Chapter 20
Owen
Owen dreams.
And in his dream, he walks through the low, curved tunnels of the Greywynne family catacombs. He doesn’t know how he got here, doesn’t know where he’s going, but knows that he must keep going, that to stop now is to die. Holding his burning torch before him, he moves forward into the darkness. Desiccated corpses—dried-out husks of former Greywynne family servants, now honored in death—lie in recesses along the walls. Over the years, some of the bones have fallen and now lie scattered across the surface of the passage. When he accidentally steps on one, the cracking noise reverberates down the dark passageway, causing him to wince. He shouldn’t be here, he knows. No one should be here, but he needs to find something, something important, something he needs in order to leave—
Another crack echoes down the tunnel, this time from behind him. Someone else is with him in the catacombs. He holds out his torch behind him, stares into the darkness, but sees nothing.
“Who’s there?” he calls out.
The darkness giggles, an evil mocking laugh.
His hand goes for the hilt of his sword—but he isn’t wearing one! He’s unarmed. That isn’t right. He’s a man-at-arms—where are his weapons? His skin turns clammy, and his pulse races.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he yells, hearing the lie in his voice.
More giggles, now followed by whispers, indistinct, too soft to make out, except for one word—his name.
Turning, he bolts. When he comes to an intersection, he chooses a direction at random. Boot steps now pound behind him, getting closer. Wild-eyed, he pauses long enough to throw a quick glance over his shoulder, seeing nothing but darkness. He runs on, breathless and terrified, for what seems an eternity. He stops again, now gasping for air, unable to go any farther. He glares behind him.
“Not afraid of you,” he pants, wheezing, barely coherent.
More whispers, more laughter. Emrys Ballard? Is that Emrys Ballard? That isn’t possible. Something has happened to Emrys, something that…
He remembers a rope squeaking, a body twisting. Crows.
With new fear driving him on, he turns and staggers away, taking turns at random, probably running in circles. Have these tunnels no end?
And then, he finds himself at the top of a flight of stairs, red stone stairs leading down. Each step is intricately carved with markings that seem to flow and alter as Owen looks at them, as if they were somehow alive. Carved into the wall over the stairs is the motif of a winged griffin, the once-proud Greywynne family insignia, now reviled throughout the kingdom. An unnatural coldness rises from the depths of the stairwell.
“No,” he whispers. “I can’t go down there.”
Something is down there, something that hates the living.
More laughter from behind.
He spins about and, for the first time, sees his pursuers, three shadows, three men, standing just beyond the light of his torch, but he knows who they are, just the same—the Ballard brothers.
“Go on, Owen. Go down,” Emrys whispers. “She’s waiting for you.”
Owen shook his head. “No. Can’t.”
“Can’t go back,” mocks another of the Ballard brothers, Trystan perhaps. “Go down.”
His torch flutters weakly and grows dim.
“Go down,” the Ballards whisper together, now almost chanting.
Just as his torch dies out, they rush him. He stumbles backward, his arms flailing at empty air. He’s falling, falling down the red stairs. He screams—
Owen bolted upright, his blanket falling from him. His hair, wet with sweat, was stuck to his forehead. Running his hands over his face, he groaned. The air was cool, with the salty tang of the sea. He was still outside, still in the courtyard of Greywynne fortress, near the embers of a campfire. His friends were sleeping nearby. For long moments, he sat there, breathing deeply. Although still dark, the sky was just turning red in the east. The others snored, farted, and shifted about in their sleep.
A nightmare. It had been only a nightmare. Was it any wonder?
Nearby, one of the men, Fin perhaps, mumbled in his sleep, thrashing about. Owen wasn’t the only one having nightmares that night, it seemed. The islanders were right—that place had to be haunted.
Then, Fin jerked in his sleep. “Can’t go down the red stairs,” he mumbled before twisting away.
Owen felt a wave of cold nausea sweep through him as he stared at his friend.
#
As the sun rose over the walls of the fortress, the camp stirred, and the men awoke, bleary eyed and lost in their own thoughts. Owen watched them, wondering how many others had dreamed of the red stairs.
They broke their fast, and led by the sergeants, they set about exploring the keep. In large groups, they combed through its passageways, searching each level, each chamber. Nothing of any value remained. Stron’s army had ransacked it, taking everything, including the furniture. Its walls, though, stood firm and strong and would protect them from the elements. Under Keep-Captain Awde’s orders, they moved their camp inside, taking over the upper levels, where the Greywynne servants had once lived.
When they were alone, Owen pulled Fin aside and asked him about his dream, but Fin said he couldn’t remember any dream, just a feeling of unease and a bad night’s sleep. Most of the men were in a foul mood as well, as if none of them had slept well. When he closed his eyes, Owen could still see the red stone stairs leading down to the Great Crypt, where generations of Greywynne family members had buried their dead. The old stories said that Serina had lived down there, that she had held court in the Great Crypt, surrounded by the vaults of the dead. It was there that Duke Stron had confronted her, striking her down with Sight-Bringer.
They found the sealed-up entrance to the catacombs almost immediately. It was hard to miss, a walled-up stone archway bearing the Greywynne family griffin at the end of a long passageway in the cellars of the keep. The stones blocking the archway had been hastily placed—with too much mortar, the stones inexpertly and too quickly set—the excess mortar having run and dried in long rivers, like candle wax. Priests had painted religious wards over the stones, seals against evil. The men who had walled up the underground catacombs had clearly been frightened. Even a half-century later, Owen felt a sense of foreboding when he stared at the entrance.
Young Lord Palin stood before the wall for several long moments before he turned to Keep-Captain Awde. “Tear it down.”
#
The tight corridor had only enough room for two men at a time to work with hammers—Hrawlgir and a guardsman named Jon. Most of the other soldiers stood back, watching. Both men were stripped to the waist, taking turns striking the stones with large rock hammers. Sweat glistened on their skin as they tore down the barricade. Just behind them stood Lord Palin, Keep-Captain Awde, Modwyn Du’Aig, and Father Bowen. Owen jostled forward to see better, past Fin, just as Hrawlgir’s hammer smashed a fist-sized hole in the wall. Instantly, a cloud of dust whistled out from the opening, coating Hrawlgir and giving him the appearance of a statue.
Silence settled with the dust.
Keep-Captain Awde was the first man to move, stepping up to examine the opening Hrawlgir had made. He looked over his shoulder at the crowd of men behind him. “Bring me a torch.”
Father Bowen moved closer. “Captain, please… a prayer first.”
Keep-Captain Awde paused and then nodded. The young priest, holding his Craftsman’s hammer before him, recited his holy verses, beseeching the Father’s protection. The air continued to whistle through the opening for a while longer before abruptly stopping. Father Bowen, his prayer complete, nodded to Keep-Captain Awde, who held the torch to the hole, trying to see through.
Although it was cool down there, the keep-captain’s face glistened with sweat. “There’s open space on the other side,” he said. “Looks like stairs.”
Every man in the north had grown up hearing the legends of the Greywynne family catacom
bs, which were said to be older than the fortress itself. Owen remembered the old graybeards who had accompanied Stron, saying that the Greywynne family had built their fortress there on those cliffs because of the ancient mazelike catacombs beneath the ground.
Nonsense, Owen told himself. If the Greywynnes didn’t build the catacombs, then who did?
“Captain,” Lord Palin said, concern in his voice, “what’s wrong with that man?”
Owen followed his gaze to where Hrawlgir still stood, transfixed, drool running down his chin, his eyes vacant. His lips softly opened and closed, as if he were whispering.
Keep-Captain Awde shook Hrawlgir’s shoulder. “Hrawlgir, what’s wrong? Speak up, man!”
Hrawlgir stared past him at nothing.
Keep-Captain Awde snapped his fingers, but the young man didn’t react at all.
Modwyn hurried forward. “Captain, if you please.”
The keep-captain stepped out of the way while the doctor peered into Hrawlgir’s face and then placed his ear against his sweaty, dirt-covered chest. The others pushed in closer, straining to see what was going on, but Awde ordered them all back.
“What is it, Doctor?” asked Lord Palin.
Modwyn shook his head. “I don’t know yet, my lord. He’s… clearly confused about something but unhurt.” The doctor took a step back, looked from Hrawlgir to Jon to the hole in the wall. “How are you feeling?” he asked Jon.
“I’m… I’m fine, Doctor. Will he be okay? Will I be okay?”
“Almost certainly,” said Modwyn. He turned to Keep-Captain Awde. “This man needs rest and sleep. I think there must be deep vapors down here, freed when the wall was broken.”
“Deep vapors?” repeated Lord Palin, moving back a pace. “Are we…?”
“We should be fine,” Modwyn said, “but the men working on the opening should wear masks over their faces. That would help, I think.”
“I’ve never heard of deep vapors before,” said Keep-Captain Awde.
Modwyn raised a thin eyebrow. “I suspect not. We studied them in the Physician’s University. The air belowground—once sealed up—becomes stagnant, dangerous.”
Keep-Captain Awde nodded and turned to Sayer. “Have someone bring Hrawlgir upstairs and stay with him. The rest of you, if you’re going to stay and watch, find cloth to cover your faces.” Then, he used his dagger to cut away a strip from the bottom of his shirt and tied it to his face. He reached out and pried the hammer from Hrawlgir’s grip before facing the fist-sized opening. Hefting the hammer in two hands, he glanced at Jon. “Together, then?”
Jon’s face went slack, his eyes widening. “I… Captain—”
“I’ll take a turn,” said Dilan, moving forward and covering his own face with a cloth as he took the hammer from Jon.
Keep-Captain Awde and Dilan nodded at one another and beat upon the opening. Rocks fell and dust rose to the rhythmic pounding of the hammers.
Soon, the catacombs lay open before them.
Chapter 21
Modwyn
Some hours later, Modwyn stood back while Keep-Captain Awde spoke with Lord Palin near the opening to the catacombs. Modwyn needed to be with them when they entered the catacombs—had to be with them when they entered the Great Crypt—but that wasn’t going to be easy. He knew there existed no practical reason to bring him along. While no one had come out and openly blamed him for the marsh-tick attack, Modwyn suspected that large blond cretin the others called “Horse-boy” must have said something about him and Idwal even though they had covered their tracks, for Modwyn was certain Awde was suspicious of him. No doubt, that fool would pass that suspicion along to the boy. Fortunately, the odd affliction that had overcome Hrawlgir had given Modwyn an idea, and they all seemed to have bought that nonsense about “deep vapors,” but he needed to act quickly. Inhaling deeply, he approached the two men.
Lord Palin and Awde ceased their conversation at his approach. Once again, Modwyn was certain he saw suspicion in Awde’s eyes. He ignored the soldier as the boy was the real power there.
“My lord,” said Modwyn, bowing.
“Doctor,” said the young man, his freckled face reflecting his uncertainty. “How is…?” He paused as his eyes flashed to Awde.
“Hrawlgir, my lord,” said the keep-captain.
“How is Hrawlgir?” asked Lord Palin.
“He rests comfortably,” Modwyn said. “Father Bowen is watching him.”
“Why aren’t you watching him?” asked Awde. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Modwyn paused, his back stiffening, but he ignored the challenge. “Hrawlgir will recover nicely. He only needs rest. But I am more concerned about those of us who will go deeper into the catacombs.”
“Why?” asked Awde.
“My lord, the deep vapors will likely be worse once we’re underground. You’ll need me nearby.”
The young man’s face reflected his confusion as he looked from Modwyn to Awde.
Modwyn softened his voice. “My lord, it will be very, very dangerous down there. Without me, I don’t think you’d be able to recognize the signs of vapors, act in time.”
“Tell us the signs,” said Awde. “We’ll manage.”
“Doctor,” said Lord Palin. “We do need to go into those catacombs. That’s the entire point of coming all this way. Now that the catacombs have been opened, how long before these… vapors go away on their own?”
“My lord, they could remain a threat for years, dozens of years.”
“Dozens of years?” asked Awde, the scorn clear in his tone.
“These catacombs have been sealed for decades, filled with Serina’s foul taint. Believe me when I tell you they will be dangerous for men for at least another lifetime. You could easily be leading your troops to their deaths—or, Father help us, your death. I can prevent that.”
Lord Palin’s hands pulled at the fabric of his pants, his gaze drifting from Modwyn to Awde, and he bit his lower lip. “What… what can you do, Doctor?”
I have him. Modwyn stepped closer, hefting his physician’s bag before him, letting the small glass vials inside clink. “My lord, I suspected the deep vapors could be a concern before we sailed from the mainland. When we arrived in Port Ollechta, I visited an alchemist and purchased a medicine, a counter to the deep vapors.”
Awde snorted. “Why wait until now to mention this?”
Modwyn lowered his gaze, trying to look contrite. “Because I couldn’t be sure it would be a problem, not until I knew for certain. Besides, the cure itself is dangerous.”
“I find that questionable,” said Awde.
“Enough,” said Lord Palin as he stepped between them, holding his hand up. “We can’t blame the good doctor for Serina’s evil.” He inclined his head to Modwyn. “What do you need?”
“I need to go with you when you enter the catacombs. And we should bring along one or two of the hunters.”
“What?” asked Awde. “Why would we want to go into a dangerous situation with people that are only a generation removed from open rebellion?”
“Because they are removed from rebellion. You can’t blame them for the actions of their grandparents forty-eight years ago.” His eyes snapped to Lord Palin. “That wouldn’t be very lordly.”
“I think I can blame them, Doctor,” said Awde. “I don’t think they’re all that far removed from those men Stron fought.”
“You’re wrong, Captain,” snapped Modwyn. “Besides, Master Idwal and his family, like all Greywynne islanders, have a long history of working the island’s silver mine. They’ve built up a natural resistance to deep vapors.”
“Those mines have been dry for decades, how is that poss—”
“Because, Captain, the resistance is hereditary! They have it, and we don’t. It’s really that simple.”
“Gentlemen, please,” said Lord Palin, his voice cracking. “Doctor, yes, you and one or two of the hunters may come. After all, Captain, they are my subjects now. If I expect lo
yalty, I need to show it to them.”
Awde glared at Modwyn but nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Pleasure rushed through Modwyn. Yes! All is now possible. He tried not to grin as he thanked the young lord and moved away. Moments later, he found Idwal lurking in the shadows farther back, waiting for Modwyn.
“It’s all arranged,” said Modwyn. “You and I for now. We’ll bring in your brothers as necessary.”
Idwal nodded, squinting down the tunnel to where the opening remained. “I dreamed of her last night,” he said softly, almost too softly to hear. “She called for me.”
Modwyn nodded, feeling for the first time in his life that he belonged somewhere. “She called to me as well. She speaks to us through our dreams.”
Idwal shivered, rubbing his palms against his upper arms. “How do you know all this, then? Who knows such things?”
“Ever since I was a boy, I have studied everything I could find about blood fiends, or vampires as some call them in the far east. Most of it was rubbish, superstitions, but some of it… I’m sure was true.”
“Why?” asked Idwal, staring wide-eyed at Modwyn.
They stood there in silence for some time before Modwyn finally answered. “Because, like you, she’s all I’ve ever had.”
Chapter 22
Owen
Owen led the way through the catacombs. Accompanying him were several other men-at-arms, including Dilan, as well as Lord Palin, Keep-Captain Awde, Father Bowen, and Modwyn—ten men in total, a party small enough to move quickly through the low, curving stone corridors, but still large enough to fight if they had to.
Fifty years before, Stron and his army had fought ghouls—living corpses of men, reanimated by Serina—through every step of the catacombs. No one knew how long such abominations could survive, but Owen was happy Father Bowen was with them. The old stories said that priests could force their will on ghouls—some particularly pious men could even face down blood fiends. Like the other men-at-arms, Owen wore his ring-mail coat but carried no shield. Instead, he held aloft a lit torch in one hand and a fighting axe in the other. Nothing killed ghouls like an axe—at least, that’s what the old greybeards back home had claimed. However, no one had seen a ghoul since Serina’s rebellion.
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 12