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

by William Stacey

Fioni gripped Kora’s bare bicep and squeezed it. “I’m thinking of sailing into the bay after all.”

  “We’re docking?” Vory asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” answered Fioni. “I said we’re sailing into the bay. I want to see that fort a bit closer.”

  “Aye, skipper.” Vory shuffled back through the tightly packed crew toward the rear of the ship and the steering board.

  “Something is going on here,” said Fioni, mostly to herself, though Kora was still at her elbow. “Something that we may yet profit from.”

  “Your father wouldn’t like this,” Kora said.

  “My father’s not here,” snapped Fioni. “Besides, we’re not docking, just sailing past, and we’re all friends in these islands, aren’t we?”

  Kora snorted and spat over the side of Fen Wolf into the water.

  Fioni smiled. Kora liked the Greywynne islanders less than she did.

  Chapter 54

  Owen

  When Owen handed Sight-Bringer to Dilan, he did so grudgingly. It wasn’t his, he knew. If it belonged to anyone, it belonged to the king and, in his absence, Lady Danika, but Lady Danika couldn’t wield it. And though Dilan was injured, he was in command—the plan was his. Therefore, the responsibility to kill Serina was his. However, the power that ran through the longsword had given Owen the strength to hold off the ghouls. Without it, he was just another soldier. Dilan couldn’t carry a shield with his injured shoulder, so he couldn’t stand in the shield wall, and Owen, who could add his considerable strength to the older men’s, couldn’t carry a shield and Sight-Bringer—the weapon was too large to properly use one-handed, not in the press of a shield wall. Dilan’s decision to take the weapon just made the most sense… as much as Owen wished it didn’t.

  Dilan hefted the longsword.

  Owen squeezed Dilan’s good shoulder. “Luck, my friend,” he said then moved to join the others, milling about near the gatehouse.

  Tosk, the grizzled older veteran, winked at Owen. The man had seen better years, but he seemed solid enough. All of the men—including Dert, whose presence among the soldiers surprised Owen—wore mail armor and helmets and carried wooden round shields and swords. Several had also slung long-handled axes over their backs, just in case they ran into ghouls. Five of the men, the best shots, carried longbows with the few arrows that remained. When the fighting started, Owen, in the center of the shield wall, would hold the line with ten other men while those with the bows would stand behind with Dilan and Lady Danika, killing as many islanders as they could, especially any trying to get around the sides of the shield wall.

  “Don’t worry yourself, Horse-boy,” said Tosk with a grin. “I know these men. They’re not the youngest, not the strongest—and they’re certainly not the brightest—but they know how to hold a shield wall, especially against a gang of farmers and fishermen.”

  Owen looked away, toward the twisted portcullis, from which the obstructions had recently been removed. “My name is Owen.”

  “No offense meant, lad. I heard some of the others call you that, figured it was a nickname.”

  “Are we ready?” Dilan called out from behind them.

  Standing beside Dilan was Lady Danika, looking small in her armor, with a hand axe in one hand and a wooden shield in the other.

  Owen sighed. This is what it’s come to. How desperate we’ve become.

  The men, silent and grim, nodded, hefting their swords. Tosk rapped his blade against his metal shield boss. The others followed his example, the clanging of metal upon metal echoing from the keep’s walls.

  Dilan pointed with Sight-Bringer out past the gate. “Those men out there are traitors. There will be no quarter today, no prisoners. Have no doubt—if they get their hands on you, they will skin you alive, but without Serina, they stand no chance. If we kill her, we end this rebellion. Here. Today.”

  The men muttered angrily, their faces hard, frightened perhaps, but resolute.

  “There is a reason why this sword came to us. Father Craftsman wants us to finish her.”

  The men nodded, their eyes determined.

  “Too many good men have died already. What she did to them, the way she sent our own dead brothers back after us…” Dilan shook his head and lifted the longsword high, where the sun glittered off its point. “We end her today, or we die.”

  Owen threw his shoulders back and thrust his chin high. He found himself nodding at Dilan’s words. His lungs expanded as he took in deep breaths, preparing himself for the bloodshed to come. We can do this. All we need is courage and the Craftsman’s blessing.

  “So what are we waiting for?” Dilan yelled, pointing at the portcullis. “There’s a monster that needs killing, and no shit-streaked, inbred island scum is going to stop us!”

  The men cheered. Then, they raised the damaged portcullis gate. It jerked as the chains screeched, but it still went up. Owen and the others poured out the gate, forming a shield wall on the other side, Owen in the center, providing the anchor for the others. He used his shield to cover the man on his left as he was covered by the man on his right, all their shields overlapping. His heart pounded in his chest, and he roared in anger with the others, smashing his sword against his metal boss.

  Scores of paces away, stunned islanders stood and stared openmouthed at the soldiers, pointing at them and calling out to one another in confusion. At a glance, Owen counted at least twenty, maybe thirty of them, all with hunting bows.

  “Forward!” Dilan yelled.

  The men stepped off, stomping with their left feet, smashing their shields and screaming as they marched toward the stunned islanders. Taken by surprise, the islanders hesitated, waiting too long to use their bows. By the time the first halfhearted arrows thudded into their shields, the wall of warriors was on top of them.

  Most of the islanders turned and bolted, having no heart for standing against a shield wall, but a handful remained, dropping bows and thrusting out at the men with boar spears. Owen, protecting the man on his left, caught one of the spears against his shield and then lashed out with his sword, cutting at the man’s arm. His foe howled in pain and dropped his spear, staring wide-eyed at the stump of his arm. A moment later, Owen struck him again, this time hacking down at the top of his head, splitting it open all the way to the neck, as if it were a melon.

  The men stomped forward, moving as a single unit. The men with the longbows loosed arrow after arrow at the islanders. From that close, the arrows flew straight and fast, punching all the way through one man and spinning him about with the force.

  The men cheered as the last of the islanders, a grouping of about eight men, broke and ran. The archers still loosed arrows after them, killing at least two more, before Dilan ordered them to stop, to conserve their arrows.

  “Break the wall,” yelled Dilan. “Form two ranks and prepare to run.”

  The men did as he instructed, and Owen put himself near the front of the left-side rank, with one man in front of him. Tosk was at his right, grinning through a mouth long missing several teeth.

  “Forward!” Dilan yelled.

  The men broke into a trot, keeping in ranks as they ran down the dirt path leading to the town. Several more islanders were ahead of them, hiding behind bushes and halfheartedly loosing arrows at them before breaking and running. The arrows flashed overhead—the men were too frightened or excited to aim properly.

  At the bottom of the hill, the path skirted the pier and the bay, moving inland toward the town. Scores of small fishing boats remained in harbor—the islanders were too busy with rebellion to fish that day. The ranks of soldiers ran past the bay, heading for Port Eaton.

  Owen gasped for air. A man could run in mail, but doing so was never easy, and one could only do it for a short while. He glanced at Tosk. The man was twice Owen’s age, perhaps even a grandfather—far too old to run and fight in armor, as were most of the others, but none of them faltered. Tosk’s face was ashen and strained, but he stayed in rank.

&
nbsp; The wattle-and-daub buildings of Port Eaton drew closer. The dirt path was worn, lined on one side by a short rock wall. Farmers’ fields sat on either side, some fallow, some yet to be harvested. Owen smelled the livestock—the pigs, cows, sheep, and chickens. Dogs barked madly, chasing along beside them, snapping at them and risking shield blows. Owen heard the cries of alarm rising before them, and someone pounded on a metal object, the ringing echoing across the town. As they reached the first of the town’s outlying huts and farms, men with bows—hiding behind walls—loosed arrows at them. One of the warriors behind Owen screamed and fell.

  Owen wondered how many soldiers remained. Fewer than a dozen, he guessed. A quick glance showed Dilan and Lady Danika running between the two ranks. More arrows whipped past, and one of them hit his helmet and went winging off in another direction, leaving him with a ringing in his ears. Then, they were past the first of the town’s buildings. More homes surrounded them, providing more cover for the islanders, but the resistance was paltry, unorganized—they were moving too quickly, having taken their enemy by surprise. Dilan’s plan, audacious, bold—more than a little stupid—was working. Owen thought they might really reach the alehouse. He knew dealing with Serina, however, would be an entirely different matter.

  Father Craftsman, please make her sleep.

  They passed a blacksmith’s forge, his tools hanging from the open rafters of his work area, his forge still burning, the stench thick in the air. Children peered at them from behind buildings, and terrified women chased after them, screaming at them to come away.

  One little boy, no more than ten, stood his ground in the middle of the path and glared at the quickly approaching warriors. Owen’s heart leapt into his throat, but at the last moment, the ranks just split, moving around the boy as if he were a rock in a stream, leaving him untouched. Behind them, a woman picked him up in her arms and bolted away.

  Islanders screamed obscenities. Some of the women and children threw rocks. One hit Owen in the cheek near his stitched-up cut, and fresh pain lanced through his face as his blood flowed again. They passed the communal bakery, smelling the aroma of fresh-baked bread mixing with that of pig shit. Then they were into the town center, the village green. Just across the open festivity space lay the two-story stone alehouse that dominated all the other, much smaller, town buildings.

  The Wolfrey soldiers stumbled to a halt as they saw a line of Greywynne islanders formed up before the alehouse in their own shield wall, at least thirty men, maybe more—two-to-one odds against them.

  “Shield wall!” Dilan yelled. “Re-form the shield wall.”

  The men stumbled stupidly, tired, as they too slowly formed ranks again.

  “Move it, you useless dead men,” Tosk yelled, spittle flying from his mouth as he grabbed men and threw them into line.

  Owen took the center again, his heart pounding.

  “Where did pig farmers get shields?” one of the men asked.

  “They’re ours,” another answered.

  He was right. The islanders held shields bearing the Lion of Wolfrey. They must have taken them from the ghouls. They carried axes and castle-forged swords. Some of the islanders even wore mail armor, likewise stripped from Owen’s friends.

  Angry heat flushed through Owen. “Doesn’t matter,” he yelled. “Dress pig farmers in armor, and they’re still pig farmers.”

  Bracing himself, Owen set his shield before him, and the men closed ranks. Only eight garrison soldiers remained to stand beside him, for a total of nine, not much of a wall. In surprise, he noted the man on his right was Wendel Dert, the reeve. Pale faced and gasping for air, the overweight Dert had somehow kept up.

  Three men with longbows remained, clustered around Lady Danika, trying to protect her with their own bodies while at the same time loosing arrows at the islanders. Dilan stood beside her, a shield he couldn’t use hanging from his injured arm, the long blade of Sight-Bringer held one-handed above his head, gleaming in the early-morning sunshine.

  Behind the islanders’ shield wall, a tall, thin man with long dark hair dashed into the alehouse. Modwyn! Owen prayed he’d get the chance to cut the traitor down. A flurry of arrows came at them, and Owen caught two on his shield. He cut their shafts free with one swing of his sword. Behind him, one of the archers bent down on one knee, striking flint to stone, trying to set a torch ablaze.

  “Forward,” yelled Dilan, and Owen focused on the threat before them.

  Once again, the Wolfrey soldiers—exhausted, bleeding, and outnumbered—stamped forward, no longer surprising Owen with their spirit. Those warriors might have been past their prime, but they were still men of the north. He would happily die amongst them if he had to.

  He roared in challenge, tired but wanting nothing more than to close with the enemy and cleave them, to feel their blood dripping down his blade and onto his hand. About ten paces away from the islanders’ shield wall, a firepot—one of the last they had—flew through the air and hit the ground in front of the enemy line, splashing oil over their feet. The islanders, focusing on the advancing Wolfrey soldiers, didn’t pay any attention until a lit torch flew through the air, igniting the oil. Several islanders broke ranks and ran screaming as they tried to wipe the burning oil from their shins.

  Then, the Wolfrey shield wall struck against the distracted foe. Because of Keep-Captain Awde, Owen and the others had long trained for that moment and were ready—their foes weren’t. The soldiers held their ground, shoving back against the farmers and fishermen, men with no training and no understanding of battle, but the more numerous foes found their courage and pushed back. The islanders’ enraged faces screamed at them from over round shields, yelling and shoving. Just for a moment, the Wolfrey line wavered, then Dilan—screaming in fury—rushed forward and shoved Sight-Bringer over Owen’s shoulder, point-first into the face of the man across from him. Taking advantage of the opening before him, Owen put his shoulder into his shield and shoved forward, throwing another islander back. He then lashed out with his sword, cutting another man’s hand off at the wrist. In that moment, the islanders’ courage broke, and panic swept through them like an unstoppable wave. The strength of a shield wall was in its cohesiveness, he knew, and when one side broke, the battle became a slaughter.

  He cut out with his sword, keeping pace with the men on either side of him, keeping Dert defended. Dert, clearly more competent with a sword than anyone would have thought, cut down his opponent.

  In moments, the last islander fighter was either dead or running away. The soldiers cheered. The alehouse lay undefended before them. A quick glance showed Owen that four more soldiers had fallen, including the grizzled Tosk, which left Owen, Dilan, Lady Danika, Dert, and three other men. Some of those who had fallen must still have been alive, he knew, but for the time being, they were on their own.

  “Owen,” Dilan called out from beside the wooden door of the alehouse. “You and two others go in first. We’ll follow behind you. Watch yourself.”

  Owen, gasping and bloody, nodded. He was exhausted, but they were almost inside the alehouse. I’ll do my part. Grabbing two others, Eggers and Lowry, Owen told them they were going in with him. He saw the fear in their eyes, but they prepared themselves.

  Owen readied his shield and braced himself in front of the door, with his sword held before him. “Ready?” he asked the two men.

  When they nodded, Owen kicked the door. It must have been bolted because it cracked but held. He kicked it again and then again, putting all of his weight into it. On the fourth kick, the door shattered inward, and Owen moved forward. Before his eyes could adjust to the darkness, a man rushed him from his left, screaming incoherently. Owen had only a moment to react, spinning and thrusting with his shield. The man’s cry became a strangled grunt as he hit the shield, but the impact still knocked Owen back, and as his attacker fell, he pulled Owen’s shield free with him. Owen kicked out, smashing a boot into the man and knocking him farther back. He then gripped his sword wit
h both hands and cut down from the high guard, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone and flesh. His attacker fell with a squeal.

  Eggers and Lowry rushed in behind Owen, moving past him to confront other foes. From Owen’s left, a woman screamed in rage, and he spun to face an obese woman charging at him with a cleaver raised high above her head. As she brought the cleaver down, aiming for his head, he used a hanging guard to catch it on the flat of his blade. As she raised her weapon to strike again, he reacted instinctively, stepping forward and thrusting his sword point into her face. To his horror, the blade went all the way through, with at least a foot of it coming out the back of her head.

  I’ve just murdered a woman.

  More screams erupted around him, and he heard the flurry of combat. With no time to think about what he had just done, he placed a booted foot against the falling woman’s face and yanked his blade free. Eggers was on his knees, with two islanders hacking down on him with hand axes. Lowry hacked down his own opponent then spun about and killed one of the islanders attacking Eggers. Owen rushed forward and cut through the neck of the other islander. Too late. Eggers was clearly already dead.

  No one else came at them. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw he and Lowry were alone in the common room of the alehouse. The stench of corruption, of rotting flesh, washed over him, almost making him gag.

  “Owen?” Dilan called out from the doorway.

  “Come in,” Owen answered, stepping farther into the darkness.

  All the windows had been shuttered or sealed, but from the light of the open doorway, Owen could make out a mountain of corpses piled in the center of the common room. Flies buzzed madly. The eyes of the dead seemed to stare accusingly at him.

  “Father Craftsman, help us—what is that stench?” Dilan asked. He had either lost or dropped the shield he’d been wearing. He was gripping Sight-Bringer’s hilt with both hands, still clearly favoring his wounded shoulder.

  Lady Danika and Dert followed Dilan inside, their faces pale.