Brice struggled helplessly in Serina’s iron grip. “You’ll die for what you’ve done, bastard.” Serina nuzzled her face into his neck, softly licking it with her tongue. Revulsion shuddered through him. Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered into it. “A great warrior, are you?”
“Fu… fuck you… witch!” he managed. Spots of light danced in the edges of his vision.
“Perhaps later. Your loyalty to your northern masters is admirable but misplaced. I can use a man like you. I’ll need new battle captains now, new childes.”
“Bu… Burn, witch!”
“In time, perhaps.” She bit into his neck.
Pain coursed through him, setting him afire in agony, and he jerked helplessly in her grip. Then, she began to drink his blood, sucking it from him. Waves of pleasure coursed through his body, mingling with the pain. He shuddered in obscene joy and felt his erection grow. Shamed, he moaned in pain… in pleasure. Darkness edged in on him, and he felt himself slipping away—escaping her. His thoughts were of Danika, how he had failed her, too.
I’ll find you in the afterlife, my love.
But then, Serina stopped drinking. “Now, childe, you drink.”
With one hand, she held him up by the back of his neck while she bit into her own wrist. Dark blood welled against her pale skin, and she thrust her wrist against his mouth.
He couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop her.
He drank.
Then he began to change.
Chapter 28
Dilan
Dilan bolted upright, his blanket falling away as he gasped for air. His chest hurt, and a thick layer of sweat coated him. He had been dreaming of Prophet’s Bridge again, that damned bridge. Everything was dark around him, but when he heard the snores of other men, he realized he wasn’t back with his brother on that cursed bridge but in the witch’s old fortress. Most of the men had complained of near-constant nightmares, and Dilan was no exception. Tonight, though, was the first time his nightmare was of the bridge instead of the red stairs. No matter how far he ran, he couldn’t escape that bridge.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he got up and pulled on his pants and undershirt then his boots. He figured he might as well relieve himself since he was up. He glanced at his sword and belt lying beside his blanket. In the Rams, the penalty for being caught without your weapon had been weeks of mucking out stables and shoveling horseshit. He picked up his sword and belted it on. He wasn’t a Ram anymore, but some habits remained.
Moonlight spilled through the open window, providing just enough light by which to make his way. Sleep would evade him that night, so he might as well stay up. He cautiously stepped over the lumps of sleeping men, many of whom tossed and turned in their sleep. At the open doorway, Dilan paused and glanced back at the room and its occupants.
We need to leave this place. We shouldn’t be here.
He slid out into the corridor. Although the halls were dark, Dilan had little difficulty finding his way along the stone passageway, up the circular stairs, and out onto the keep’s outer wall. The Wolfrey soldiers had built a wooden privy up there so they could drop their scat over the side of the wall. A light breeze blew against his face, carrying with it the smell of the sea and the promise of the coming fall.
Just then, boot steps pounded up the stairs behind him. Father Bowen, his face flushed, ran right into Dilan.
Dilan caught the young priest by his shoulders before he could fall back down the stairs. “Easy, Father.”
The priest’s eyes were wide with fear. “Have you seen him?”
“Seen who?”
“Hrawlgir. He’s awake.”
“Finally. Well, that’s good news for a change.”
“No, it’s not. He’s gone… disappeared.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was sitting with him, reading by candlelight when he just… sat up.”
“Well, he had to wake up eventually.”
“You don’t understand. He looked at me and said, ‘She’s awake.’ He wasn’t right, so frightened. I went to get him something to drink, was only a moment, but when I returned, he was gone. I searched but couldn’t find him anywhere. I thought maybe he came up here.”
“Who’s she?” The hairs on the back of Dilan’s neck rose, a prickling in his scalp.
Father Bowen shook his head. “I think he must have fevers, or… I have no idea. Where’s Modwyn? He’s supposed to know these things.”
“I don’t know, Father, but we need to find Hrawlgir now—especially if he’s not right in the head.”
Dilan looked about, scanning the parapets. Father Bowen paced beside him.
“He’s been asleep for days now,” said Dilan. “Maybe he had to piss. I know I would.”
“He’s been doing that in his bedroll,” said Father Bowen. “I’ve been the one cleaning up after him.”
Isn’t that also Modwyn’s job?
Dilan stopped abruptly. There, near the wooden privy, a man stood outlined against the moonlight—standing atop the parapet.
“Hrawlgir,” said Dilan softly, not wishing to scare the man, for if he were sleepwalking, he might slip and fall, a distance of at least a hundred feet to the rocks below.
The two men stepped closer and saw the man standing atop the privy was indeed Hrawlgir. The other man gave no indication he was aware of them, merely swaying in place atop the wall.
“What’s he doing up there?” Father Bowen whispered.
Dilan shook his head. “Hrawlgir, come down.”
Then, as if finally aware of them, Hrawlgir turned and stared at Dilan. “We shouldn’t have come,” he said. “We don’t belong here.”
Dilan shuddered. That was exactly what he had been thinking. Slowly edging closer, Dilan wondered how fast he could rush forward if Hrawlgir made any sudden moves. He figured if he could reach the other man without startling him, he might be able to grab him and pull him down from the wall.
“It’s all right, Hrawlgir. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Hrawlgir cocked his head, a smile on his face. “There’s everything to be afraid of.” Then, without another word, he turned and stepped off the edge of the wall, disappearing into the night.
Dilan stared, frozen by the suddenness of it. A wet splatter sounded against the rocks far below. He turned and stared wide-eyed at Father Bowen, but the priest wasn’t looking at Dilan. Instead, he was gazing up at the night sky.
“The moon is blood,” the young priest said.
Chapter 29
Owen
Owen collapsed on his belly just inside the cave opening and lay soaking in a shallow pool of water. At least he wouldn’t drown, he thought—until the tide rose and flooded the cliffside cave. With every breath, sharp jabs of pain cut through his lungs. Never had he been so exhausted. Every single part of his body hurt, but forcing himself to his hands and knees, he crawled away from the cave opening until he could stand upright. The rocks inside the cave were wet and—judging by the smell—covered in bird shit, making the footing even more treacherous. He cautiously made his way farther back into the cave. The pommel of Sight-Bringer—somehow still strapped to his back—scraped against the rocks above him, so he untied the belt, removed the sword, and once again pulled his sopping-wet undertunic over his body.
What now?
He held Sight-Bringer against his chest. Once again, his vision and other senses became sharper, his thoughts more coherent. If he didn’t get out of that cave, he’d freeze to death, he knew—long before the tide rose and drowned him. He couldn’t go back out into the sea. Even if he left the sword in the cave, which he couldn’t do, he was too exhausted to swim against the waves again. Finding that cave had been very lucky, but maybe the entire base of the cliffs was honeycombed with them. If that was the case, perhaps they were all connected. If they were connected, he might find another way out. Slowly, on shaky feet, he edged his way along, farther back into the cave.
“Please… Fath
er Craftsman,” he said, his teeth chattering, “show me a way out.”
The cave’s ceiling narrowed, and he had to scramble along on hands and knees, but he kept moving back until he could no longer see the cave opening and the moonlight. Then, he ran out of room, with solid rock before him. So much for that plan. What do I do now? I’m trapped down here. Dejected, he curled up on his side, the sword’s pommel held against his chest. His teeth chattered so hard that his jaw hurt. He was so tired, so exhausted… Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a moment, just until he—
He woke with a start, not realizing he had fallen asleep. A strong vibration had woken him, one he had felt throughout his entire body.
The sword—it was the sword.
Still resting against his chest, the bizarre handle was thrumming with occult energy, as if alive. He wrapped his numb fingers around the hilt and gasped when strength and energy flowed back through him, forcing him fully awake. He then saw an opening above him that he had missed earlier, a crevice perhaps two feet wide that led upward. At the very top of the crack was a streak of stars—the crevice led up and out of the cave.
Wrapping his belt around the hilt of the sword again, Owen tied it to his waist and then braced his back against one of the crevice walls and his feet against the other. Slowly, he began to worm his way up. The climb was torturous and felt as if it took him hours, though that couldn’t possibly have been true. Nonetheless, when his head finally broke free of the crevice and into fresh air, he inhaled deeply, grateful to be finally free. Using every bit of energy he had, he managed to pull himself free of the opening and roll over onto the wet rocks.
The sound of waves crashing nearby forced him to move again, to stumble wearily to his feet. The rocks became high cliffs behind him but dropped down onto a beach. Down was easier than up, so he staggered down onto the sand. With the sea on his left, he stumbled down the beach. Looking up, he stared in confusion at a red moon, which made no sense at all. Then, the red moon spun wildly, and he collapsed, the longsword slipping from his fingers as he fell onto the wet sand.
Chapter 30
Dilan
Dilan stared at the moon in disbelief. How is this possible? He rubbed his eyes with his palms, but the moon remained a deep bloodred. Lightheaded, he turned and gaped at Father Bowen. The young priest whispered a prayer, his face reflecting the same bewilderment Dilan felt.
“Father Craftsman, help us,” Dilan said. “What… what does this mean?”
The young priest reached out with trembling fingers and grasped Dilan’s shoulder, as if to hold himself up. “I don’t know, but this has nothing to do with the Craftsman. This is dark magic.”
A scream rose from the stairs leading down into the keep. Dilan’s fingers brushed his sword hilt, glad for the habit the Rams had instilled in him. “We need to get below. Rouse the others.”
Father Bowen nodded. “I’ll follow.”
Dilan drew his sword and slowly made his way down the stairs in the darkness, Father Bowen just behind him, breathing down his neck.
“A little space, please,” Dilan said, “just in case I need to fight.”
“Yes, yes of course.” The priest moved back a bit.
They heard another scream, but that one was abruptly cut off. A moment later, someone began beating a metal shield boss with his blade—the call-to-arms.
“We’re under attack,” said Dilan.
“Are the islanders rebelling again?”
At the bottom of the stairs, they came out onto a long corridor. Most of the men had been asleep but were scrambling to pull on armor and grab weapons. Beams of crimson moonlight stabbed through open window slips in the corridor’s outer wall, giving everything the illusion of being drenched in blood. Dilan shivered as he moved down the corridor, sword in hand.
Dilan paused only long enough to dash back into the chamber he had shared with the others. Owen and Fin weren’t there. They had been on shift clearing the stairs. The other men, though, were awake and preparing for battle. Dilan grabbed his shield, slipping his left arm through the enarme strap and gripping the handle of the metal boss. He considered taking the time to pull on his ring-mail coat and helmet, but just then more men screamed in terror and pain down below in the great hall, and Dilan knew he was out of time.
When he moved back out into the corridor, he saw he had lost Father Bowen in the press of men moving toward the stairs. Dilan joined the herd, following the other guardsmen downward. He heard the fighting before he reached the bottom, but what he then saw made no sense.
The great hall, a massive chamber with arching stone columns bearing the groin ceiling, was pure chaos. Wolfrey men-at-arms, some wearing little more than undergarments, were battling walking corpses. Living dead men, some little more than bone and dry, parchment-like flesh, came at them with grasping skeletal hands. The walking corpses seemed weak, barely able to remain upright. Every time a guardsman lashed out at one of the attackers, he severed an arm or a leg or split an entire body in half—the withered internal organs spilled out like rotted grain onto the stones of the great hall. None of the corpses had eyes, yet somehow they unerringly went after the living men, an unstoppable wall of the dead. When they did manage to reach past the soldiers’ weapons, to grasp and hold onto the men, they soon overwhelmed them, pulling them down in a knot of dead, grasping flesh, biting and tearing.
“Ghouls!” Dilan cried out. “We’re fighting ghouls, walking corpses.”
A steady stream of ghouls shambled out of the corridor leading down to the catacombs’ entrance. The hundreds of recesses filled with the mummified remains of the Greywynne-family servants flashed once more in Dilan’s memory. How many corpses are there in the catacombs? Hundreds? Thousands? Are they all ghouls now?
He rushed forward, smashing his shield into the dried-out face of a ghoul, knocking its head clean off and sending the rest of the body flying. It had such little weight, as if it were paper. Two others came at him, reaching out for him with skeletal hands missing fingers. He stepped into them, shield high, moving from the back guard and swinging his sword forward and low in a powerful cut that severed the front leg of the closer ghoul at the knee. The second ghoul had been grasping for Dilan’s shield, trying to pull him off balance, so Dilan simply smashed the metal boss into it, knocking the monster back and creating space to thrust his sword point into its face. The blade went clear through the ghoul’s skull in an explosion of dust, coming out the back of its head, but then the ghoul pushed forward, forcing its head up the length of Dilan’s sword blade, still reaching for him. The other ghoul—the one whose leg Dilan had severed—reached up and wrapped its bony arms around his thigh as it tried to pull him down. Terror gave Dilan strength, and he yanked his sword back savagely, taking the ghoul’s head free of the body. He yanked his rear leg free of the other ghoul and shoved the headless ghoul into the other, quickly backpedaling to get out of their reach.
This is impossible. How do you kill something that’s already dead?
He realized the answer a moment later: the same way Stron and his army had—with axes, fire, and organization. Fighting as individuals was going to get them all killed.
“Shield wall!” he yelled, slashing out at a ghoul that was trying to pull down another Wolfrey soldier, cutting the damned thing nearly in half and saving the man. “Form a shield wall, or we’re all dead. And somebody bring axes!”
Wild-eyed, he looked around himself. The hall was complete pandemonium. Then, he caught a good look at the face of the warrior he had just saved: it was Hooper Tibs, Marlin Ornkey’s friend, one of the two men most vocal in asserting that Dilan was a deserter. Hooper was staring stupidly at Dilan, his piglike eyes shining.
This isn’t going to work. They’re all like him. No one will listen to me.
Then Hooper moved to Dilan’s left and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. “Shield wall,” Hooper screamed. “Form a shield wall, you whoresons!”
Dilan lapped his shield over Hooper’s, p
rotecting Hooper’s right side. Two more men ran to join Dilan on his right. All four men locked their shields together, overlapping them, as a small knot of ghouls rushed them.
“Ready,” Dilan yelled, and the men leaned into their shields, bracing themselves.
The ghouls hit but with no real force, no strength, and were thrown back several feet. All their strength was in numbers and unyielding effort, Dilan realized. As the ghouls came at them again, the men struck down at them over their shields, knocking them to the floor. “Back,” Dilan yelled, and the men stepped back a pace, opening enough room for them to cut downward at the still-moving corpses, to hack them to pieces.
More men joined them, and a true shield wall formed. Each time the ghouls attacked, the men threw them back. Soon, the ground before them was littered with arms, legs, and hacked-up torsos—but the only blood came from the soldiers. Behind him, he heard Father Bowen praying, calling on the Craftsman to give strength to their arms. A grim determination came over Dilan, forcing back his fear.
We can do this, he realized. We can beat these abominations. “They’re nothing more than bones and dust,” he yelled. “Hold the line. Stand firm.”
More men joined them, extending the line all the way across the hall. Behind them, more men formed, and he felt a hand on his back, shoring him up. Someone handed war axes forward to the men in the front rank. As the ghouls came against them again, the men with the axes began cutting them down like cords of wood.
“Forward!” Dilan yelled.
As one, the men stomped forward with their left feet, throwing the ghouls back. The shield wall moved forward, the front rank stepping over the still-moving ghouls on the floor, trusting the men behind them to cut them apart. Dilan grinned, overcome by battle rage. This is working. We’re going to—
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 16