Part 2
Black Fish
Chapter 16
Serina
Serina awoke in darkness with the press of dead flesh upon her—an entirely familiar sensation. She lay beneath her corpse pile in Iron Beard’s musty hold, feeling the gentle rocking of the hull and listening to the soft creaking of its strakes. The air thrummed with the sweet stench of decaying flesh. Above her, she heard voices conversing on the deck and the thump of boot steps as the crew went about their business. As always, her hunger gnawed at her, but there’d be time for blood later. Now, she wanted to see the Dain woman and make sure her servants had recovered that cursed Illthori blade, Sight-Bringer. She sat up, pushing the corpses away. In the darkness, she heard a single heartbeat pounding wildly.
She smiled, running her tongue over her fangs. My toy awaits.
With a flick of her fingers, she cast a minor spell, a cantrip, and a single flame flared up on the wick of a nearby candle, casting flickering light over the terrified face of Kory’ander Dey, standing near the foot of the wooden steps leading up to the deck.
When she saw the terror in his eyes, she knew that he must be expecting her displeasure, which could only mean he had failed. Damn it, and damn him. “Tell me,” she said softly. “Where is the niece of Stron?”
His heartbeat quickened. “Gone, my queen.” Unable to look her in the eye, he stared at the filthy wooden deck.
“Gone?”
“Sailed away, my queen, with the Red Wolf, Fioni.”
She sighed, pulling her blood-splattered bare legs out from under the corpse of a young boy, and sat up. As always, she slept in the nude, covered in the dripping gore and excrement of the dead. Water gently sloshed against the side of the hull. We’re stationary, she realized. Anchored still. Thick spiderwebs hung from the corners of the hold, but there were no longer any vermin on this ship. Rats, mice, roaches, even spiders fled from her presence. Animals would sooner drown than remain near her. It was the Dread, a gift from her dark master, Ator—the greatest of the Fenyir gods—that maintained fear and loyalty among her servants. Usually, that fear kept them faithful and loyal, but when she grew angry—as she did now—the power of the Dread multiplied. The smell of fresh feces suddenly filled the hold, and Dey, trembling like a leaf, fell to his knees. This one will not last long in my service, I fear. The pretty ones rarely do.
“Where are we?” she asked, holding her hand out to him.
Dey, white-faced, rose again and scrambled forward. Taking her hand, he helped her climb down, his gaze averted from her blood-drenched body. “Still anchored in the bay, off the coast of the tower of rock, my queen.”
“Your mission?”
“Not my fault, my queen. The Red Wolf set the woods on fire. Your ghouls, they… they didn’t stop. They walked right into the fires. My men and I barely escaped. But by the time we made it back to the beach, the Fenyir scum had already captured Hard Stone and were battling Iron Beard.”
She fought down her rage; it would be undignified to take out her anger on a blood thrall. “Yet they escaped?”
“The other ship, my queen, the one that slipped away as we arrived. It came back, and the Fenyir jumped aboard it. By the time that Fenyir dog of yours, Galas, managed to cut his way free of Hard Stone, the Red Wolf and the others were already out of the bay.”
“So, no prisoners, no sword—yet we remain here, at anchor. Why?”
“It was too dangerous, my queen. You were sleeping, and the other longship, Thunder Killer, never returned. Its crew must be dead, so I felt it best to be prudent. But Galas, that insolent scum, insisted we rush after them. I knew better, so I countermanded his orders, told him you’d want us to stay in place until I spoke to you. It nearly came to blood, but the cowardly Fenyir scum did as I commanded. His kind always backs down. He should be punished, though, taught his place.”
She stared at Dey for long moments. He has no idea who I truly am, my background. Surprising considering who his great-grandfather was. I do believe I actually feel sorry for Kalishni’coor. “You should have listened to Yarl Galas,” she said softly. “Now we’ve lost an entire day.”
Dey looked crestfallen, his demeanor like that of a mistreated dog. Shaking her head, she approached one of the huge water barrels placed against the hull. The barrel reached her waist and probably weighed three hundred pounds. She ripped free its nailed-shut lid and then easily lifted the sloshing barrel over her head, holding it there as she turned in place and faced him again. “My ghouls are all gone?”
“Yes… yes, my queen.”
“What of Galvin and the islanders on Hard Stone?”
“Most are dead, my queen, including Galvin.”
“Dead? How many dead in the fighting, both on the beach and the ship?”
Dey paused. “Dozens, I imagine, my queen.”
Serina slowly poured the contents of the barrel over her head, washing away the bloody filth. There will always be setbacks, she told herself, but as long as there are dead, I shall have an army. She set the empty water barrel back down.
“My queen,” Dey said, “what will you do about Galas? That Fenyir dog—”
She swept forward. As fast and as strong as her milk had made Dey, he was still only mortal. In moments, she held him by the sides of his head and lifted him into the air, his feet dangling and his face red. “I am Fenyir, you Hishtari turd. Insult my people again, and I will crush your head like a barnacle caught between a ship’s hull and a pier.”
“Yes... yes, my queen,” he squeaked, his eyes bulging.
She dropped him, and he collapsed near her dripping feet, gasping.
“Do you have anything at all to show for your failure?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn.
“Yes, your majesty.” Dey scampered away to a sack that sat on the deck beside the stairs. Still on his knees, his hands trembling, he undid the opening and withdrew a severed head—a middle-aged Fenyir warrior with a huge burn scar on his right cheek. “This one tried to slip past us, but I killed him for you, my queen.”
“And can you interrogate a decapitated head, fool?”
Dey’s blue lips opened and closed. “I... I—”
She batted the severed head from his hands, sending it rolling across the wooden deck. Bloody water dripped down her body, pooling between her thighs and then running down her long white legs. He remained kneeling, his head down, his shoulders trembling. Serina ran her fingers through his long hair, and he shuddered. “Do you think me cruel?” she asked in a soft voice.
“No, of course not, my queen,” he whined. “It’s just that… I’m not like the… the others. I am the Moon Lord of Daenipor. My family is ancient. My bloodline is royal—”
Her fingers tightened in his hair, and he yelped in pain. “Your bloodline is insignificant—as are you. You are a thrall now, nothing more, a slave.”
He squeaked in fear. “Majesty, wait!”
She pulled his face between her thighs, held it there, grinding his nose against her filthy pubic hair. “Lick me clean, Moon Lord of Daenipor.”
When he hesitated, she ripped a handful of his hair from his scalp. He howled in pain, but moments later, she felt his tongue between her legs. When he began to gag, trying to pull back, she ground his face against her sex. If he failed to please her, she’d crush his skull and throw his corpse atop the pile with the others, one more ghoul. When she felt his tongue again, she moaned in pleasure, spreading her thighs wider. “That’s it. That’s it.”
He continued to cry and whimper, but they usually did; she was deaf to such things now. Closing her eyes, she sent her consciousness out, seeking Dilan. In moments, she made contact, overcome with relief that he was safe. Dilan was not like Dey. Dilan was a warrior, a hero. “Where are you, my childe?”
“North, Mother.” His thoughts drifted to her, sounding far away. “But I can’t come to you.”
“No matter. I shall come to you.”
Chapter 17
Owen
Owen winced as Kora drove the wooden needle and the catgut sutures into his scalp. Gali stood behind her, helping her, as she had with all the other wounded. Once again, he marveled at how like his sister Gali looked. It had been Gali’s face he had seen before passing out, not Tanda’s. Tanda was still back home in Wolfredsuntown. Will I ever see her again?
Lady Danika stood next to Gali, commiserating with Owen as Kora sewed his wound shut. The noblewoman had been present and holding a bandage against his scalp when he had finally woken up, his head throbbing. While he slept, she had even removed his heavy ring-mail coat, stowing it in their sea chest for him. Purple bruises covered most of his chest, but there could be no doubt that Vory’s ring-mail coat had saved his life in the worst of the fighting. Sight-Bringer, she had taken back for safekeeping and now wore on her belt.
A spasm of pain cut through his skull, and he winced, drawing back from Kora and her needle. She shoved his head back against the hull, holding him in place as she shoved the needle through his tender skin. “Be still. It’s not that bad. You were lucky.”
He was. As the least badly wounded, he was the last to receive treatment. Gali and Kora had been tending wounded men all day, many of whom had already died. Out of the two dozen or so Windhelm prisoners they had rescued, only Erik Gull-Song and a handful remained unhurt. Worse, of the thirteen house-herd warriors who had transferred their oath to Fioni the night before, only Asger still lived—and he was dying, an arrow still lodged in his lungs. Fioni knelt beside him now, holding his hand and waiting as Fen Wolf rocked in the waves, its sail lowered.
The longship drifted in the currents, some leagues yet from the eastern boundary of the fog bank, which seemed on fire now with the light of the setting sun behind it, glowing through it. They had sailed west all day, approaching the Feral Sea before lowering their sail. In the morning, when Fioni could make use of the Raven’s-Eye to find the sun, they’d enter the Feral Sea. For the first time since he and Lady Danika had joined the crew, they’d spend the night at sea and not camped on the shore.
And however many more nights it took after that to find Torin Island.
The other wounded, just under a dozen men, sat huddled together or resting between the rowing benches. The battle against Iron Beard had been the most bloody, one-sided fight in which Owen had ever been involved. They’d have all died had Kora not come back for them. With Iron Beard and Hard Stone lashed together with the grappling hooks, Galas had been unable to maneuver to stop Kora from taking on the survivors and rowing away again.
“Done,” said Kora, twisting his head one way and then the other to examine her work. “The cut isn’t that bad, but you might get sick or become dizzy. Don’t climb the mast for a few days, eh?”
Owen gingerly touched the sutures in his scalp. His head continued to throb but not as badly as it had earlier that day. “Aye. Thank you, Kora.”
“Good thing for you that whoever threw that hand-axe didn’t know what they were doing, or it would have been buried in your skull.”
“I’m lucky it wasn’t you.”
“You’re right about that.” She slapped him on the back as she moved away to check on the others. Gali trailed behind her. The young Hishtari woman had been helping Kora all day.
Lady Danika sat beside Owen. They both watched Fioni and Asger. The large bald warrior lay covered in furs now, his breathing wet. Ekkie lay beside the kneeling Fioni, her head resting on Fioni’s lap, her brown eyes filled with sorrow. Owen watched Fioni’s face for long moments. When Asger dies—and it will be soon now—every single man who participated in the ceremony last night will be dead.
Ale and salt… for the rest of their lives.
Fioni’s gods are cruel.
Gali came back, an open wooden jar of salve in her hand. “Kora say me to rub in your wound.”
Lady Danika took the jar from her hand. “Go get something to eat, Gali. I’ll do that.”
Gali slipped away, heading to the prow, where a small hearth burned and the smell of stew drifted through the sea air. Lady Danika began to smooth the ointment into Owen’s scalp. “Owen, the sword you were holding.”
“Keep-Captain Awde’s, my lady. I took it from the leader of the Greywynne Islanders. It’s yours, of course. I know how much he meant to you.”
A flicker of sorrow passed through her large brown eyes. She bit her lower lip and tried to smile. “Keep it. He’d want you to have it.”
“Me? Why?”
Finished with the salve, she sat back again, pulling the flaps of her cloak tighter around her shoulders, sitting beside him in silence for some moments before she finally answered. “Because he liked you, Owen, thought highly of you. I think, maybe, that’s why his shade led you to me in the Rose Palace.”
He shook his head. “I’m just a soldier, no different from the others.”
Her smile was a sad thing without true joy. She shook her head. “If we’re being honest with one another, Owen, I should tell you that at first I thought the same thing. I know how you came into my family’s service, what you did to your own brother. Because of that, I assumed you were just another dumb brute. I was wrong. You’re very different from the others. Brice saw it. I see that now, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Brice was mentoring you, Owen. He thought you could become a lieutenant to Warin Sayer.”
“Me?”
“He wanted me to run away with him. But he needed someone to take his place. Personally, I always thought Warin to be a weak choice as Keep-Captain, but I suspect Brice considered him a temporary replacement—until you could become Keep-Captain.”
“That’s crazy,” he whispered. “I’m no leader.” But even as he spoke, he thought back to all the impromptu discussions Awde had held with him. While Owen hadn’t been the only man-at-arms to receive the keep-captain’s special attention, he couldn’t remember anyone else who Awde had singled out as often or as consistently for long discussions on the finer points of logistics, tactics, leadership, and duty. He felt a sudden breathlessness spread through him as he realized the truth. Awde had treated Owen differently and had elevated his training over all the other soldiers. Maybe that was why the more experienced men, including Sayer, had been so cold to him, why they called him Horse-Boy.
They had been jealous.
“Owen,” said Lady Danika, hesitation in her voice. “There’s something else. Something I need to tell you. I saw… someone on the other ship. I think, maybe—”
Nearby, Asger began to thrash. He coughed, spitting up a mouthful of dark blood. His lungs are filling with blood, Owen knew. Any moment now...
Asger tried to lift his head but failed, so Fioni held it for him in her lap. His eyes were wide, frightened, his lips moving feebly. Kora knelt next to Fioni, her eyes filled with sorrow. “He needs to go,” she said softly.
Fioni closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. When she opened them again, they were filled with determination. She drew her father’s beautiful pattern-welded longsword, Wave’s Kiss, and placed it in Asger’s hand, closing her fist over his. In the last light of the setting sun, the red blood gem embedded in the sword’s hilt seemed to shine. “Go, warrior,” Fioni said softly, leaning in and placing her cheek against his. “Join your friends in Nifalgen. Your duty is over, your oath fulfilled.”
Asger’s eyes remained open and staring in death.
Erik Gull-Song stood behind Kora, his chest rising and falling, his eyes solemn. “A brave warrior, Fioni. He’ll swim straight to Orkinus’s mead hall. I know it.”
Fioni remained like that for some minutes and then pried her sword from the dead man’s grip. She stood, her chest heaving, pain filling her green eyes, and faced Owen. “This is your fault.”
His head snapped back as if struck. “But I…”
“It was your plan to burn the woods that cost me Rolf. It was your plan on the beach to split our forces and go after Hard Stone.”
“We… we had to do something.” H
e felt them all staring at him now, judging him.
“I curse the day I took you from the sea. My father is dead. Vory is dead. My home taken. And only after I met you. Owen Northman? I name you Owen Ill-Luck.”
“Fioni,” said Kora, pulling on her arm. “This is not the time for such—”
Fioni wrenched her arm free and spun away, pushing past the watching crew. Erik Gull-Song followed her, glancing back at Owen with cold, hard eyes.
Kora stood before Owen, a crestfallen look on her face. “She doesn’t mean it, Owen. It’s just… all her father’s herdsmen...”
Owen’s face burned, and he stared helplessly at his hands. “No. She’s right. It is my fault.”
Chapter 18
Galas
Galas Gilt-Mane stared down at the Windhelm prisoners, several dozen young women and a handful of boys, who were bound hand and foot around Iron Beard’s massive keelson, the block of wood that held the towering mast in place. At first, there had been almost fifty of them, but each night that Hishtari guppy who insisted others call him “Moon Lord” led several down into the hold, and only Dey returned. Now, this group of prisoners was all that remained of the once-proud Windhelm clan. Serina had made an example of them, and once word spread to the other clans, Galas doubted any of them would refuse when Serina called upon them to join her army and make war once again on the Kingdom of Conarck. This time, he knew, the kingdom would fall.
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 64
