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

by William Stacey

  Sadly, the weapon had proven useless against Serina herself.

  Modwyn pulled his hand from his back, stared at the blood on his fingers. “You cut me!”

  “I’ll do more than that, traitor,” she said.

  Modwyn’s gaze darted from his fingers to the broken blade of the Illthori relic. “How?”

  “I picked it up during the fight with Serina! You think I’d just leave it lying there?”

  Modwyn’s eyes burned with hatred. “She’ll want that back,” he snarled.

  Owen picked up a large stone lying near his knee, cupped it in his hand as he advanced on Modwyn. The physician’s face blanched as he looked from Lady Danika to Owen. He turned and bolted into the trees, moving so fast, he disappeared from sight in moments.

  “He’ll bring help,” Lady Danika said. “We need to hurry.”

  Owen turned to stare at her. “I didn’t realize you saved Sight-Bringer. Is it still…does it…”

  “Yes, Owen. It still holds power. Whatever Illthori magic was within the blade still remains, but that won’t matter if we don’t get off this island.”

  “Let’s go, then, my lady,” Owen said as he headed for the bay.

  Chapter 2

  Danika

  Danika followed Owen to the bay, Sight-Bringer thrust under her belt beneath her cloak once again. Sunlight reflected off the waters of the bay, sparkling like the snow on the mountaintops of her northern home—a world away from this terrible island.

  When she had attacked Modwyn, she had flinched, pulling back at the last moment and wasting her opportunity to kill the traitor who had murdered her brother. She had failed. She was too weak for this. Her lover, the former Keep-Captain Brice Awde, would have gutted the other man in a moment, but Brice was dead. Turned into a blood fiend by Serina, Brice had driven Sight-Bringer through his own heart rather than hurt Danika. Now she was alone, with no one but the young man the other soldiers had called Horse-Boy, a man whose own violent nature and impulsiveness had led to his indentured service as a man-at-arms. Brice had believed in him, though, singling Owen out for mentoring and special training in the hopes that one day he could become an officer in the guard. Brice, however, had desperately wanted another to take his place so that Danika would run away with him. In her opinion, this desperation had clouded Brice’s assessment of the young man. A capable-enough fighter, Owen just wasn’t the leader Brice had thought him to be. When she had needed Owen to assume command of the defenses of Stron’s Watch against Serina’s ghouls, he had let her down, pushing the responsibility onto his friend Dilan instead.

  She sighed, forcing her thoughts back onto the matter at hand. The morning seemed calm enough, with a light wind gusting from the east, which may have been the first bit of luck they’d had this day. An eastern wind meant she could sail west without having to tack, to zigzag back and forth against the wind, but it also meant that the Islanders would also have the wind behind them when they came after them—and they would be coming after them, she knew.

  Serina would never let her go.

  Most of the fishing boats were tied up alongside the barnacle-covered pier, but the smaller ones had been pulled up onto the sandy beach, where they lay at an angle. The bay was still deserted, but she heard angry yells from the direction of Port Eaton, where Modwyn must have gone for help. At best, they had only minutes.

  Owen moved toward the wooden pier, but she grabbed the sleeve of his ring-mail coat. “Not that way.”

  His eyes reflected his puzzlement. “Why not?”

  “Those boats are too large. I can’t sail them by myself.”

  She led him to one of the smaller fishing boats pulled up onto the sand, a clinker, a ten-foot-long boat with two oars and a single mast. They dragged it down to the water, with Owen doing most of the work. If nothing else, he was strong. She stood back and watched as he pulled the boat into the water, floating it on the waves until it bobbed near his waist. Then he held it in place for her as she splashed into the cold waters. When she tried to pull herself aboard, she found she couldn’t—she was too heavy in her borrowed ring-mail coat.

  How do warriors manage?

  “Help me, Owen,” she said, her eyes darting to the shoreline.

  They were still alone, but that wouldn’t last. Even now, the yells of the townsfolk were closer. They’d be here any moment. She removed her cloak, and then he untied the laces at the back of her ring mail and helped her pull it up and over her small frame, leaving her with just the wool sweater she had worn beneath it. She put the cloak back on as Owen tossed the armor into the boat, where it landed with a clinking of wet rings.

  He turned about, presenting his back to her. “My lady, if you don’t mind.”

  Although her fingers were numb from the cold, she managed to undo his laces. With much effort, the two of them managed to pull it up over his shoulders and toss it in the boat beside hers. He now wore only his padded under-tunic, his gambeson, which, sopping wet as it was, clung to his heavily muscled frame. That’s how warriors deal with armor, she thought. They grow strong enough to wear it all the time. Like Brice…

  They both climbed aboard the vessel, and she pushed thoughts of Brice away as she struggled to unfurl the sail. Owen sat facing the shoreline and began to pull on the oars. A huge surge of relief coursed through her as they pulled away from the shore.

  Are we really going to escape?

  Danika hoisted the single sail. It flapped wildly for a moment before calming and filling with air, driving the small boat forward. She cleated the halyard before slipping past Owen to grasp the tiller, the handle to the steering board, at the stern. She adjusted their heading so they sailed trim for the wind.

  “They’ve found us!” Owen called out.

  Her heart pounded madly when she saw the angry knot of townsfolk running to the shoreline. They were some distance away already, but she thought she saw the tall, lean form of Modwyn among them. Several of the men held bows.

  She squinted. “How far are we—”

  Owen grabbed her, rocking the boat wildly as he pushed her down and covered her with his body. The first arrow whipped past, followed a moment later by two more. “Not far enough.”

  More arrows whipped past, one of them embedding itself in the hull of the boat. Then, the arrows stopped. She pulled away from him and focused on the sail and tiller. “Row, as hard as you can. They’re coming for us.”

  Resuming his seat at the oars, his chin dripping with seawater, he began to haul on the oars again. The small boat shot forward. Three of the larger fishing boats moved away from the pier, each packed with townsfolk. Their small boat began to heave in the heavier waves as they moved farther into the bay, and handling the small boat became more challenging. She had forgotten what it was like to sail in these heavy waves. The clinker rose and fell, its prow thudding into the water, jarring her. The wind was pushing them toward the northern horn of the bay, where thick forest grew. If she tacked against the wind to move farther away from the shoreline, she’d allow the pursuing boats to catch up to them that much sooner, so she let the wind push them, hoping she’d put enough distance between them before tacking out to sea again.

  “They’re getting closer,” Owen said.

  Risking a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw he was right. A cold tremor of realization coursed through her as she realized they weren’t going to get away after all. Her gaze darted to the ring-mail coats lying between them. With the armor on, she’d sink in the waters in a moment. Owen could join her or die fighting. After what the townsfolk had done to the other guardsman, she doubted he’d want to surrender.

  If only she could have warned the kingdom…

  She pulled the ring-mail coat closer. I’ll see you again, Brice, my love. We’ll finally be together forever.

  Owen’s face was white with effort, but his eyes were as hard as a sword blade as he pulled on the oars, making the little clinker fly. “Owen,” she said, hearing the defeat in her own voice, “I�
��m sorry.”

  He paused and stared at the pursuing boats. She saw the same resignation in his eyes that she felt. “We can’t let them take us,” he said softly.

  “No. We can’t.”

  He bit his lower lip as he looked about them. “The northern shoreline isn’t that far. I’ll hold them off while you swim. You can hide in the trees.”

  She shook her head. “Owen. You know that won’t—”

  Her words disappeared at the sight of a massive longship, with scores of oars on either side, as it appeared—as if by magic—out of an inlet along the northern shoreline. It must have been hidden there, she realized, watching them draw closer. The longship’s prow cut through the waves as it bore directly for them. This was no Greywynne fishing boat, but a Fenyir warship, a pirate vessel.

  “Owen,” she cried out, pointing in disbelief.

  Owen climbed to his feet, holding one of the oars across his chest.

  The longship—at least sixty feet in length, with a massive single mast and square sail—bore down on them, propelled by rows of oarsmen, at least thirty per side. Already, the longship was close enough that she could have thrown a rock and hit it. The three fishing vessels were still some minutes away, but the longboat would be upon them in moments. A heavy brass frame capped the ship’s long prow—a ram for caving in hulls. An elaborate wooden wolf’s head sat atop its prow, its fierce mouth open and snarling. Men and women armed with spears, axes, and bows lined the closest side of the ship. Many carried wooden round-shields painted bright yellow with a red wolf’s head. At the prow of the ship, her booted foot resting atop the wooden wolf’s head, was a young woman in her early twenties with short fiery-red hair. Unlike the others, this woman wore a sword on her belt, her palm resting atop its pommel.

  As the longboat slowed to a halt, within feet of the clinker, Owen spoke over his shoulder, just loudly enough for Danika to hear. “My lady, swim for the shoreline. Hide in the woods.”

  She heard the certainty of death in his voice. “Owen, don’t fight! These aren’t Greywynne Islanders. We can bargain—”

  One of the raiders, a lean warrior with a thick blond beard tied in pleats and tattoos of whales on his shoulders, climbed up onto the hull of the longship. He lifted his head high and howled like a wolf, sending a shiver down Danika’s spine. In one hand, he held an ugly-looking wooden cudgel and smashed it against the palm of his other hand before winking at Danika. It’s a challenge, she told herself, not understanding how she knew but certain she was right.

  The warrior leaped from the longship, landing with a crash on the deck of their clinker. The little boat rocked wildly, and Owen almost fell overboard, stumbling backwards, his arms waving wildly for balance. A chorus of cheers erupted from those aboard the longboat as the blond warrior darted forward, swinging his cudgel at Owen’s head. But Owen, moving with a grace she didn’t know he possessed, ducked under the man’s attack and then rose, ramming his oar with both hands into the man’s nose, shattering it and sending him falling onto his back on the deck of the clinker.

  A stunned silence replaced the cheering on the longboat.

  Owen dropped his oar, bent over, and gripped the fallen raider by his groin and neck. Lifting him above his head in one smooth motion, he threw the man overboard. Then, retrieving his oar, he glared defiantly at the crew of the longship.

  He faked his poor balance, she realized, drawing the other man in too quickly. She stared at Owen in stunned surprise. Maybe he’s not such a dumb brute.

  Inexplicably, a roar of cheers erupted from those aboard the longship. They began to beat their weapons against their wooden round-shields. The man Owen had thrown from the clinker used a rope thrown to him to climb back aboard the other ship, his nose dripping blood onto his chest to mix with the seawater. The red-haired woman at the prow of the longship shook her head in exasperation.

  “Owen, please,” Danika pleaded. “Don’t resist them. We need to—”

  “You down in the boat,” the red-haired woman called out in heavily accented trade common, “drop your… oar, and surrender.”

  “Burn in the afterlife, you rebel bitch!” Owen yelled back.

  “Owen!” urged Danika.

  The red-haired woman stared at Owen, a puzzled expression on her face as she silently mouthed the word “rebel.” When Owen continued to stand defiantly before her, she shook her head. “Vory,” she said simply.

  A massive man, larger even than Owen, stepped up to the hull. His beard, orange-red and jutting wildly in all directions, gave him the look of a wild bear. He smiled at Owen, exposing several missing lower teeth. Holding his large two-handed axe between his legs, the man—Vory—pulled his shirt off, revealing a heavily muscled chest covered in the same red, bearlike hair.

  “Don’t you go anywhere, lad,” he said as he took up his axe again and climbed up onto the gunwale.

  A moment later, he launched himself onto the deck of the clinker, landing with a crash that sounded as if it cracked the wooden strakes. The clinker heaved wildly, threatening to throw all three of them into the water. Owen, still upright, gripped his oar before him, his face resolute. Vory, beaming as if this were the most fun he had ever had, advanced. Owen struck first, his oar whistling through the air. Vory dodged back, letting the oar swing past, and then swung up with his axe, just missing Owen’s chin. Vory brought his axe around again, moving so quickly, it whistled through the air, but Owen caught it with his oar just below its metal beard and swept it up and away as he stepped in and smashed his elbow against Vory’s chin. Despite hitting with a hard blow, the raider’s bushy beard barely moved. A moment later, the raider rammed his axe handle into Owen’s chest, sending him staggering onto the deck of the clinker.

  “Stay down, lad,” Vory said, glaring down at him. “Stay down, and I won’t kill you.” He snorted. “Probably.”

  Owen scrambled forward, locking his arms around the other man’s legs as he lifted him into the air. Danika saw the surprise on the huge raider’s face just before both men fell overboard.

  “Owen!” she screamed as she scrambled to the side of the clinker, staring into the dark waters of the bay.

  She saw nothing.

  “Owen!”

  Vory’s large head surfaced, not a foot from her, and she fell back into the clinker as the large man pulled himself back aboard.

  “Vory?” the red-haired woman called out.

  The big man turned to face her and then shook his head. “Couldn’t see ’im.”

  The red-haired woman turned to address a blond woman with dolphin tattoos on her forehead. “Kora, be a dear, would you?”

  The blond woman, Kora, sighed and pulled off her tunic, letting it fall onto the deck beside her, revealing a hard, thin frame with small breasts. Without hesitation, she jumped up onto the gunwale and then dived overboard, disappearing into the waters.

  Vory arched an eyebrow at Danika. “If you give me trouble, girlie, I’ll give you a spanking you won’t ever forget.”

  Danika shook her head, staring at the water where Kora had disappeared only moments ago. “Please, help him.”

  Vory snorted. “Kora’ll find him. She can see like an otter underwater.”

  Kora’s head broke the surface of the water. To Danika’s immense relief, she held Owen against her bosom as she swam on her back toward the longship. The raiders dropped a knotted rope to her, and she slipped Owen’s arms through it before the others hauled his still body up onto the ship. They then threw another rope to Vory, and he used it to pull the clinker up against the hull of the longboat.

  He held the knotted rope out to her. “Can you manage on your own, or should I throw you up?”

  “I can manage,” she said as she took the rope from him and climbed up the side of the hull.

  Someone yanked her aboard, unceremoniously dumping her onto the deck. Just feet from her, Owen lay on his back while Kora leaned over him, her mouth tight against his as she breathed air into his lungs. Please, don’t be
dead, she thought. I can’t do this on my own.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked, looking about her at the tightly crowded ship filled with hostile faces, most with facial tattoos and nose and ear piercings.

  Then Owen coughed and jerked violently. Kora rolled him onto his side as he threw up a mouthful of seawater. In moments, he fell back again and began snoring—loudly.

  “Well done,” the red-haired woman said.

  The red-haired woman seemed to be in command. The Fenyir, she knew from books, treated women as equals, but this one looked too young to be in charge.

  Kora sat back, her chest heaving from exertion, utterly unconcerned with her near-nakedness. “As least I got to kiss the pretty one.”

  The crew laughed. Vory, who had climbed aboard with both heavy ring-mail coats under one arm, shook his head. Mail armor was expensive, she knew. Properly maintained, a good coat could last generations.

  “Pretty but dumb as a seagull,” said the redhead. “It was that damned gambeson he’s wearing. Soaks up water and dragged him down. Who wears such a stupid thing to sea?”

  “Mainlanders,” said Kora, “even the pretty ones. Gods, look at those muscles.”

  Vory snorted. “Not that big.”

  Kora smiled, exposing bright white teeth as she pulled her tunic back on. “Big enough to put you in the water, Vory Eel-Gifted.”

  The crew laughed but shut up quickly when Vory glared at them, his face dark with anger. Kora’s eyes flashed mischievously—she was clearly enjoying Vory’s discomfort.

  The redheaded woman frowned. “Kora, stop baiting him.”

  Danika saw that the three Greywynne fishing boats were almost upon them, so close now she could easily make out Modwyn’s gloating face. Danika spun to address the young redheaded woman. “Thank you for…rescuing us. What should I call you…ship’s master, commander, captain?”