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

by William Stacey

  “Rouse the fort. I want every man on the walls—every single man. Is that understood?”

  “My lady, Reeve Dert—”

  Owen heard running footsteps behind them and turned to see the reeve rushing out of the tower, still holding Sight-Bringer, confusion on his features. Dert stumbled to a halt behind her, his mouth open.

  Lady Danika addressed the growing group of soldiers, drawn by all the excitement. “I am Danika Dain, daughter of Duke Oskaley and now heir to the Wolfrey lands—including this island. This is my fort, and I command here.”

  “My lady,” stammered Dert, looking about himself in fear. “What is it you think you are doing?”

  “I think, Master Dert, that you will obey me, or I will have you locked in a cell.” She pointed to the red moon. “Look about yourself. We are all of us in grave danger. This is necromancy. Serina Greywynne is alive, and you all act as if nothing has changed. Everything has changed.”

  A murmuring of fear rippled through the men. They cast nervous glances at the moon then Lady Danika. In the distance, a dog howled, followed by the cries of others.

  Lieutenant Sayer pushed through the men, his hair disheveled and his eyes wild. “My lady,” he asked, “what if these men are lying?”

  “Yes.” Dert looked from face to face, addressing the men. “What if they are lying?”

  She stepped up to Dert and took the longsword from him. Just for a moment, he hesitated, as though he didn’t want to give it up, but then he relented. She held it point down between her legs, resting against the stones of the courtyard. The hilt of the sword—the strange beast-like woman—reached her chest. In the moonlight, the flawless blade shimmered like fire.

  “I believe these men,” she said, looking at Owen and Dilan. “I believe they’re telling the truth. We’ve been betrayed, and we’re in great danger.”

  “I…” Dert looked at Sayer for help, but Sayer shook his head and turned to address Lady Danika. “What command, my lady?”

  “Stand to the fort. Death is coming.”

  “A rider!” a sentry atop the gatehouse yelled, pointing at the twisting trail that led up the hill to the fort.

  Owen and the others rushed to the gatehouse to see better. He stared through the gates of the lowered portcullis. The guard was right. A man was riding up to the gatehouse. Suddenly, cold anger swept through him—it was Modwyn! The physician, seemingly unconcerned at the stares directed at him through the portcullis bars, dismounted and approached the gate.

  “Open the gate,” Modwyn called out.

  “You!” Lady Danika spat, moving up beside Owen. “What have you done?”

  “Open the gate, fools,” Dert ordered the sentries. “This is the physician.”

  “Don’t open the gates,” said Owen. “He’s a traitor. He murdered Lord Palin.”

  Modwyn cocked his head and sneered at Owen. “Of course, I didn’t murder Lord Palin—you did! Let me in, my lady, and I’ll prove that this man betrayed his oath, murdered your brother—his own liege lord—and ran away with that sword you hold in your hands.”

  “He’s a liar!” Owen said. “This is a trick.”

  Dert rounded on Owen, pointing a pudgy finger at him. “I knew it! I knew I was right about you. Guards, seize him.”

  Two of the guardsmen rushed in to grab Owen, but he moved first, snatching one of the men’s outstretched wrists and twisting it over his head so that the first man spun about and crashed into the second. Both fell, entangled. More soldiers drew swords, and by habit, Owen’s hand went for a sword that he wasn’t wearing. Lieutenant Sayer, his sword drawn, stepped forward, preparing to run Owen through.

  “Enough!” yelled Lady Danika, sounding nothing like a quiet young noblewoman. She rounded on Dert, pointing Sight-Bringer in his face. “I’ve already told you once this night not to question my orders.”

  Dert’s face blanched. “My lady, this man—”

  “I said enough.” She stormed past him, approaching the bars of the portcullis. As she did, her face took on a puzzled look, and she stared at the sword in her hands.

  Modwyn drew back, farther into the shadows.

  “The sword… hums.” She turned in puzzlement and looked among the others.

  “It did the same thing in the Great Crypt,” said Owen, “and then once again when I was searching the caves at the base of the fortress, seeking a way out.”

  “According to the old tales,” said Father Cotlas, “it… awakens when needed or in the presence of great evil.”

  Danika, holding the sword in both hands, came right up against the bars of the portcullis.

  As she did, Modwyn moved even farther back. “Open the gates,” he said. “Open the gates, and I will explain everything… Please, you all know me. I’m one man, no threat.”

  “My lady, please,” said Dert in a small, pleading voice, no longer filled with arrogance and bluster. “This is crazy, all this talk of monsters.”

  Danika peered through the bars, searching. “There’s… something out there.” She turned, her eyes coming to rest on Owen. She moved to a lit torch placed within a sconce on the inside wall of the gatehouse. Then she pulled it free and thrust it into Owen’s hands. “Go up top and throw this as far as you can.”

  Owen did as he was told, running up the stairs to the gatehouse’s upper battlements. The others looked about themselves in confusion.

  “My lady,” said Father Cotlas. “What—”

  “This is crazy,” said Dert. “It’s just one man, a physician. We’re letting fear unman us.”

  Atop the gatehouse, Owen drew back the lit torch and sent it flying, trailing embers as it tumbled through the air. When the torch hit the trail far behind Modwyn, it exploded into sparks, revealing scores of men hiding in the dark.

  “You’re going to die, cow,” Modwyn snarled, baring his teeth. “But before you do, I’m going to split you open then let every single man on this island ride you.”

  “Kill him!” yelled Danika.

  One of the guardsmen atop the gatehouse was armed with a longbow. Owen grabbed it from him, snatched at an arrow from a nearby quiver, then notched and released it at Modwyn, but the doctor—moving impossibly fast—darted aside, disappearing into the darkness.

  The men who had been hiding in the dark moved forward as one, without a single word of command. Their movements were wrong—too jerky, too awkward, and then Owen saw with horror that they were not men at all but scores of ghouls, some still wearing Wolfrey armor and colors. Their own comrades—recently dead—had returned to kill them. His skin went clammy when he recognized a familiar face among the ghouls—Fin, his eyes black, his throat a gaping wound, was leading them.

  Chapter 47

  Owen

  Yells of alarm arose throughout the fort as the small garrison rushed to the walls. Owen, remaining atop the gatehouse, loosed arrow after arrow into the ghouls, but in sinking horror, he soon realized the arrows did nothing to men already dead. Each time he struck one of the ghouls, the walking corpse would shudder under the impact but keep coming. Then, something flashed past his own head. An arrow! A moment later, he saw shapes behind the ghouls, living men loosing arrows from hunting bows. The islanders!

  Owen transferred his aim to the living men. He hit at least two before the others concentrated their fire on him. He hid behind the battlements and darted out to release an arrow before ducking back behind cover just before a storm of arrows shattered against the wall. We need more men on the walls.

  Stron’s Watch sat against the edge of the cliff, built to present only a single approach for attackers. Unless they could climb a steep sea cliff, the ghouls and the islanders could only come at them from the one direction.

  How many soldiers are still within the fort? Couldn’t be more than thirty men. The Greywynne islanders had been kept in line with the threat of mass hangings if they rebelled, and the garrison was only ever a token presence. With Serina free, the islanders didn’t care about retribution from the ma
inland. If the ghouls got through the gatehouse, everyone inside the fort was going to die. The islanders could attack from only one direction, but that also meant that there was no way out for the defenders.

  Owen darted out and loosed another arrow. He had the satisfaction of seeing another islander fall before the volley of return arrows drove him behind cover again.

  His back to the stone parapet, he drew another arrow and peered around the stone, seeking another target. An arrow shattered against the stone near his face, and he flinched back. They knew exactly where he was and were waiting for him to show himself again. He was wearing no armor—hadn’t since Greywynne Fortress. Without armor, he felt particularly vulnerable.

  Then, more soldiers joined him, and soon, the release of longbow strings could be heard all along the wall. Below, the ghouls massed near the portcullis, but they weren’t advancing, only standing in place, many with arrows jutting from them like porcupines.

  What are they waiting for? “Don’t waste your arrows on the ghouls,” he yelled at the newly arriving soldiers. “Aim for the men with the bows.”

  Soon, the islanders with the hunting bows were driven farther back, away from the greater range of the longbows. Their arrows became more erratic and less effective, but then a group of islanders charged the gatehouse bearing a wooden log between them that they had tied ropes to, creating handles. A battering ram!

  “Get those men! Get those men!” Owen yelled, loosing an arrow, which hit one and sent him rolling.

  Other defenders fired on the men carrying the ram as well, and under the hail of arrows, the islanders broke, dropping the battering ram, and retreated into the darkness. The ghouls, though, remained bunched near the portcullis. If those men had managed to breach the gatehouse…

  Then, the islanders tried a new tactic. The first warning the defenders had was the sound of wagon wheels and the neighing of horses from the path leading up to the fort. Out of the darkness, a wagon barreled up the path, its two ponies whipped into a mad dash by the wagon’s two riders. The men drove straight toward the fort’s wall. One of the riders held a flaming torch that trailed along as the wagon—its bed stacked at least eight feet high with kindling and hay—picked up speed.

  “Stop them,” Owen yelled as he released an arrow at the riders.

  Others also shot at the wagon, and in moments, one of the riders, struck by at least four arrows, fell off and rolled along the ground behind it. The other driver, the one with the torch, threw himself into the bed of his wagon. The hay must have been soaked in oil because it erupted into a roaring ball of fire. The two ponies, driven mad by the flames, ran faster, fanning the fire behind them. The terrified ponies never even tried to swerve away. The wagon hit the keep wall, and flames and thick black smoke poured over the defenders, obscuring all sight.

  The thick smoke drove Owen back, away from the gatehouse and down the stairs onto the courtyard. Someone yelled that the islanders were going for the battering ram again.

  Owen looked about, frantic. Where is Sayer?

  The ghouls near the gatehouse parted just enough to allow the men to begin battering at the portcullis bars while still protecting the men wielding it, with their own dead bodies. Moments later, the bars began to bend inward. Owen knew if he and the others didn’t do something right then, the ghouls were going to get inside. The battering ram pushed past two of the bars, creating enough space for the ghouls, one at a time, to force their way in. The first ghoul shambled toward Owen, a walking corpse in mail armor. Owen recognized him—Gastor, a tall, lanky young man with a once easygoing demeanor. His face was devoid of all emotion, his eyes dull. He carried no weapons, and one of his arms hung loosely by a piece of sinew, twisting about as he walked. Gastor reached for Owen with his one good arm. Again, Owen reached for a sword he wasn’t wearing.

  Father Cotlas stepped in front of Owen, holding his Craftsman’s hammer before him with his one good arm, thrusting it into Gastor’s face while intoning a prayer. Owen expected the ghoul to rip the old man apart, but instead Gastor halted and simply stared at the priest.

  “Soldier, here,” Lady Danika yelled, shoving Sight-Bringer into his grip. “Kill it quickly before it can move again.”

  When Owen grasped the longsword, that power again resonated through his arms, a vibration that filled him with strength. His vision, previously distorted by the darkness and the smoke, became much clearer. He rushed forward, moving from the back guard into a rising cut, slicing upward. The tip of the blade cut through Gastor’s chest and up into his chin and then his head, almost splitting it in two. It had cut so effortlessly through the man’s flesh that it had felt as if he were only cutting air. Gastor fell back and lay unmoving, as if he were truly dead again. Smoke rose from the gaping wound in his chest and face.

  Power surged through Owen. Two more ghouls shoved their way past the bent bars and staggered toward Owen. Moving from the high guard—holding the sword above his head with both hands—Owen cut downward at the closest of the ghouls, slicing its head in two. The blade kept going, cutting deeply into the ghoul’s torso before swinging free, almost singing. The ghoul fell unmoving, its wounds smoking as if Sight-Bringer were a white-hot brand. Owen stepped forward, lunging with the blade, impaling the other ghoul through the torso—punching completely through its ring mail as if it weren’t even there. The third ghoul fell, also smoking and still. The blade’s hum resonated through Owen’s skull, driving him onward. A righteous zeal filled him, burning away his fear.

  How dare Serina desecrate the corpses of these men, turning them into monsters?

  Yet another ghoul was trying to force its way through the bars. Owen rushed forward and took its head off, barricading the opening with the ghoul’s headless body. The other ghouls pushed against the bars, straining to reach through and grasp at Owen, but he stood his ground, lopping off arms and hands with each swing—and every cut he made killed a ghoul for good, no matter where he struck. Within minutes, the silent bodies of ghouls blocked the twisted portcullis bars. The rest of the ghouls moved back, as if sensing the danger of the longsword. The fort’s defenders cheered, and men rushed to Owen, patting him on the back and hugging him.

  “Well done, soldier,” said Lady Danika. “You saved our lives.”

  Feeling fatigue for the first time, Owen stumbled and fell to his knees. Men helped him up. Sight-Bringer’s magic, it seemed, had its limits.

  Gasping for air, he held the hilt of Sight-Bringer out to Lady Danika. “Your sword, my lady.”

  She looked at the sword then at the ruined portcullis. The flames and smoke from the burning wagon still obscured the fort’s walls. “You keep it for now, soldier. I don’t know how to use it.”

  “Well done, lad,” said Father Cotlas. “The Craftsman moves through you this night.”

  Owen coughed and gasped. “It wasn’t me. It was the sword.”

  “Aye, lad,” said Father Cotlas. “They said it was like that for Duke Stron as well. That’s how we beat back Serina’s undead army—with sword and prayer.”

  Dert, his face streaked with soot, suddenly appeared. “Where’s Sayer? Who’s in charge? What do we do?”

  The men looked about themselves, muttering in confusion.

  “The Lady Danika is in charge.” Dilan stepped forward, moving stiffly, favoring his wounded shoulder. His face was pale but filled with resolve. Everyone turned to face the diminutive noblewoman.

  Dert faced her as well. “What orders then, my lady?”

  Just for a moment, fear and uncertainty flashed across her features, but then her eyes hardened. “We stay alive. In the morning, we look for a way off the island, to warn the kingdom.”

  “My lady,” Dert said, looking about for support. “Perhaps we should find Lieutenant Sayer. Maybe he can—”

  “She’s right,” said Dilan. “Serina herself will come next. We need to hold until morning, use the sword against her if we have to. We can figure out what to do then.”

  “You do
n’t know that!” Dert rounded on Dilan. “All this talk of Serina—”

  Owen laughed, surprising himself that despite the horror around them, he even still could. “Look about yourself. The moon is red, and there are ghouls attacking us. Of course Serina is alive.”

  “Someone needs to take command,” said Dert.

  “Someone has taken command,” said Danika. “I have.”

  “No offense, my lady, but perhaps a… a man… I mean a soldier. If we can’t find Sayer, then one of the sergeants, maybe.”

  A small crowd had gathered near the gatehouse. Most of the Greywynne garrison was composed of older men, men who had seen too many years. The younger ones had gone north to Serina’s fortress.

  “Whatever we’re going to decide,” Owen said. “We need to do it now. This gatehouse needs to be barricaded and quickly.”

  Lady Danika bit her upper lip and glanced about before resting her eyes on Owen. “You, soldier. If not for you, we’d already be overrun. You will be my commander here. You will direct the defense of the fort.”

  As their gazes swung to him, Owen’s breath caught in his chest. He felt trapped, overwhelmed. “I… I can’t do that. I’m not a leader. I’m just a soldier.” He shook his head, seeing the surprise and disappointment in Lady Danika’s face. “Dilan,” he said, turning toward his friend. “Dilan was a Ram. He’s been a soldier for years, fought in real battles. He was at Prophet’s Bridge, the only survivor. Dilan should command.”

  Then, everyone turned toward Dilan, his left arm in a sling. Dilan frowned at Owen and then addressed Lady Danika. “If you’ll have me, my lady, I know what needs to be done.”

  She inclined her head, casting one last glance at Owen, who looked away toward the ruined portcullis, his face burning.

  We really do need to barricade the entrance, shore up the twisted portcullis.

  “So be it,” Lady Danika said. “You… What is your name?”

  “Dilan Reese, my lady.”

  “You, Dilan Reese, are in command of the fort.”