listened to what Owen was asking, and then proceeded to explain the events of the previous night: the moon, the ghouls, then—faltering—he told of Serina’s entrance and how she had torn apart the soldiers. When Dilan explained that he had fled in terror, he was unable to meet her eyes.

  “It was the same with me,” said Owen. “It’s hard to describe. All I could think of was to run away, to flee.”

  “The Dread,” said Father Cotlas.

  Then, Owen proceeded to tell his part of the tale. When he described the murder of Lord Palin, Lady Danika’s eyes filled with tears, but her gaze remained locked on his, listening carefully to every word.

  Pampered noblewoman or not, there’s a steel core to her. Sh
e’s far tougher than anyone realizes.

  “And…” She paused, looking away from him. “Captain Awde… You did not see his death?”

  “No, my lady,” said Owen softly. “I… I ran away.”

  “Then… then he may still be alive.”

  “My lady,” said Father Cotlas. “Serina never spared anyone. Best not to have false hope. We need to survive this night so that we can escape, warn the king.”

  “I… yes, of course.” She glanced down at her hands and wiped the tears from her cheek. “We have a duty.” She closed her eyes and remained like that for long moments. When her brown eyes finally snapped open again, her pain was still there, but so was resolve, that core of steel, like a sword blade. She rose and called for the guard, who opened the door quickly. “I am releasing these men.”

  The guard’s gaze darted from her to Owen and Dilan, and then to Father Cotlas. “My lady, I… I have to check with—”

  She glared at him, seeming to stand taller. “I am Lady Danika Dain, daughter of Duke Oskaley and last member of the Dain family. You have sworn an oath to serve my family, which is now me. Free these heroes immediately.”

  The guardsman jerked back and then nodded quickly, licking his lips. “Yes, my lady. Apologies.”

  She stormed past him without another word. Father Cotlas, a tepid smile on his features, followed her, as did Owen and Dilan. She left the tower, stepping out into the courtyard. Several guardsmen standing nearby turned and watched her. When they saw Owen and Dilan, their faces went hard, their hands drifting to their swords.

  “You men,” she called out to them.

  “Yes, my lady,” one answered.