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

by William Stacey

  Crossbow strings snapped, sending bolts flying into the air. Harpies screamed in fear and pain. Owen threw himself forward, grasping at his crossbow. He rolled over, bringing the weapon up just as a huge harpy descended on him, its wings trailing sparks, and released the firing lever. The bolt hammered into the harpy, throwing it back over the cliff in an explosion of feathers. Nearby, a man screamed, his voice trailing away.

  Someone’s fallen.

  Flames from the burning nest roared upward at least twenty feet high, highlighting the men and harpies, the heat pushing the men back. Above the flames, burning harpies screamed, trailing fire as they dived and swooped. Owen reloaded his crossbow and shot another harpy, sending it spinning toward the ocean. All around him, Fioni and the others were shooting at the beasts. At least two of the men were now wielding spears, keeping the harpies back. Owen tried to reload his weapon, but another harpy came right for him, its talons outstretched, so Owen smashed his weapon into its face, hearing bone crack and sending it tumbling back over the edge of the cliff and into the raging fire below. When he saw one of his crossbow’s arms was now broken off, Owen dropped it and drew his Hishtari sword. Another harpy lay nearby, clearly wounded and still thrashing about dangerously. He cut down at it, severing its head. He looked about for another foe but realized that the battle was over. All the harpies were either dead or dying. The fires from the nest now roared up from below, lighting up the entire Fist of Wodor, no doubt visible for dozens of leagues away.

  But they had done it.

  Rolf clapped Owen on the back. “Well done, Northman. You’ve got bigger balls than a whale.”

  “Whales don’t have balls,” said Fioni, smiling in the light of the fire. “But it was impressive nonetheless.”

  “I heard someone scream,” Owen said.

  “Figlif,” said Rolf. “Saw it myself. One of the beasts pulled him from the cliff.”

  Fioni, her eyes grim now, reached out her hand and gripped Rolf’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. He was a brave man.”

  “Aye, he’ll be missed.”

  As the warriors took stock of their injuries, Owen’s fingers drifted over his belt. He stared about him, sudden panic welling within him.

  Sight-Bringer was gone.

  Chapter 4

  Danika

  Danika dreams.

  A small part of her subconscious recognizes the dream for the fantasy that it is, but she can easily dismiss such an uncomfortable truth when the fantasy is this pleasant. She’s with Brice, the only man she’s ever loved. They lie in bed together, naked, her thigh draped over his, her body warm with the afterglow of their lovemaking. She rolls over on her stomach, lying atop his hard muscles as she playfully tugs on his thick mat of chest hair. She sighs, loving this moment, never wanting it to end. “Danika,” he says, pulling her from her bliss.

  And then she’s no longer with him.

  Now, she stands alone on a beach. The air is warm and moist, caressing her skin. She turns about, seeking her lover. The forest behind her is thick with pine trees. A huge flat-topped mountain rises in the background. The sky directly overhead is blue and clear, but in the distance, thick clouds ring the mountain.

  Island, she realizes, not knowing how she knows this but certain that it is true.

  I’m on an island.

  “Danika!” Brice calls her name again, more urgently this time.

  He’s standing a dozen paces away before the forest’s edge, watching her, a look of profound sadness on his features.

  “Why are you over there, love?” she asks. She tries to go to him but can’t move. Looking down, she sees she stands in the surf, ice-cold water lapping at her bare calves. Why can’t she go to him?

  “I can’t stay anymore,” he says softly, sadly, his voice breaking with emotion.

  And that frightens her. Nothing has ever stopped Brice Awde.

  Except death, she suddenly realizes. “What is this place, Brice? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t want to cross the Golden Veil without you, but I can’t stay any longer. Forces are pulling at me, incessantly demanding I move on. I’m sorry, my love, but I have to go.” He steps back a pace, and a shadow falls over his features.

  “Brice, wait! Come back.”

  He’s into the tree line now, almost out of sight.

  “Brice, I want to go with you.”

  But Brice was gone.

  Danika bolted upright in her blankets, a thick coating of sweat over her skin. The night was black, and rain pattered on the tarp above her. She groaned, rubbing her chest, which felt as though she had just swallowed a block of ice. “Brice,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I should have gone with you when you asked.”

  The only answer was the wind rippling the tarp, the soft snoring of the others lying nearby. Sighing, she rolled out from beneath the tarp, recognizing she’d get no more sleep this night. The dream had felt so… real, as if she could have touched Brice. Was it only a dream? Brice’s shade had already visited Owen; she was certain of that.

  “I can’t stay anymore.” That’s what he said.

  A log in the bonfire cracked and split apart, sending sparks into the air. Someone sat on a lump of wood before the fire, highlighted by its glow. Kora. It’s Kora, she realized. Fen Wolf’s first mate must be waiting for Fioni, Owen, and the others to return. Danika dressed, pulling on her boots and wrapping her cloak around her shoulders as she made her way over to the fire. Ekkie lay on her belly near Kora, her eyes glowing red in the firelight. Kora was shifting embers about the fire with a stick as Danika joined her. “Can’t sleep either, my lady of Wolfrey?”

  She shook her head. “Danika, please. We’re a long way from Wolfrey.”

  “Long way from everywhere... Danika.”

  “The others?”

  Kora glanced up at the Fist of Wodor in the bay, and the fire still burning atop it. “We won’t know for sure until they come back… or don’t come back. But”—Kora paused, smiling slyly—“harpies don’t start fires.”

  Danika lifted another log and sat down as well, basking in the heat from the fire. Ekkie rubbed her head against Danika’s thigh, and she scratched behind the dog’s ears. Kora handed her a small metal flask filled with sloshing fluid. The top was open, and Danika recoiled from the pungent, nose-clearing alcohol smell. She shook her head and handed the flask back to Kora. “Take a sip,” said Kora. “As you said, we’re a long way from your kingdom. I won’t tell the other noblewomen.”

  Danika lifted the flask to her lips, taking just a taste. Immediately, she coughed violently, thrusting the flask back to Kora. Kora laughed as she pounded Danika upon the back before upending the flask and drinking from it herself. Danika, her eyes watering, held her hand out once more, and Kora gave her back the flask. She took another sip, this time feeling a warm glow build in her toes. “What is it?”

  “Flame-rot. From Greywynne Island.” She smirked at Danika. “Your family’s island, is it not?”

  “Not any longer,” said Danika bitterly.

  “Not ever,” said Kora. “Don’t get me wrong. We Waveborn don’t much like the toads. They’ve lost their way. But lost or no, they’re still kin to us. Still more like us than you—despite what you may believe in your kingdom.”

  “Your kingdom, too,” said Danika.

  Kora snorted. “Think so, do ye?”

  Danika sighed. “Maybe not. Much of what I once knew to be truth… isn’t.” Her vision was a tad blurry. When Kora offered her the flask again, she shook her head.

  Kora shrugged and sipped again. “From ignorance comes wisdom. Least that’s what my great-grandmother always told me.”

  Danika glanced up at the Fist. “How long do you think… before we know?”

  “Not before sunrise, even if all is fine. But don’t fret. Fioni is harder than tempered Lyrian steel. And your knight…? Well, he’s a tough fish, isn’t he?”

  “I think we both know Owen is no knight.”

  Kora snorted. “
Knew that the moment you said he was. I like Owen. We all like Owen. He’s no fish-up-the ass, knighted nobleman—no offense offered.”

  “None taken,” said Danika, reaching down to scratch Ekkie’s ears again before holding out her hand for the flask once more.

  Chapter 5

  Fioni

  When Owen dashed forward, trying to throw himself at the roaring flames, Fioni tackled him around the knees, bringing him down. A moment later, Rolf was on top of him as well. “Let go!” Owen yelled, frantic.

  “Idiot!” snapped Fioni. “You’ll burn.”

  “The sword.”

  She tightened her grip on his thrashing legs. “It’s steel, Owen—Illthori steel. The fire can’t get hot enough to harm it.” He stopped struggling, perhaps understanding she spoke the truth. She understood his fear. Sight-Bringer was the only weapon they possessed that could harm Serina’s heart. In his journal, Serl had noted the various attempts he had made to destroy the heart: wooden stakes, fire, even trying to cut the heart to pieces—nothing Serl had possessed could even mar the heart’s flesh. Whatever magic Serina had used to remove her heart also kept it beating, kept it indestructible. If Sight-Bringer was lost, so was their chance to kill Serina.

  Owen groaned in frustration.

  “Are you calm?” she asked.

  He lay still, breathing heavily. “Aye,” he finally said.

  When they let him go, he sat on the ground, grim-faced, staring at the fires shooting up from the ledge. “She trusted me with it,” he said.

  She knelt beside him and squeezed his shoulder. “If it’s down there, it’ll still be there when the fires burn out. You’ll see.” She turned to Rolf. “Begin the preparations.”

  Rolf grunted and went about his tasks.

  As Owen climbed to his feet, he winced, hobbling in place. Fioni examined the back of his leg, seeing the blood soaking through his breeches. “You’re hurt. Let me look at it.”

  Nearby, one of the stone obelisks had fallen over, and she helped Owen hobble over to it and sit down. Kneeling in front of him, she yanked his boot off and then ran her fingers up his leg. He winced, glaring at her. “Don’t be such a guppy,” she said.

  He muttered something beneath his breath she didn’t catch. She rolled the hem of his breeches up, examining the wound. There was a cut, but it was less than an inch wide and not that deep, although it bled profusely. “Not so bad. Won’t even need stitches, which is good, because I’ve always been a poor seamstress.”

  He frowned at her. “Just bind it tightly with a strip, then.”

  She shook her head as she traced the outside of the puncture with her finger. “Harpy talons are filthy. If we leave it, it could become foul. When we get back to the ship, ask Kora to put a salve of boiled goat urine on it.”

  As she pulled a small metal flask from her belt pouch, he eyed her suspiciously. “What’s that for?”

  She made a noncommittal shrug and then sighed. “Usually drinking.” Without warning, she poured some of the contents of the flask over his wound. He cried out, bolting upright and almost kneeing her in the face.

  He glared at her in indignation. “What in the name of Father Craftsman are you doing?”

  “Oh, grow up. It’s far better than filling with pus and becoming feverous.” She grabbed his hips and forced him back down before tightly wrapping the wound.

  He sighed, looking around him. “So this is the Fist of Wodor then? Strange, that a Fenyir holy site is on the Hishtari coastline.”

  “Wasn’t always Hishtari coastline.” She stood up again, hands on hips, and let her gaze sweep over the monuments with their carved Fenyir runes. “Once, all this land belonged to our gods and their servants, including men and women, us Fenyir.”

  He rolled his pant leg back down over the bandage before pulling his boot back on. “I thought you had to travel to Torin Island, this Gateway to the Gods, in order to talk to them.”

  She sat beside him on the stone, enjoying his discomfort as she invaded his private space, and he wriggled away from her. These kingdom types are so strange, she mused. Such prigs. “You can speak to the gods from anywhere, Owen. They just don’t listen—or perhaps they simply ignore us. I think we’re like pets to them, or livestock.”

  “Our Father Craftsman loves us,” he said.

  “Of course he does,” she said with a forced smile as she patted his thigh, feeling the dense mass of muscle through the cloth. Gods, he’s like a horse.

  “So why here then?”

  “Trees are special to us, Owen. We’re master carpenters. Our ships, our homes, everything comes from wood, from the forests. Even Wodor was born from the roots of the world tree, Hrandruil, as was his brother, the Dark Shark we do not name. When Fenya’s shield shines down, it allows the wights to interact with our world, to see and hear us. And wights are notorious tattletales. They will always rush off to tell the gods what we mortals are saying and doing.”

  “And Torin Island?”

  “Ah.” Her smile dropped. “That’s different. Once, eons ago, the gods themselves lived on Torin Island. It was from Torin Island that they departed our world for the stars. That’s why we call it the Gateway to the Gods. Our priests—men like my uncle Denyr—say that on Torin Island a trueborn Fenyir warrior can speak directly to the gods, bypassing the wights. Although...”

  “Although what?”

  “This is all legend, Owen. Few among us have ever been to Torin Island and returned to speak of it—Serl, Kora’s grandmother, those who sailed with Serl, and perhaps a handful of others over the centuries, usually blown off course by storms into the Feral Sea. Only by luck did they find the island, and only by even greater luck—or, perhaps, the will of the gods—did they find their way home again.”

  “Because of the fog?”

  “And the storms. Not for nothing are those waters named the Feral Sea. At the best of times, fog covers it, making navigation impossible. At the worst, ship-killing storms rise unnaturally fast.”

  By now, the others had set small fires before each of the obelisks. The effect was eerie, evoking in her supernatural awe. The flames seemed to flicker across the runes carved into the obelisks, giving them a silver sheen. Even the harpy stench had died off, their filth burned away by the fire, which was now only embers. She began to pull her boots off, first one and then the other. Owen stared at her. “Aren’t you going to go look for your sword?” she asked, rubbing her toes. “Gods,” she whispered, “I’d sleep with a bear for a hot bath.”

  He stared at her in confusion for a moment before sudden understanding filled his eyes. He jumped to his feet and ran to the edge of the cliff, where smoke rose, highlighted by the glow of embers in the nest. She joined him, the ground cold on her bare feet. “I didn’t think it would take long to burn out. Rolf!” she called out. “Some help?”

  A bare-chested Rolf, his thick chest covered in gray hair and scars, joined her. Owen stared at him in surprise, but before he could say anything, the two of them lowered him back down over the cliff again onto the ledge. The nest was gone, leaving only ashes and red-hot coals, but Owen kept back on the rocks, using his boots to shove the embers away. While he searched for Sight-Bringer, Rolf untied the laces at the back of Fioni’s ring-mail coat and helped her pull it over her head and shoulder. Then she stripped off her sweaty gambeson and under-tunic. The night air was cool on her skin.

  Owen whooped in glee from below. “It’s here, thank Father Craftsman. It’s still here, and it’s unhurt, barely even warm.”

  Glancing over the edge, she saw he now held aloft the broken blade, a toothy, satisfied smile on his handsome features. Thank the gods for that. “Maybe you should come back up before you fall off.”

  When they pulled him back up, he stared wide eyed at her and Rolf, and then the others—all naked now—their armor, weapons, and clothing neatly piled on the ground. She faced him, naked, hands on hips. “Well?” she said.

  He stared at her in stunned silence. “What?” />
  “Come now, Owen. There are no witnesses to our oath-swearings. If you’re here, you’re contributing. Remove your clothing. Be as the gods made you.”

  “I… naked?”

  “Did your mother birth you fully clothed?” She walked away, perhaps exaggerating the sway of her hips a bit more than necessary. She paused, looking over her shoulder and enjoying the emotions storming across his handsome features. “Completely naked, Owen.”

  #

  As Fen Wolf’s master, Fioni was the “head of the family” and led the ceremony. She and each of her father’s former warriors, as well as Owen, had used harpy blood to paint a Wodor’s Hammer on their chests. The blood glistened wetly on her skin, running in a streak across her breasts from nipple to nipple and then down her stomach to run in rivulets between her thighs. When it dried, it would be impossible to wash clean, but traditions were traditions, and she didn’t want the wights whispering that she and the others had failed to show respect to Wodor.

  She stood before the others at the base of the oak tree, swaying in the firelight. Owen stood back, watching the row of warriors—each old enough to be her father. His face registered his confusion and unease. He was clearly uncomfortable, and perhaps a bit embarrassed. She hid her smile, focusing on the task before her.

  Wodor was chief among their gods, but it wasn’t his blessing she sought this night, nor did she call upon his oldest son, Orkinus the sea god, master of Nifalgen, the alehouse beneath the dark waves. This night was an oath night, and they sought the blessing of the goddess Fenya, daughter of Wodor and namesake of their people, the goddess of lightning, thunder, storms, war, and courage.

  The warriors swayed and chanted, on occasion breaking into an impromptu dance or throwing themselves chest first at their mates. All were old, middle-aged, with too much gray hair and too many scars. It broke her heart that such brave men, men who had already fought, bled, and killed for her father so many times before, could not now live out their lives in peace. Damn you, Galas! Damn your treachery, and damn your ambition.