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

by William Stacey

  “Who are you?” she asked, with the clipped accent of his true people.

  Modwyn fell to his knees, as did Idwal and his brother, Hywal. “Your servant, majesty,” Modwyn answered. “Modwyn Du’Greywynne. I am your great-nephew.”

  She stared at him blankly with those beautiful dark eyes for several long moments before finally answering. “I don’t have a great-nephew, but there was a boy, my brother’s bastard son. He lived on Felorin Island. Perwin, Perwin Du’Greywynne his name was.”

  “My father,” Modwyn answered.

  Her eyes tightened. “But you have the accent of a mainlander.”

  “It… it wasn’t safe after the war for anyone with Greywynne blood,” Modwyn said. “They called you a traitor, killed anyone even remotely connected to your bloodline.”

  “It’s truth, my queen,” said Idwal, speaking for the first time.

  Nodding, she offered her hand to Modwyn, who took it—forcing himself not to snatch it back when he felt the chill of her flesh. He helped her to her feet. Idwal rushed forward to help as well. Hywal remained on his knees, his head down, shivering in terror.

  “So how is it then that you are alive, great-nephew?” she asked.

  “My parents ran, hid on the mainland, and changed their name. I was born far from these islands, far from my true people. I only ever knew of you from tales my parents told me, but we’ve always remained loyal, always. I’ve had to hide my entire life from these Dain dogs.” Modwyn kicked the corpse of Lord Palin for emphasis.

  “Dains?” asked Serina, licking the blood from her perfect lips. Just for a moment, Modwyn saw her fangs.

  “Yes, your majesty,” said Idwal. “This one is the new lord of the northern invaders, them what claim to rule us.”

  She cocked her head and considered Idwal for some moments. Then, she approached him and ran her bloody fingers through his hair and down his cheeks, leaving a trail of wet blood. She leaned in closer and sniffed him. “You are one of mine, aren’t you, you and this little one down here?” She glanced at Hywal, who was smiling like a puppy.

  Idwal’s eyes took on a fervent glaze. “I am—we are, your majesty. We’re loyal. We’ve always been loyal: my grandfather, my father, all of us.”

  “Grandfather? Great-nephew? How long have I slept?”

  “Forty-eight years,” said Modwyn, staring at his hands. “It’s been forty-eight years since Duke Oskaley sealed the catacombs after he claimed you were dead.”

  “Forty-eight years?” Her face reflected her confusion, and her red eyes darted about the crypt. “I know it was a long time… but that long?”

  “I’m so sorry, Majesty,” whispered Idwal, tears running down his cheek. “The northerners said you were dead, killed by Stron with that sword. Had we suspected the truth, every man, woman, and child on this island would never have stopped until you were free.”

  “It’s true,” said Modwyn. “The old duke, Oskaley, claimed Stron killed you with Sight-Bringer. It was only a week ago, on his deathbed, that he admitted the truth, that you were only trapped down here.”

  “Oskaley?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Stron’s younger brother,” answered Modwyn. “He was… here during the battle.”

  Serina turned about, looking over the Great Crypt. Her gaze drifted near the entrance. “I… I remember that fool Stron. He was no threat, even with that Illthori talisman. Belion—him I remember well, damn him—he was the one who trapped me in here by bringing down the entrance. There were others, priests, soldiers. I killed them all, but another? Wait!” she spun back to face him, her eyes widening in remembrance. “A boy, a frightened little boy who hid near the entrance and then ran? That was a Dain?”

  Modwyn snorted. “The mighty Duke Oskaley. The hero who helped kill you. The only survivor of the battle.”

  Serina raised an eyebrow. “Where is the mighty Oskaley now?”

  “Dead, majesty. It took me years, but I found employment with the Dains as a physician. I poisoned him weeks ago. I had planned to kill all of them eventually. After he became ill and admitted his crime, I finished him for you.”

  She glided up next to him—so fast, like a dream—then ran one palm down the side of his face. “Such a loyal boy, such a…” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze went slack. She spun from him, staring away into the darkness. “I don’t feel it,” she said, so softly it was almost a whisper.

  “Feel what, your majesty?” Modwyn asked.

  She bolted, so fast she became a blur as she disappeared into the darkness. Then, moments later, she screamed in rage, shattering the silence of the Great Crypt. In a moment, she was back, her face a mask of rage, glaring at Modwyn. His knees went weak as fear swept through him. With no warning, she pressed up against him, crushing him against her chest, wrapping her thin arms around him. He felt like his spine would snap. “Where is it?” she hissed into his ear. “Why did you move it?”

  “What… I… I… don’t—”

  “The sword, Sight-Bringer. Where is the sword?”

  “Majesty… please,” he begged.

  “Someone has taken it!”

  “Majesty… there’s… there’s no one.”

  Then, he remembered the young blond soldier. Spots of light popped in his vision, and Serina turned his head to expose his neck. Her fangs glistened.

  “Wait… please… I think… I know. There was one other, a soldier. He must have taken it.”

  “Another enemy? And you’ve allowed him to live?”

  Her fangs brushed against the skin of his neck, but then she dropped him, and he fell crashing to the stone floor. He lay there, staring at her bare feet, trying to breathe. After another moment, she would have broken him, he knew. His eyes darted to Idwal and Hywal, standing just behind her, their mouths hanging open like toads’.

  “Go,” Modwyn croaked. “Find the soldier and kill him before he can warn the others. Bring us back the sword.”

  They stared at him in open contempt.

  “Do it,” said Serina. “Bring me back Sight-Bringer, and hurry—it is dangerous.”

  As the two men ran for the opening to the crypt, Modwyn rose to his knees before her.

  “Now, grandnephew,” the terrible beauty before him said. “You will tell me of these others within my home.”

  Chapter 26

  Owen

  With the overwhelming terror driving Owen on, he barely remembered crawling back through the tunnel to the landing and the red stairs. When he saw Fin’s body lying in a pool of blood—his throat cut—his anger burned through his fear, finally forcing him to stop. In death, Fin stared at Owen, as if accusing him of letting him down.

  As he had let down Lord Palin and Keep-Captain Awde.

  He couldn’t help it—he felt as if someone else had had control of his body, forcing him to run. Even then, even after seeing her with his own eyes, he had trouble accepting the truth—Serina Greywynne, the greatest evil that had ever plagued the kingdom, once again walked the land.

  A lit lantern sat in the blood beside Fin, and Owen picked it up, realizing he still held Sight-Bringer in his other hand.

  He looked down upon his friend. “I’m sorry, Fin.”

  Then he turned and bolted up the red stairs, into the catacombs above. He was out of breath by the time he reached the top and staggered down the passageway. Even with Sight-Bringer’s aid, he was still groggy from whatever poison Modwyn had given them. Stumbling, he fell, dropping the lantern. As it tipped over, its wick dimmed. Frantic, he snatched at it, placing it right side up and softly blowing onto its burning wick. His hopes sank as the wick went dark.

  Without light, he would surely wander around for hours.

  Then he realized he could see after all—not perfectly—but well enough to make his way. Once again, Sight-Bringer’s magic was helping him. He stumbled down the tunnel, lined with corpse-filled recesses. He had to reach the others, to bring help. Maybe together they could defeat Serina and save the captain, maybe they—
<
br />   At the sound of boot steps behind him, he realized they were coming for him.

  His mouth dry, his pulse racing, he staggered forward. He was a capable enough swordsman, but in his present state, a child could have beaten him, and if he were attacked by Serina, he’d stand no chance at all. Once again, terror gripped his heart, threatening to unman him. If he stood and fought, he’d die there—he knew that for a certainty. He had to hide but didn’t know where. Torchlight flickered behind him. Frantic, Owen looked down upon the corpse-filled recesses along the catacombs passage—a bad choice, he knew, but his only one.

  He pulled himself into the recess and lifted the feather-light corpse that had been inside it over himself, like a foul, moldy blanket. If they even glanced inside the recess, they’d see him. He edged farther back, as far as he could manage. The footsteps were almost upon him. He held his breath and prayed to the Father for help.

  A moment later, two pairs of legs swept past—the hunters. They didn’t stop, not taking the time to search the crevices. And why should they? There are hundreds of these openings. What’s one more? Besides, what kind of a coward hides among the dead? His face heated with shame. The hunters moved farther down the tunnel, heading toward the entrance to the keep—the only way out.

  He knew if he stayed there, they would eventually find him, so he crawled out. As he did, the corpse fell apart, its bones falling onto the stones. Then, he heard a sound—the soft crashing of waves against rocks, the secret dock, another way out.

  He made his way back down the dark tunnel toward the sound, still amazed that he could see somehow, even if poorly. Soon, the air became wet and pungent with salt as he came upon the chamber with the dock. Moonlight shone through the dock’s opening, illuminating the rotting wooden walkway across the pool.

  He crossed over again, ignoring the creaking, and climbed the stairs to the cave’s opening. Leaning against the opening, he stared out into the night. The cool, wet breeze on his face energized him. Clouds partially obscured a full moon that provided only enough light to make out the dark, churning waters below. The tide was low, the waters at least twenty feet away. He bit his lip as he stared into the waves. If he jumped, the waves would batter him against the cliff face.

  Tilting his head back, he stared up the cliff. He could just make out the shape of the fortress walls above. He was a superb climber—had been all his life—but he didn’t know if he could manage a cliff face at night and reach those walls. The rocks would be wet and slick, but the last time he had been here in the daylight, he had seen bushes growing out of the cliff. Owen didn’t know if they would be solid enough to hold his weight.

  Do I really have a choice?

  He knew he couldn’t stay there. The hunters would find him. At least another hour was going to pass before the next two men came on duty. Besides, the fresh air was beginning to revitalize him, to wash away the last of Modwyn’s poison. He had to do something to warn the others.

  He pulled off his padded undertunic, exposing his upper body to the chill, and wrapped his tunic around Sight-Bringer. Next, he removed his belt, looped it in a knot around the longsword’s strange cross guard, and refastened the belt over his chest so that the sword hung down his back. The blade of the longsword, although wrapped in his tunic, rested against his spine, which wasn’t the safest of choices, but he couldn’t think what else to do. He couldn’t leave it there, not after traveling all that way for it. Nor could he climb with it in his hands.

  Facing the sea, he leaned out again over the edge of the opening, still holding onto the side of the cliff. Tentatively, he placed one boot on the rotting pieces of the pier. It groaned under his weight but held. To his right was an outcropping of stone that looked as though it could hold his weight. From there, he figured, he might be able to—

  Something smashed into Sight-Bringer, almost knocking Owen from the ledge. The object, a hand axe, ricocheted into the sea. His arms flailing for balance, he grabbed at the rocks. As he did, a figure rushed at him, moonlight glinting off a knife’s blade. Instinctively, he let go of his handhold and grasped at the wrist of the man’s hand, somehow connecting, but as the man collided into him, they both fell back into the open air.

  A feeling of weightlessness lasted only a moment, and in that moment, Owen sucked in a mouthful of air. Then, they hit the water. The sudden impact of the freezing-cold water was like being smashed in the face with a shield. As they sank, the other man grasped at Owen’s neck with both hands, trying to pull him in closer, to use him to climb above the water. Owen raised his knee and forced it between them. Then, he kicked out, shoving his attacker away. He saw the shadow of the other man sink deeper, flailing, bubbles rising. Free, Owen followed the bubbles, heading for the surface, where he could just make out the moonlight. When his head broke free of the water, he gasped for air, still swallowing a mouthful of salty water.

  Choking, he went beneath the waves again.

  Frantic, he pushed for the surface once more, managing to break free again. The turbulent waters grabbed him, tossed him about like flotsam, and smashed him into nearby rocks. Pain lanced through his chest and knee, but he grasped at the rocks, feeling his fingers slip over the seagull shit that coated them. Somehow, he managed to hang on, just barely keeping his head above the waves. Coughing, he gasped for air as the waves tried to pry him loose and drag him back beneath the water. The cold sapped his strength, and his fingers numbed. He knew he couldn’t stay there as the waves would tear him loose and dash him against the rocks, but then, the clouds over the moon must have parted, because he suddenly saw a dark opening in the cliff face, not twenty feet away. A cave!

  He let go of the rock, pushing off it with his legs, and swam with all his might.

  Chapter 27

  Brice

  When Brice drifted back to consciousness, he was certain he was still asleep, still having a nightmare because—although his head pounded and his throat burned—a woman was chanting. The words were foreign, undecipherable, yet wrong somehow… foul. An overwhelming sense of dread came over him. The tales other men had told of him, of his exploits in battle, were vast exaggerations, he knew. He had been frightened in every single battle he had been in, but the sensation had never been anything like what he was feeling at this moment. He was literally trembling in fear, gasping for air, as chills shook him. He didn’t know what was going on, but somehow he recognized he was in great danger. He needed to get up, to act, but found it difficult to move.

  What is happening?

  He recalled that he had been with Lord Palin in the Great Crypt. They had just broken through when he… What? I must have passed out.

  Why?

  The answer came to him in a flash of insight. Modwyn! He’s done something—his medicine was a trap after all, but how? I watched him breathe through his own mask. The chanting increased in volume and became more demanding in tone.

  Do something, man. Do it now!

  He forced his eyes open, willing himself fully awake. The first thing he saw was the foul-smelling piece of cloth Modwyn had given him to wear. It lay nearby, just before his eyes. I remember now. I pulled it from myself before… before all went dark. Then, his gaze fell on the face of the young man he had been responsible for, Palin Dain. Palin’s eyes were glassy in death, his blond hair matted down with his own congealing blood.

  Oh, Palin, Danika, I’m so sorry. All my fault.

  As the chanting grew in intensity once more, Brice’s gaze drifted beyond Palin to the woman with the pleated blond hair who was standing before him, her back to Brice, her arms outstretched. She wore only a coat of rusty ring-mail armor, her shapely legs naked and white, her feet bare. Before her lay a pile of dead, dozens of ancient corpses. Watching her with wide, frightened eyes was the weasel Modwyn. Next to the physician, shaking in terror themselves, stood two of the Greywynne hunters.

  All traitors!

  A hot rage burned away Awde’s self-loathing, pushing back his terror. His heartbeat pounded in
his ears—he had failed Palin but could still avenge him. His fighting axe lay not three feet away, where he must have dropped it before passing out. Modwyn had made a mistake—he should have killed Brice when he had the chance. Brice prepared to act. He inhaled deeply, gritting his teeth.

  Now!

  He moved, scrabbling forward, and gripped the haft of the fighting axe as he staggered to his feet. His body was refusing to move properly—he was too slow, too clumsy, as if moving underwater, but he drew the axe back with both hands and prepared to cut the woman’s head from her shoulders. Modwyn—his eyes filling with terror—pointed at Brice, spittle running down his chin. Brice froze in midstrike when the withered corpses moved. Their dead heads turned and stared, eyelessly, at Brice. The blond woman in the ring-mail armor spun to face him, her eyes impossibly red, her forehead covered in tattoos.

  He struck, hacking down at her with the axe, but she swept upon him, impossibly fast, and caught the axe in one hand, wrenching it from him as if he were just a child. She tossed the axe aside, where it clattered against the stones. Gripping him by the collar of his undertunic, she drew him in close against her blood-drenched chest.

  Fangs! She has fangs. What—

  “What have we here—a hero?” She spoke with the clipped accent of a Fenyir islander.

  In that moment, he knew who she was—Serina Greywynne.

  He struggled, but she merely tightened her grip, choking him. Then, she turned to Modwyn. “First, the one who stole my sword, now this one?”

  “Awde, my queen,” said Modwyn. “Brice Awde… the leader of the Wolfrey soldiers.” He snorted derisively as he came closer, a sneer on his face. “Men call him a great warrior, a hero of the north. Not so great now, though. Have you wet yourself, coward?”

  “Damn you, traitor. How?” Brice squeaked.

  A huge grin lit up Modwyn’s skeletal face. “Do you think me so stupid as to handle such a dangerous poison without first administering an antidote to myself? The marsh tick poison made me ill, but not insensible.”