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

by William Stacey

  Fioni laughed suddenly, her face lit up with a dazzling smile at something her first mate Kora Far-Sails had just said. A tight knot formed in Owen’s gut as he watched her. Fioni was as beautiful as the sea she loved, but twice as dangerous. The same night she had saved Owen and Lady Danika, Fioni had slipped naked and uninvited—but very welcome—into Owen’s bed. Since then, though, Fioni had acted as if the tryst hadn’t even happened or—worse—was of no special significance. Tall, muscular, and handsome, Owen knew women found him attractive. Growing up in Wolfredsuntown, he had certainly taken advantage of that attraction, seducing more than his share of the local daughters, but never before had he felt so… used.

  It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

  Kora said something else, and the smile disappeared from Fioni’s face, and she shook her head sadly. Unlike Fioni, Kora Far-Sails would never be described as a pretty woman—in truth, she was harder than tempered steel—with short blond hair, lean hard muscles, and tattoos of leaping dolphins on either side of her forehead. A formidable warrior, she had saved Owen’s life twice already. Standing next to her, picking his teeth with a bone sliver, was Rolf Fork-Beard, a heavyset, bearded warrior in his fifties with a disfigured patch of skin from an old burn on his right cheek. A good man and an excellent fighter, Rolf had been the leader of Fioni’s father’s house-herd, his personal warriors… until the night Fioni’s hated cousin Galas Gilt-Mane had murdered Fioni’s father, stolen his position as yarl of the Waveborn clan, and chased Fioni and her crew to sea. Now, Galas served Serina.

  All their enemies, it seemed, had joined forces.

  The hull and sail ropes creaked as Fioni tacked the longship, bringing it around the Fist of Wodor and back toward the shoreline. As they circled the towering rock formation, Owen saw the rope bridge atop the Fist’s summit that spanned the waters, connecting it to the headland a bow’s shot away. How old is that bridge?

  “See you ever anything so pretty?” a young woman asked him. Turning about, he smiled at Gali, who had left Lady Danika to her solitude to come join him.

  “Never,” he admitted. “Nor did I ever think I would.” He looked past Gali, at Lady Danika. “How is she?”

  Gali’s smile fell. “She… her body heals, but… I fright what is unseen.”

  Owen’s throat felt thick, making it hard to swallow. Less than a week ago, they had sailed to the Hishtari city of Daenipor, a major trading port, in a misguided attempt to bargain for an old shield that hid a map showing the location of Torin Island and Serina’s magically removed heart, which they needed to find in order to kill the seemingly immortal blood fiend. But Serina’s reach was long, and she had set a trap for them in Daenipor. Kalishni’coor, the ancient necromancer known as “the Blue Man,” had been waiting for them. In the ambush that followed their arrival at the city’s Rose Palace, Kalishni’coor had captured Lady Danika. By the time Owen had managed to rescue her, she had suffered unimaginable torment at the hands of his torturers. The responsibility for keeping her safe had been his—and he had failed.

  “Where… where are gulls?” Gali suddenly asked, drawing Owen out of his melancholy.

  Owen stared at her for a moment before wondering the same thing. For days now, the ever-present screams of the gulls had followed them along the shoreline. Now, an eerie silence had fallen upon them. “I don’t know,” he said. “Odd they’d just… disappear like that.”

  As they came around the far side of the Fist, a natural bay and sandy beach with a thick forest came into view. On the southern side of the bay, a rock wall hundreds of feet high connected the beach to the headland. Running diagonally up the rock face was a twisting lip of stone, a slumped cliff created when a portion of the cliff face had fallen away.

  Kora moved among the crew now, ordering the sail lowered and the oars placed in the water. As they sailed alongside the cliff face and lost the wind, a hideous screech cut through the air, echoing from the Fist behind them. A chill ran down Owen’s spine, and he turned and bolted to the rear of the ship, launching himself up the stairs to the steering platform, rushing past the wide-eyed Fioni. Ignoring her, he climbed up onto the sternpost, staring up at the dark summit of the Fist in their wake. Despite the gloom, he saw what he had been dreading—several impossibly large winged creatures circled the summit before disappearing from sight. He swore beneath his breath, dropping back down onto the steering platform, where Fioni stared at him.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  He sighed, meeting the challenge in her sea-green eyes. Now we know why there are no gulls. Like most northern men, Owen had grown up an experienced woodsman and mountaineer. He had lost friends to those damned creatures, ripped from the side of a mountain by a storm of wings and talons.

  “What?” she said.

  “Harpies,” he answered. “There must be a nest up there.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Wodor’s balls.”

  Chapter 2

  Owen

  They anchored Fen Wolf close to the beach, where the crew could climb over the prow and walk ashore. Owen splashed down into the freezing water and then helped Lady Danika, lifting her around the waist and carrying her to the shore. She had always been a slight woman, but there was even less to her now after weeks at sea. They both wore Fenyir clothing: thick wool and linen tunics and breeches, high otter-skin boots, and fur cloaks. While he carried a curved Hishtari sword and dagger—taken as plunder from the Rose Palace—the only weapon she carried was Sight-Bringer in a makeshift sheath in the small of her back, covered by the cloak. She rarely let the sword out of her possession, as it was their only chance to stop Serina.

  The crew made camp on the beach, setting up tents and starting a bonfire. Kora supervised, posting sentries at the forest’s edge as well as a watch on the skies over the Fist of Wodor. While Owen approved of sentries, harpies were unlikely to attack an armed camp, preferring safer prey such as sheep or, on rare occasions, cows. Unless, Owen noted, someone was foolish enough to threaten their nest.

  The beach was strewn with seashells. Streamers of seaweed rolled in the surf, washing up on the sand among small skittering crabs that Gali and some of the others were trying to catch for dinner. Out in the bay, whitecaps slapped the surface of the black water as the waves rolled inland before dissolving into foam on the beach. The nearby forest was dark and silent, with long cattails swaying before the pine trees. The bonfire, stoked with armloads of driftwood, popped and crackled, and the crew began to congregate around it, laughing and conversing. Owen stood watching the cliff-face with the path created by the sunken trail that led up to the headland, several hundred feet above the bay. From that height, a fall would shatter bones and crush organs. If the harpies hear Fioni and the others coming, they’ll wait until they’re near the top, where any fall into the waters below would be lethal. Once again, he heard a harpy screech echoing in the night, and for a moment, the conversation around the bonfire stopped as men and women glanced nervously in the direction of the Fist.

  In the north, discovery of a harpy nest was always a cause for concern. If they were found anywhere near a settlement, every healthy man, and most of the older boys, would band together to burn it, driving the beasts into the mountains. If left alone, the harpies would become bolder and begin to kill children. They hadn’t seen a Hishtari settlement along the coast for some days, so the harpies probably had free rein to hunt whatever they could find. Would that make them careless? Owen had participated in three nest-destroying excursions, but always in daylight, always when the adult harpies were out hunting. No one hunted harpies at night, which was, unfortunately, exactly what Fioni wanted to do.

  She sat nearby, perched atop a piece of driftwood, softly conversing with Kora and Rolf. She held her great-grandfather’s battered journal open on her lap, jabbing a finger at an open page. Her voice rose slightly, carrying across the sand. When Fioni noticed Owen watching her, she stared at him in challenge. “You’ve the look of a man with something to say, Owen Northman.�
�

  Days ago, the crew had taken to calling him “Northman”—a name-gift, Kora had called it. While not terribly imaginative, it was a much more flattering nickname than the derogatory “Horse-Boy” the other northern soldiers had given him. He quickly looked away, intent on minding his own business, when Lady Danika slid up next to him and placed her hand on his forearm. “You know more about harpies than any of them, Owen. If you’ve something to say, tell her.”

  He met her eyes and nodded. No one tells Fioni anything, he thought sourly, but he and the noblewoman approached the three Fenyir. Rolf rose from his stump and gave it to Lady Danika to sit on. Owen met Fioni’s challenging green eyes. He inhaled deeply and then began. “This plan of yours, to take the path in the dark up to the headland and the Fist tonight...”

  Her gaze narrowed. “What of it?”

  Rolf’s eyes darted from Fioni to Owen. Rolf and a dozen of his men, the former house-herd to her father, Yarl Taios, would join Fioni this night—and only those men, which made no sense. Rolf’s men were older, each past his prime and too old for midnight climbs along cliff faces.

  “I don’t understand this,” Owen said. “Why go up there at all?”

  “Because we have to,” she replied.

  “Even without the harpies, taking that path at night is needlessly dangerous. A fall from that height will be fatal, and harpies love to pull men from cliffs. If they hear you coming, they’ll wait until you’re most vulnerable.”

  “Won’t they be asleep?” Kora asked.

  “Not as soundly as you may think,” Owen insisted. “There’s a reason no one attacks harpy nests at night.”

  Fioni leaned forward. “Owen…”

  “Please, Fioni,” said Lady Danika. “We have experience with these monsters in the north. Listen to him.”

  Fioni sighed. “I am listening, my lady of Wolfrey, but you’re not. We have to go up there.”

  “Why?” Owen asked. “This is the Hishtari coastline, not the Fenyir Island chain. Let them deal with these creatures.”

  “It’s not about territory and responsibility, Owen—although the Fist of Wodor is a Fenyir holy site, no matter whose coastline it sits on. We’re going up there because that withered ball-sack Kalishni’coor destroyed the map Serl hid on his shield—a map that would have provided a nautical course for us to follow into the Feral Sea to Torin Island.”

  “But you have the Raven’s-Eye and Serl’s journal,” insisted Lady Danika.

  Fioni hefted the journal. “Aye, I do. And Serl left detailed notes of his voyage in his journal, including where he started from—the Fist of Wodor.”

  Lady Danika watched her. “Then you intend to—”

  “Retrace Serl’s voyage,” Owen said.

  “Yes, Owen. I’m going to follow Serl’s voyage as closely as I can. With luck—a great deal of luck—we’ll find Torin Island and Serina’s heart.”

  “Okay, I understand that, but why make the climb to the Fist? Why risk the harpies?”

  “The Fist,” said Kora, “is holy to us, a special place where one can ask the gods for their help.” Kora and Rolf nodded solemnly. “But there’s another reason.”

  “Us,” said Rolf. “My men and I, the surviving members of Yarl Taios’s house-herd, we would transfer our oath-bond to Fioni.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Owen.

  Fioni sighed. “That much is obvious.”

  Kora frowned at Fioni before addressing Owen. “An oath-bond is a serious matter to us. We do not give it lightly. Traditionally, when a yarl dies, his house-herd will lay down their arms and live out the rest of their days on their farms, drinking beer and growing fat.”

  “That path,” said Rolf bitterly, “is closed to us, thanks to Galas. Even if we wanted to ignore the death of our yarl—which we could never do—Galas can’t let us live.”

  “It’s true, Owen,” said Kora. “Galas would kill these men. He would have killed them the same night Taios died had they not escaped with us. But if they can’t go home, they need to find a new master. So they will transfer their oath to Fioni.”

  Rolf nodded, his gaze solemn.

  “But such a thing is rarely done, and never without first asking the blessing of the gods,” said Fioni. She glanced up toward the Fist. “This night we ask the gods for their support.”

  “And your gods will hear this?” Owen asked.

  Fioni shook her head. “No, but the Fist of Wodor is a holy place. And this night, the woodland wights will be present, unseen but watching. They will hear us and tell the gods for us.”

  Rolf stroked his beard, his eyes shining. “Orkinus, the sea god; Fenya, the brave warrior maiden; even Wodor himself, the great-father. They will all bless our request. If the gods are truly pleased, mayhap they will even grant us our vengeance against Galas Gilt-Mane.”

  “It is our way,” agreed Kora. “The strongest of oaths are made on this site.”

  “‘Tis truth,” said Rolf. “Thirty-two years ago, when we were all young men, we made this climb with Taios.” He smiled at the memory. “Under the witnessing eyes of the woodland wights, we swore our oaths. In return, Taios gave us these armbands.” Rolf gestured to the silver band clasped about his thick bicep. “This night, we shall all of us give these bands back to his daughter and make the oaths anew.”

  “And I will give them back,” said Fioni, “binding these men to me for the rest of their lives.”

  “We’ll never make these oaths again,” said Rolf.

  “All right,” said Owen. “I understand, but why at night? In the morning—”

  “We can’t wait for morning,” said Kora. “The ceremony must take place when the shades are present so they can tell the gods. But the wights will only come out when Fenya’s shield shines upon the land.”

  Owen stared at her. “I… what?”

  “The light of the full moon, Owen. Tonight. Besides, tomorrow morning, when the sun rises, we sail west for the Feral Sea. Even with my great-grandfather’s journal and his Raven’s-Eye, I will need to ask the gods for their help. Otherwise, we might sail right past Torin Island in the fog.”

  “What about Serina?” Lady Danika asked.

  The three Fenyir warriors exchanged nervous glances. Unlike Owen and Lady Danika, they had never actually seen Serina. Perhaps they only half believed the infamous Blood Queen even existed. “She can’t find us,” said Fioni, perhaps a little too quickly. “And even if she is hunting us, once we enter the Feral Sea, we’ll be free of her. She can’t come after us.”

  “Don’t be so certain of what she can and can’t do,” said Lady Danika. “Her reach is long—as we all discovered in Daenipor. Kalishni’coor, the Blue Man, was her ally, as, apparently, is your own cousin, Galas.”

  Fioni leaned forward, her gaze cold. “I will give Galas the death he has earned; trust me, my lady of Wolfrey. But even Galas can’t come after us, not without a way of finding the sun within the fog.”

  “Fioni has the truth of this,” said Kora. “Galas will not dare the Feral Sea.”

  “Does Galas know of this place?” Lady Danika asked.

  Fioni, Kora, and Rolf exchanged meaningful glances. Of course he does, Owen realized. It is a Fenyir holy site, after all. And Serina is Fenyir—older, more steeped in Fenyir lore than anyone now alive is. He inhaled deeply. “Fioni, this is madness. We should sail now, this very night!”

  Fioni shook her head, her expression resolute. “Not before the oath-swearing.”

  Out to sea, thunder rumbled and dark clouds gathered. It would be raining within the hour, he guessed. Their luck couldn’t be worse. Not only would Fioni, Rolf, and the others have to make their ascent along the narrow ledge in the dark, but it would also be wet and slick. “Fioni,” he said, searching for the words that would change her mind. “I understand, but…”

  “We’re going, Owen,” she said with finality.

  Lady Danika stood up abruptly. “Very well, then. So is Owen.”

  He turned to h
er in surprise. “My lady, my place is with you.”

  She raised her hand, cutting him off. “You are a soldier of Wolfrey, and I am now Wolfrey. Your place is wherever I choose it to be.”

  Fioni’s eyes darted from Lady Danika to Owen. “My lady, thank you, but this is a… holy ritual for Fenyir.”

  “Make an exception,” Lady Danika insisted in a tone that was more command than request. “Owen is an experienced mountaineer and woodsman. No doubt, he already has experience clearing out harpy nests.”

  “I have,” Owen admitted.

  “I will lend you Sight-Bringer, of course,” said the noblewoman. “Its magic will help you find your way in the dark.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Owen, accepting her mind was decided.

  “Good,” she said, turning away. She paused and met his eye over her shoulder. “But I do need to talk to you in private, Owen, on a matter of some importance.”

  #

  He followed the small dark-haired noblewoman back down the beach, his face heating with shame. He already knew what she wanted to discuss and had been dreading this conversation. When there was no one within earshot, she stopped and waited for him, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Owen, I need to ask you something, something I couldn’t bring up before on the ship… with all the others nearby.”

  Behind him, the surf crashed against the beach, the waves washing within feet of them before receding. “I... I know what you’re going to say, my lady. I’m sorry. I failed you. I betrayed my oath and left you to those people. It’s my fault they hurt you.”

  “What—no!” Her voice rose in startled confusion, and she stepped forward, placing her palm on his chest. “No, of course it’s not your fault. Had you stayed, you would have died as well. You saved me, and I’m so grateful for that. I had given up all hope. That pig, Modwyn, would have done far worse than just hurt me. I owe you my life.”