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

by William Stacey

  Relief coursed through him, causing his knees to shake. “But I—”

  “Thank you, Owen. I’m sorry I took so long to say that, but thank you. I’ve been… I’ve been trying to find myself after what they… what they did to me, hurt me. But that’s no excuse. I should have told you right away how grateful I was that you came back for me.” She stood on her toes and kissed him on his bearded cheek. Then she hugged him, burying her face in his neck. “Thank you for my life, my dignity.”

  Uncertain what to do, he tentatively placed his arm around her. “You’re welcome, my lady. But what, then, did you want to talk about?”

  She pulled away, moving once more to a respectable distance. “The night you came for me, you told me I should ‘thank Keep-Captain Awde.’ What did you mean by that?”

  He turned away, staring out to sea and watching the dark waves. He remembered that night so clearly: Brice Awde’s ghost beckoning him on into the shadowy recesses of the Rose Palace, wordlessly leading him to the tower where Danika was held prisoner. There had been more than a few rumors in Castle Dain about Lady Danika and the Keep-Captain, but he had never truly believed them—or hadn’t until that night. “I saw him,” he finally said, so softly it was almost a whisper. “Or, rather, I saw his shade.”

  “You… you saw Brice? Truly?”

  “He led me straight to you, all without saying a single word or stepping out of the shadows.”

  “If he was in the shadows, then how do you—”

  “It was him, my lady. I know it.”

  “Oh, Brice,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she fell to her knees in the sand, her head lowered, sobbing.

  He thought again of that horrible night when Serina had sent her ghouls to attack Stron’s Watch, the Dain fort on Greywynne Island. Just before sunrise, Serina had sent Brice Awde, now an unholy blood fiend like her, against the fort to steal back Sight-Bringer. But, when he had had the chance, instead of killing Danika, Awde had impaled himself on the sword, driving it through his own heart. At the time, Owen had thought his sacrifice a final act of loyalty to the family he had served all his life, but he now understood he had been dead wrong.

  It had been love.

  Chapter 3

  Owen

  When Owen and Lady Danika returned to the others near the bonfire, Fioni was waiting for him. “I have something to give you,” she said simply, before brusquely turning away, clearly expecting him to follow her.

  She stopped before her tent, where a large sea chest sat in the sand. Kneeling, she lifted the lid, revealing her possessions: combs, tools, clothing, and several battered books, which she quickly pushed aside. As she reached into the chest, Owen heard the distinctive rustle of ring mail. “Here,” she said, using both hands to pull a heavy ring-mail coat out, dislodging many of her possessions, including a battered old doll with wooden discs for eyes. She quickly threw a wool sweater atop the doll before climbing to her feet and holding the heavy ring-mail coat out to Owen. “If you’re going to come with us tonight, you’ll need this. And it needs a new owner, someone large enough to wear it.”

  The rings of the coat were black with varnish or paint. And unlike kingdom castle-forged ring mail, where the sleeves stopped at the upper arm, the sleeves on this coat were long enough to cover the wearer’s entire arms to the hands. There was even a hood hanging from the back, to protect the head and neck. The hem was longer than he was used to as well, stopping just above his knees. Thick whalebone plates called “baleen” were bolted to the shoulders, providing additional protection. Intricate Fenyir runes covered the surface of each piece of baleen, creating a breathtakingly beautiful geodesic pattern that looked to be inlaid with traces of silver. He knew whose coat this had been—Vory Eel-Gifted, Fioni’s former first mate, murdered by Kalishni’coor. “How?” he asked as he trailed his fingers over one of the rings.

  “We found it in the Rose Palace’s armory, along with my own coat that I left atop that damned tower we climbed down.”

  “The Hishtari weren’t using this?”

  “I doubt there was a man among them who could have filled it.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t take this. It was his.”

  Sorrow flashed through her eyes, replaced a moment later by cold determination. “Whale shit, you can’t. He’d want you to have it. Gods know why, but Vory liked you.” She smirked, the corners of her mouth curling. “Probably because you knocked him down the first time you met.” She thrust the coat into his chest, held it there as she examined them both, making a noncommittal grunt. “You’ll grow into it.”

  “The rings are smaller than ours.”

  “Smaller but stronger, I wager. Vory had it built to his specifications in Lyr. Cost him a fortune, or at least that’s what my father told me. It’s more than twenty years old but still perfect.”

  He took it from her, hefting its considerable weight in his arms. “Thank you.”

  She slapped him on the shoulder and then turned away. When she spoke, there was a tremor in her voice. “Let’s go kill some harpies.”

  #

  They departed before midnight with Owen, holding Sight-Bringer, leading the way. Over his shoulder, he carried one of the heavy crossbows they had taken from the Kur’teshi mercenaries, as did Fioni, Rolf, and the other twelve warriors. The powerful weapons had helped them immeasurably in the battle for the Rose Palace, shredding the massed ranks of the Hishtari soldiers. Owen wore his new armor. Fioni and her father’s house-herd wore theirs as well. In addition to the crossbows, each man carried axe and spear, but none carried shields; moving up the slick cliff face would be hard enough without cumbersome shields. Besides, it was always best to kill harpies from a distance rather than letting them get close enough to grasp and pull with their talons. A full-grown harpy could easily pull a man into the air before dropping him to splatter against the rocks. Two of the men also carried sacks filled with bundles of pitch-soaked straw that they would use to set the nest ablaze. Each man carried a handful of fire-strips—a special type of tree fungus pounded flat into strips the length of a man’s finger and then boiled in urine. When set ablaze and then tightly rerolled—as they had done before leaving camp—the strips would smolder without burning for hours. To bring a flame to life again, all they’d need to do was to unroll the strips and blow on the embers.

  With Sight-Bringer’s magic helping him see, Owen easily found the rocky end of the sunken trail at the far end of the beach. Torches would have helped immeasurably, but animals were attuned to the smell of smoke, and the last thing they needed this night was to warn the harpies they were coming. If the harpies swarmed them on the treacherous cliff face, it would be a massacre. Instead, they took their time, moving slowly but quietly. He led Fioni and the others up the twisting rocky path, picking the safest route he could find. The rain drizzled down upon them, masking the sounds of their climb but making their footing much slicker. Several times already, a man had slipped, only to catch himself at the last moment. Owen moved slowly, often stopping to point out to Fioni where to place her feet on the path. In turn, Fioni passed the word down the line to the next man. As they climbed, the waves washed against the rocks below them.

  Despite appearances, Vory’s armor was lighter than he had expected, but the sleeves rubbed against the heavy padded cloth of the gambeson he wore beneath the armor. Owen was a large, powerful man, but there were at least three fingers of space between the sleeves and his biceps. Vory had been a beast of a man.

  In places, thick, grasping bushes grew out of the cliff face, forcing them to push their way past. Burrs clung to his breeches and boots, prickling and irritating his skin, driving him crazy.

  Although they moved slowly, as quietly as they could, the Fenyir were clearly not woodsmen and occasionally made too much noise. At these times, Owen would stop the trek and hold his breath as he listened for any indication the harpies were awake. So far, though, he heard nothing but the wind and the strained breathing of the men. He moved
forward once more, slowly placing the outside of each foot down and then rolling his foot forward along the outer edge.

  An hour or more later, they finally reached the summit of the headland, coming out onto a wind-swept grassy promontory that looked out toward the Fist and the sea. The moment he stepped onto the summit, he smelled the harpies. The pungent scent of rot and bird shit was like being smashed in the face with a shield. Breathing through his mouth, he fought down his revulsion. It had been years since he had burned his last harpy nest, but the smell brought him right back to that day.

  He slid forward, keeping low as he entered the tall, wet stalks of grass upon the headland. Far out to sea, lightning flared once more, hitting the sea and illuminating the surrounding terrain. East, the headlands sloped downward before running into the forest that surrounded the beach. He closed his eyes and listened, concentrating on the night’s noises. Fioni stumbled into him and then dropped down on one knee beside him, her breathing strained. “Where?” she whispered.

  He pointed to the west, where he could just make out the shape of the rope bridge that crossed over to the summit of the Fist. He saw no sign of other animals, not even a squirrel, nor did he expect to. An adult harpy weighed less than a hundred pounds but could eat twice its weight in prey every three days. Harpies ate everything they could catch, slowly widening their hunting expeditions. In time, the harpies would have to move the nest or starve. The wind gusted, blowing cold rain in his face. At least we have the wind in our favor. It’ll mask our movement and scent. Minutes later, the last of Rolf’s men climbed over the summit and joined them in the grass of the headland.

  Owen slipped Sight-Bringer back into its makeshift sheath, his senses immediately returning to normal, making him feel both deaf and blind, but the sword’s magic had done its part. Now, more mundane but no less lethal tools were called for. They un-slung their crossbows and began to quietly load the weapons. Placing his foot inside the stirrup at the end of the weapon, he slipped the hook attached to the sinew string onto his belt. As he straightened his legs, he spanned the weapon, locking the string into place with a soft click against the walnut release device attached to the trigger lever. He held his hand between the lever and the stock to make sure he didn’t accidentally release the string. This close to the nest, the snap of a crossbow’s arms would almost certainly wake the harpies. He took one of the metal-tipped wooden bolts he carried in a sack on his belt and fitted it into the weapon’s groove so that it lay flat, its nock fully caught against the catch. When they were all ready, he eased himself up and placed the crossbow’s stock tightly into his shoulder.

  Fioni met his eye and then nodded. Together, they slipped through the tall stalks of grass, moving silently toward the rope bridge. As they reached the peak of the headland, the cliff narrowed, pointing out to sea. The ropes creaked in the wind, softly swaying in place. In the dark, it was impossible to judge how sturdy it was, but Rolf had insisted the Fenyir came here often enough to swear oaths that it had to be serviceable. If so, the harpies must have built their nest recently, which, given their migratory nature to pursue prey, was entirely possible. The summit of the stalk on the other side of the bridge was higher than the headland, so that the bridge ran up at a slight incline; but it also hid the top of the stalk and the nest from view. When we cross over, we could blunder right into the nest.

  Nothing for it, Owen. Get a move on.

  He inhaled deeply and prepared to step out onto the bridge, when Fioni slid in front of him, holding her crossbow with one hand while she gripped one of the support ropes with the other. The boards creaked under her weight but held. She took another step, and then another, moving steadily across the swaying bridge. Owen wiped the rain and sweat from his eyes, peering into the darkness as Fioni moved farther out of sight. When the bridge stopped swaying, he realized she must have stepped off onto the other side. Okay, my turn. He tentatively stepped out onto the bridge, slowly placing his weight on the creaking boards. He was much heavier than Fioni, and sweat ran down his spine in rivulets as he took another step, this one creaking even louder. He froze, but the bridge held. As Fioni had done, he held onto his crossbow with one hand and the support rope with the other and moved across the bridge. Far below, he could hear the waves crashing against the rock face. Keeping his gaze fixated on the end of the bridge, he focused on placing one foot and then the other, ignoring the swaying of the bridge. When he reached the other side and stepped onto the rocky stalk where Fioni waited for him, it came as almost a surprise.

  He had made it.

  Dropping down on one knee beside Fioni, he placed the crossbow into his shoulder again and focused his attention on the Fist of Wodor while the others crossed the bridge, one by one. Hundreds of paces wide and dotted with stunted, windblown bushes, the summit was wider than he had realized. In its center, a ring of man-high stone obelisks ringed a single massive oak tree that stood majestically atop the summit, its thick branches reaching into the sky. Staring at the tree, he couldn’t help but believe this was indeed a holy place, even if he didn’t worship the Fenyir’s gods. And while he couldn’t see the base of the tree through the ring of dark obelisks, he knew from the stench that he’d find the nest built up around the tree.

  Once the others were across, Fioni rose and, crossbow raised, began to inch her way forward. Owen followed to her left, with Rolf on her right. The others moved into line where they could release their bolts without fear of striking their own. Fioni edged around one of the obelisks and then paused. Owen, moving around another stone, also stopped in his tracks.

  The base of the oak tree was empty.

  There was no nest, no harpies.

  This made no sense. He had seen them earlier circling the summit, heard their unmistakable cries. Even now, he could smell their stench. His eyes met Fioni’s. She shook her head in confusion. Holding the crossbow in one hand, he drew Sight-Bringer again. The moment his fingers touched the white stone hilt, its magic flowed back into him, invigorating him, but also vastly increasing the stench of harpy dung. Motioning for Fioni and the others to remain in place, he entered the ring, approaching the oak’s trunk. As expected, bones, massive feathers, and other detritus—all coated in harpy shit—covered the ground beneath the tree’s thick branches. What am I missing? The nest has to be here.

  Owen circled the trunk where he saw a build-up of bones on the tree’s ocean side leading past the ring of obelisks to the far edge of the summit. His hunter’s intuition screamed in warning. Placing each foot carefully to avoid the brittle bones, he stepped up to the edge of the cliff and slowly peered over it.

  There was the nest.

  Less than ten feet away, an enormous pile of detritus, interlaced branches, bushes, and feathers sat on a stone lip extending a dozen paces from the side of the cliff that would make it impossible to see from below. And huddled together, sharing heat, were at least a dozen harpies, each smaller than a man was, but vicious and deadly with their clawed talons and grinding beaks. They slept with their wings wrapped around them, like a ball of feathers. When extended, their wingspan would be more than ten feet across. Although clearly avian, the upper half of their bodies looked eerily human, with four pendulous breasts covered in thick down. Even their heads were vaguely simian with savage womanish faces, albeit with small beady black eyes set on either side of a savage beak that could pull flesh from bone. That similarity, however, ended with their lower torsos, which were entirely birdlike, consisting of stick-thin scaly legs tipped with inch-long talons.

  Owen slid back, praying the beasts remained sleeping. His heartbeat racing, he held his breath and waited, listening for any sign they were waking. When he heard nothing, he considered what to do next. They had been lucky so far, but eventually, the animals would catch their scent and wake. Then a plan began to form in his mind. It would be stupid and dangerous but, if successful, would make short work of the nest. Fioni and the others stood back, watching him. He slowly moved back to join her and placed hi
s lips next to her ear. “The nest is just below, but I have an idea.”

  “What are you thinking?” she whispered back.

  “Lower me.” He bent down and placed his loaded crossbow on the ground.

  Her eyes widened, but he pointed to one of the warriors carrying the bundles of pitch-soaked straw, and she seemed to understand, bobbing her head. Owen approached the man and removed several of the straw bundles, stuffing them beneath his ring-mail coat and holding them in place with his sword belt. When ready, he approached the cliff’s edge once again, slipping Sight-Bringer beneath his belt. Rolf and one of the larger warriors, a stout bald-headed fighter named Asger, each took one of his arms as he backed out over the edge of the cliff. They took his weight, slowly lowering him down to the lip upon which sat the nest. One of the harpies rustled in its sleep, and the men froze, holding Owen in place. At any moment, Owen expected to feel the claws of a harpy on his back, but after several moments, nothing happened. Rolf, his face strained, grimaced, and he and Asger lowered Owen the rest of the way. His boots softly touched the rock, and they let go of his wrists.

  Owen turned, staring at the mass of harpies from only feet away. Their breathing this close was raspy and loud, but they were still sleeping. Moving as quietly as he could, he removed the straw bundles from beneath his armor and carefully placed them inside the outer edge of the nest. When they were all in place, Owen backed away from the nest, met Rolf’s eye, and nodded. Rolf and Asger reached out again and took Owen by the wrists. As they began to raise him back up, one of the harpies suddenly screeched in warning, an earsplitting shriek of rage and fear that forced Owen’s heart into his throat in panic. Rolf and Asger heaved him back up and over the cliff just as something ripped into the back of his legs. Sudden pain flared through his calf muscle, but he ignored it as he scrambled back and away from the cliff. Just then, a spark-streaming bundle of fire whipped past his head as it fell over the cliff and onto the nest. Moments later, the pitch-soaked bundles Owen had placed caught flame, lighting up the night, setting free a cacophony of enraged shrieks and pounding wings.