“How many men do I have, exactly?” Galas asked Hringol in a low voice.
The Kur’teshi, dark-eyed devils in their black mail armor, fur-covered conical helms, and long curved swords, stared sullenly at Galas and his men as they walked through the gatehouse and into Welmen Town.
“We lost six taking the town last night,” answered Hringol. “I admit I was surprised the townsfolk put up such a ruckus, considering they stood no chance. We’ll probably lose another two or three to wounds. I’d say seventy, maybe seventy-two men that can fight.”
Less than I thought.
They came upon the town common, a large patch of open dirt a hundred paces wide. In its center was the town well and the communal bakery and the smith. All around the well, separated into groups of men, women, and children, was the entire population of Welmen Town—now guarded by Kur’teshi soldiers. Hundreds of people huddled together, looking exhausted and utterly miserable. Some of the children were still crying, and almost all of the men and women glared angrily at Galas.
“What is this?” Galas asked Hringol, staring at the ashen-faced populace of Welmen Town. “Why are they all still here?”
“Don’t know. Not our doing,” Hringol said.
On the opposite side of the town common, Galas saw Fatah Yur Min standing amongst his men. The ugly, slant-eyed bastard was speaking to several of his lieutenants, holding his black iron helmet with full-face visor beneath his arm. His shiny black hair was pulled back and tied in a thick knot. He was beardless but sported a long, drooping mustache, the ends of which were braided and extended below his chin. When he saw Galas, Fatah Yur Min said something to his men, and they laughed. Galas felt his face heat.
“What are we going to do about this?” Hringol asked, anger in his voice.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“These are our clans-folk, our families.”
Galas snorted, let his eyes drift over the sullen, angry stares his people directed at him. “I think you’d find they share no great love for you either, right now.”
Hringol lowered his fighting axe, set its shaft against the ground, and leaned over the wide axe-head, staring at the prisoners and their eastern guards. “Doesn’t matter. We’re still Waveborn. We can’t let these goat fuckers treat our people like this. They work for us.”
Galas sighed. “Maybe if we had paid them…”
Fatah Yur Min sauntered over to Galas, his lieutenants behind him.
Galas forced a smile on his lips but kept his voice low, so only Hringol could hear him. “We’ve sailed into the eye of the storm here, my friend. Things may seem calm right now, but the full fury of the tempest is only moments away. We’re outnumbered and out-armed, so we need to be calm. We need to bail and hope for the best.”
“Gods help us,” muttered Hringol.
“Galas Gilt-Mane,” said Fatah Yur Min, a sneer on his ugly, flat features. “It seems you are king here now, as we had promised you would be weeks ago in Xi’ur when you begged us for help. Once again, the Storm Monkey Company has conquered. The Storm Monkey Company always conquers.” The easterner’s teeth were stained yellow from the foul weed he and his people were always chewing.
Galas fought back his revulsion, keeping his smile wide. “We Fenyir don’t have kings,” he said. “But thank you, your men fought bravely last night.”
Fatah Yur Min snorted in derision. “The Storm Monkey Company only fights bravely.”
Galas, his muscles tense, stood a half-foot taller than the Kur’teshi commander and probably outweighed him by eighty pounds, but he still bobbed his head in agreement. “Of course, of course. No disrespect meant.”
“I care nothing for your respect, Fenyir-man,” Fatah Yur Min said, his dark eyes suddenly hard. “Where is our silver?”
“You’ll have it. I keep my promises.”
“When?” Fatah Yur Min turned and pointed to the smoldering hilltop. “Your uncle’s wooden shack is gone, as is anything within it. I’ve lost men, too many men for such a shit-stained little grouping of pig hovels, and—most disturbing of all—a woman has stolen many of our prized weapons! You must pay for all of this.”
“That was never part of our contract.”
“I don’t care, Fenyir-man. We need our weapons to earn our livelihood. We will have them back, or we will have compensation.” As he spoke, his eyes darted to the prisoners.
“These are my clans-folk,” Galas said, willing steel into his voice but hearing a hint of desperation instead. “You cannot have them.”
Fatah Yur Min must have heard the desperation as well, because he smiled contemptuously. “You have until tomorrow morning to pay us. If you do not, we will take your big boat—”
“You can’t have Iron Beard,” Galas said, stepping closer, his body rigid with outrage.
He stopped when he saw the men behind Fatah Yur Min run their hands over the hilts of their large swords. Several score more easterners stood nearby, holding loaded crossbows and watching the exchange.
Fatah Yur Min smirked at him. “We will take the big boat—although it looks old and poorly made—and use it to carry all these people to the slave markets of Xi’ur. They will sell well, I think.” He leered at two of the nearby teenaged girls. “We like slaves with light-colored hair between their legs.”
Galas looked away. “You’ll have your payment. I swear it.”
Fatah Yur Min scratched a white scar that ran down the center of his chin. “I will indeed, Fenyir-man. I will indeed.” Then he put his back to Galas and sauntered away, his men following.
Hringol leaned in and whispered into Galas’s ear, “What are we going to do?”
His body rigid, Galas closed his eyes and sought calm. “Search the homes. Take anything of value.”
Hringol stared at Galas, his eyes narrowing. “The easterners have already—”
“Just do it! I’ll figure this out.” He turned and stormed off in the direction of the alehouse, needing a drink very badly. Come on, Ullyn, gods damn it! Get your skinny ass back here with my men.
Chapter 19
Owen
Fen Wolf rowed into Voria Bay as the sun set. Owen stood with Danika near the prow, watching the small walled town as they drew closer. The faces of the women and children aboard Fen Wolf reflected their relief. The town, home of the Windhelm clan, was built atop a long, sloping terrace, so it looked down upon the beach, with the homes built from turf and tree with the same signature Fenyir carpentry craftsmanship that had created such magnificent longships.
A series of thick poles had been set into the waterline near the shore, creating an underwater barricade with a small gap that funneled arriving ships into the bay. Near the sturdy pier, a wooden watchtower, at least three stories high, stood silent sentinel. Several longships—only one of which was as large as Fen Wolf—sat tied up alongside the long pier, with scores of fishing boats pulled up onto the sandy beach. Freshly caught fish, dipped in brine, were hung on a series of wooden frames along the beach.
“That’s Hard Stone,” Kora said, pointing to the larger longship, “Yarl Vengir’s personal ship. He’s home. I was half afraid the old walrus would be out raiding merchant vessels.”
A crowd had already gathered near the shoreline, with armed warriors standing before them on the pier, holding axe and spear. Standing at the forefront was an older man with a lined, weathered face and scraggly gray beard. His back and shoulders were hunched beneath the weight of a highly burnished ring-mail coat. Upon his head sat an iron half-helm. Unlike most of the other warriors, a sword hung from his belt. The old man’s nose had been badly broken and was now misshapen and lumpy—Yarl Vengir Flat-Nose, Owen knew.
Fen Wolf came alongside the barnacle-crusted pier, and Fioni lithely jumped down onto it, approaching the old man and his warriors as her crew began to secure the longship to the pier.
Fioni placed her fist over her heart and inclined her head in respect. “Yarl Vengir Flat-Nose, we ask for ale and salt.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed as he looked from Fioni to the women and children aboard Fen Wolf. A moment later, he stepped forward and embraced her in a fierce hug. “I offer you ale and salt, Fioni Ice-Bound, the Red Wolf, daughter of my ally and friend, Taios Oak-Heart.”
“We are grateful, Yarl Vengir,” said Fioni.
Yarl Vengir let go of her, put his hands on her shoulders, and stared into her face. “What has happened?”
“My treacherous cousin Galas Gilt-Mane happened,” said Fioni bitterly.
“Your father?”
Fioni shook her head, and Yarl Vengir embraced her once more, squeezing her hard against him. “Wodor keep him in his ale-hall. Your father was as fine a man as I’ve ever known.”
Owen, after jumping down upon the pier, lifted Lady Danika down beside him. They edged closer behind Fioni. Yarl Vengir’s warriors watched them with open curiosity. No, he realized, they’re watching Lady Danika. With her long dark hair and pale skin, she’s clearly from the kingdom, but with my blond hair and growing beard, I must look like another Fenyir to them.
A moment later, Yarl Vengir saw them. “Are there introductions to be made, Fioni?”
“Yarl Vengir,” Fioni said, indicating the noblewoman with her head, “allow me to introduce Lady Danika Dain of the duchy of Wolfrey in the Kingdom of Conarck.”
She speaks of the kingdom as if it were some faraway place. Dilan was right. These people consider themselves separate from us.
Yarl Vengir bowed his head and offered his hand to Lady Danika. If he were surprised by her presence, he hid it well. “My lady of Wolfrey, welcome to Voria Bay and clan Windhelm. I offer you ale and salt as well.”
Lady Danika stepped forward, took his hand, and squeezed it with both of hers. “I gratefully accept your generosity, Yarl Vengir Flat-Nose.”
Owen edged closer, now towering over Lady Danika from behind.
“And this hulking brute,” said Fioni, “is the lady’s guardian, Sir Owen of Toscovar, a warrior of considerable fame and prowess, whom you’ve no doubt already heard of.”
Yarl Vengir frowned at Fioni, clearly hearing the sarcasm in her voice. He gripped Owen’s shoulder, squeezing it. “You are welcome as well, Sir Owen.”
“Thank you, my lord—my yarl,” Owen said.
Yarl Vengir turned to his warriors. “Well? What are you all waiting for?”
His people surged past to help the refugees and the wounded down from Fen Wolf.
Yarl Vengir stood beside Fioni, his face sullen. “Let’s go to my longhouse. I think we have much to discuss.”
#
Yarl Vengir’s longhouse was much smaller than Yarl Taios’s Shield-Breaker, consisting of only one floor and set within the center of the town itself, rather than upon a walled hill, but inside, it was warm and comfortable, with a fire burning in the central fire pit. Yarl Vengir sat upon a high-backed wooden chair on a dais as Fioni, Lady Danika, and Owen sat themselves on wooden stools. The wolfhound, Ekkie, lay near Fioni’s feet, warming herself near the fire pit. Servants brought them cups of warm spiced wine.
Yarl Vengir sipped from his own cup and then wiped his mouth with the back of a liver-spotted hand. He leaned forward, his gaze upon Fioni. “So, shall we go murder your cousin?”
Fioni bit her lower lip and then glanced at the sealskin-wrapped bundle on her lap. Owen knew it was Sight-Bringer; he had watched her carefully wrap it before they had arrived in Voria Bay. So had Lady Danika—who even now kept casting glances at it.
Yarl Vengir’s gaze narrowed as Fioni remained silent. “What’s wrong, Fioni?”
“I’m not here for revenge,” she finally said. “At least not yet.”
“Then why are you here?”
“First, to ask you to provide shelter for our elderly and wounded and my father’s servants.”
He waved his hand at her. “Of course, but you already knew I’d do that. What else?”
She stared at him for long moments before speaking. “Much has changed of late, Yarl Vengir. Old ghosts have risen from the past.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
Fioni began to relate the events of the last few days, starting with her rescue of Owen and Lady Danika and then describing the rebellion on Greywynne Island. When she explained that Serina Greywynne—the Blood Queen—was alive, Yarl Vengir’s face lost all color.
“You’re sure of this?” he asked, a tremor in his voice.
Fioni glanced at Owen and Lady Danika. “No, I’m not sure, but something has spooked the Greywynne Islanders, driven them to rebel against the kingdom.”
“She’s alive,” insisted Owen. “I was in the Great Crypt. I saw her.”
Yarl Vengir stared at him, the doubt clear in his eyes. “I’m not going to welcome you into my hall and then insult you by calling you a liar, Sir Owen, but understand—this is hard to accept. Serina Greywynne was the greatest terror of my life, but she’s been dead for half a century—longer than any of you youngsters have been alive.”
“Alive or not,” Fioni continued, “my father believed it—right up until the moment Galas betrayed us all and attacked the town.” Fioni’s voice faltered as she described their escape, the pitched battle on the shoreline, and the death of her father.
“A brave death, Fioni,” Yarl Vengir said. “Be proud.”
“And this is why I’ve come to you. As he lay dying, my father bade me promise to help Lady Danika kill Serina.”
“Kill Serina?” Yarl Vengir sat forward, spilling some of his wine unnoticed onto his breeches. “What are you saying? If Duke Stron—wielding Sight-Bringer, no less—couldn’t kill her…”
Fioni unrolled Sight-Bringer. Yarl Vengir’s eyes grew wide when he saw the white hilt. Fioni handed it, hilt first, to the older man.
Yarl Vengir squinted at the Illthori relic. “That can’t be—”
“It is,” said Fioni.
As Yarl Vengir’s fingers wrapped around the hilt, his eyes opened wide in surprise. The old man rose from his chair, staring in wonder at the broken sword. “By all the gods, this is Sight-Bringer. Then… Serina really is—”
“It would seem the northerners are telling the truth,” Fioni said. “And we need to deal with the real threat—the Blood Queen.”
Lady Danika leaned forward, her eyes determined. “Yarl Vengir, Fioni Ice-Bound. With respect, that sword is a relic of my kingdom, an heirloom loaned to my uncle to defeat Serina. It is my responsibility to protect it, my responsibility to return it to its rightful owner, my king. May I have it back? Please?”
Yarl Vengir hesitated, his eyes darting to Fioni’s. Fioni watched Lady Danika for several long moments and then inclined her head. “Our purpose is united, my lady of Wolfrey. And there must be trust among friends.”
Yarl Vengir handed Sight-Bringer to Lady Danika.
“What now?” Yarl Vengir asked Fioni.
“Now, I have a tale to tell you, Yarl Vengir. One I only learned from my father last night, a tale of blood fiends and dark magic.”
#
Darkness fell before Fioni finished describing the night, forty-eight years ago, when Serl captured not only Serina’s still-beating heart, but also a fortune in magical blood gems. She described her great-grandfather’s journey north into the Feral Sea and Torin Island, where he hid both the gems and the heart—leaving his own grandson, Denyr, behind to guard them. Owen listened carefully. He knew of the Feral Sea, the haunted, mist-laden sea far to the north, but it was an abstract term—more myth than real.
“Serl described his voyage in his journal,” Fioni said. “But I fear he left much out. He did describe taking a handful of the blood gems when he left Torin Island. One of the gems, he had installed in the hilt of Wave’s Kiss.” Fioni glanced at her father’s sword that she wore on her belt—now her sword. “The others he took to Daenipor, to sell to the city’s Moon Lord, Kalishni’coor.”
“Damn that miserable old bastard,” said Yarl Vengir bitterly. “His w
ord—any Hishtari’s word—is worth less than a seal’s fart.”
“He’s no longer of any consequence,” said Fioni.
“Why is that?” asked Yarl Vengir, his head cocked to the side as he watched her.
“Because he’s dead,” said Fioni, a confused tone in her voice.
Yarl Vengir pursed his lips, as if he had just chewed a lemon. “This is not what we have heard. We hear Kalishni’coor still lives, holed away within the bowels of the Rose Palace, an old sack of skin-covered bones that refuses to die.” Yarl Vengir paused, and his mouth broke into a gap-toothed smile. “Just like me.”
The laughter that followed was honest and warming, putting Owen at ease. His days lately had been filled with blood and monsters. He enjoyed sitting beside a warm fire, drinking ale, and relaxing, even if he was far from home.
Fioni smiled at the old chieftain. “A hundred more years of you would be too little, Yarl Vengir. I’ve heard these ridiculous rumors as well, but no one could be that old.”
Yarl Vengir winked and finished off his wine in a single gulp. “I still wouldn’t trust anything a Hishtari told me.”
“On that, we are in agreement. But I have a problem. Last night, my father finally told me why he and my grandfather have been plotting to raid the Rose Palace all these years. Serl hid a map of Torin Island on his shield.”
“What shield?” asked Owen.
Fioni waved her hand at him.
Yarl Vengir sat back, inhaling deeply. “Now it all makes sense. Both your father and your grandfather have been a pain in my ass for decades, always trying to get me to join them on a raid of the Rose Palace. They wanted the shield back.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lady Danika, looking from Yarl Vengir to Fioni.
“Serl Raven-Eye wanted to sell some of the blood gems,” said Fioni.
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 40
