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

by William Stacey

Another guardsman charged at him with a sword raised above his head but moving far too slowly. Brice sidestepped around him, ripping his throat out as he did. The man, unaware of what had just happened, ran three more paces forward then fell forward into the dirt.

  Brice was already gone, moving on toward the tower.

  He didn’t know where the sword was, but a location within the fort’s tower was most likely, perhaps in the reeve’s chambers. No one else challenged him. With all that had happened that night, and with the speed at which he had been moving, the fort’s defenders probably hadn’t even seen him approach. With luck, he’d kill whoever had the sword and be back over the wall on his way to Serina within minutes.

  As expected, the tower was empty. Anyone who could fight was already on the walls or congregating in a small group atop the gatehouse. Brice swept through the tower’s chambers like a shadow, moving quickly up the stairs. The reeve’s chambers were empty. Wendel Dert must have joined the fighting himself. How surprising. Brice had expected to find the man cowering beneath his desk. The chambers appropriated by the Dain siblings were just above him. Perhaps Danika had Sight-Bringer.

  Danika.

  He paused, staring at his blood-soaked fingernails.

  What is this I feel… love? No—someone else had loved Danika. The only person he loved was Serina, and she was counting on him to bring her the sword.

  He ran up the stairs, coming out onto the landing before Danika’s quarters. He heard her moving about on the other side of her wooden door and smelled the blood pumping through her veins. His thirst coursed through him, washing away everything else. His need to feed was overpowering, irresistible. In a moment, he was through her door, his fangs bared.

  When Danika’s young handmaiden, Wren, saw him, she stared, openmouthed in abject horror. A moment later, Brice was on her, driving his fangs deeply into her neck, ripping through her veins. Hot blood poured down his throat, driving him on. She beat at him futilely with her small fists, but he kept drinking, feeling the giddy joy of her blood flowing down his parched throat as he consumed her. In seconds, her heart slowed then stopped.

  Letting her corpse fall, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood over his face. As his blood-need subsided, he could think clearly again. Danika isn’t here, nor is the sword. He swept through her chambers, stepping over the white-faced corpse of Wren.

  Where would Danika be, then? He paused by her window, staring down at the people standing atop the gatehouse.

  Their attention was on the islanders and Serina, which meant they still didn’t know he was here.

  Good.

  His vision tunneled in upon a small figure with long dark hair standing beside an elderly man—Danika, and in her hands, she held a longsword.

  Brice smiled.

  Chapter 51

  Owen

  Owen stood atop the gatehouse with Lady Danika, Dilan, and Father Cotlas. “They pulled everyone back,” Owen said, “including the ghouls.”

  Dilan leaned out past one of the gatehouse’s stone merlons, peering at the besieging force, out of longbow range. “Something’s happening. They’re all on their knees.”

  Lady Danika moved past him to peer around the stone.

  “My lady,” said Dilan, “I don’t think that’s—”

  “I can’t see,” she said then turned to face Owen. “Give me Sight-Bringer.”

  After he handed it to her, she held the sword point down, resting against the stones, while she peered around the merlon again. As she did, her body went rigid. “May the Craftsman save us. There’s a woman with them, and she’s covered in blood.”

  “Tall?” Owen asked. “With long blond hair tied in braids, tattoos covering her face?”

  She nodded, handing the sword back to him. Once again, he was amazed at the rush of energy that coursed through him when his fingers touched its hilt.

  “What do we do now?” Lady Danika asked.

  “The sun will be over the horizon soon,” said Father Cotlas. “She’ll need to find somewhere to sleep. Then, we can—”

  Without warning, Keep-Captain Brice Awde swept up the stairs of the gatehouse coming from the courtyard, trapping them against the battlements. Fresh blood streaked his face, and he grinned at them, exposing two long fangs. “Hello, friends.”

  “Blood fiend!” yelled Father Cotlas.

  Lady Danika screamed.

  Awde took a step toward her, but Father Cotlas darted before him, holding his Craftsman’s hammer and intoning a prayer. Awde glared at him but then faltered, his face registering his distaste.

  “Back, demon,” Father Cotlas commanded, thrusting his hammer forward.

  Awde stumbled back, his eyes darting away from the priest, as if he couldn’t look at him. Father Cotlas advanced again, looking tall and proud despite his age. Awde stumbled back farther, cowering before him, holding his forearm across his face.

  “Now! Use the sword,” Father Cotlas yelled. “Drive it through his heart!”

  Owen raised Sight-Bringer, holding it two-handed and aiming its point at the keep-captain’s heart. He was about to thrust forward when Lady Danika grabbed at him, knocking him off balance.

  “No, don’t!” she yelled.

  Owen stumbled into Father Cotlas, knocking him forward. The spell broken, Awde moved impossibly quickly, spinning the elderly priest about and ripping most of his throat out with his talon-like fingers. The priest’s blood sprayed over them, interfering with Owen’s thrust. Awde threw the dying priest into Owen, knocking him down. As Owen tried to untangle himself, Dilan charged, swinging a sword with his good arm, but Awde caught the weapon’s blade in his bare hand and ripped it from Dilan’s grip. He kicked Dilan in the chest, sending him flying back down the stairs. Owen staggered to his feet as Awde tossed the sword away.

  “Give me Sight-Bringer, lad,” Awde said. “I’ll let you live. She doesn’t care about you.”

  Owen struck, aiming a downward cut at Awde’s head. Once again, Awde swept out of the way while lashing out at Owen with the back of his hand. The jarring blow sent Owen reeling back once again into the battlements, knocking him down. Sight-Bringer fell from his fingers to clatter against the stones of the gatehouse.

  “Wrong choice, Toscovar.” Awde shook his head as he bent down to pick up the longsword.

  “Brice, no!” screamed Lady Danika as she rushed forward, throwing herself over Owen and covering him with her own body. “Please don’t do this.”

  Owen tried to push Lady Danika away, certain the creature who had once been the keep-captain would cut them both down with Sight-Bringer, but when Awde grasped the longsword, he froze, his eyes widening in shock. He stiffened, standing tall before them, holding the Illthori longsword before him, staring at it in abject wonder.

  His gaze—sorrowful, agonizing—went to Lady Danika, and he reached for her with one of his blood-soaked, talon-like hands. “Danika… what… How?”

  “Brice.” She reached out for him. “My love.”

  His gaze went from her to his bloody hand to the longsword he held. Once again, he met her eyes. “I’m sorry, my love. I failed you. I failed your brother. I’ve failed everyone.” He spun from her, placing the hilt of the longsword against the battlements, positioning its point against his chest.

  “Brice, no!” she screamed, reaching out for him.

  A moment later, he drove himself forward onto the longsword. In one clean movement, it punched all the way through both sides of his ring-mail armor, the blood-covered blade extending a foot out of his back. Lady Danika screamed.

  Keep-Captain Brice Awde fell forward onto his knees, his head resting against the stones of the battlement. Then, his body fell to one side and deflated, shrinking upon itself. In moments, nothing was left but his clothing and a foul, stinking shell of flesh that had once been a great man—a hero of the north. Moments later, even the skin dried up and blew away, leaving only armor and clothing.

  Far away, where the rebels we
re congregating, a woman screamed in unholy rage.

  And the edge of the sun broke over the horizon.

  Chapter 52

  Danika

  With the sun’s rise, Danika stumbled away from the battlement and entered the fort’s tower, heading for the small armory. Little of use remained there as most items of value had gone north with her brother, but she found a leather jerkin that, although large, would fit her. She then took a leather half-helm with a broken nose guard, a hand axe, and a long dagger and carried them up to her chambers. When she saw Wren’s corpse, something inside her snapped, and she fell to her knees beside the young woman, letting the tears flow, releasing the sorrow she had been holding within her. She gasped and sobbed, moaning like an animal.

  Palin, Wren, Brice… Too much death.

  She didn’t know how long she remained like that, perhaps minutes, perhaps an hour. Eventually, she dragged herself to her feet. Glancing at her bed, she considered climbing into it, pulling the covers over her head, and finding solace in sleep. No. I’m a Dain—the last Dain. I can’t quit. Brice would never have quit. He wouldn’t want me to. I’ll live for him. I’ll live for you, my love.

  Removing her dress, she pulled on a pair of thick hunting pants, a heavy wool sweater, and a pair of short riding boots. As expected, the half-helm was too large, but she stuffed a wad of cloth into it and tied it in place with the chin straps.

  Attaching the dagger and hand axe to her belt, she went back outside into the courtyard.

  The surviving members of the garrison were stacking the dead in two long rows. The fort’s garrison had consisted of thirty guardsmen. Thirteen had died the night before, and three more would likely die of their injuries that day—that left fourteen men, none of whom were in their prime. With Dert and the two young soldiers who had done most of the fighting the previous night—Owen and Dilan—that made a total force of seventeen warriors… and her. Not much of an army, really, she mused. Certainly not enough to hold out for another night, let alone the week or more it might take before another ship arrives in the harbor on its way to Port Ollechta.

  Owen and Dilan stood separate from the other soldiers, talking together beside the rows of Wolfrey dead. She joined them, noting that they too had equipped themselves with new gear following the battle. The two men wore ring-mail coats and carried half-helms under their arms. Owen wore Sight-Bringer on a makeshift cloth sheath over his back.

  Both men nodded in respect at her approach. “My lady,” they said.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked them.

  “A quick bite,” answered Dilan. He looked exhausted, ready to fall down, but he had carried himself admirably the night before.

  I don’t know him. How long has he been in our service? “You did well last night—Dilan, is it?”

  He inclined his head. His left arm was still in a sling, but if he was in pain, he didn’t show it.

  “We still need to figure out what to do with the dead,” the other man, Owen, said.

  She remembered Owen then, the young troublemaker her father had sentenced to service as a guardsman—the one Brice had thought had leadership potential. She considered him critically. He was a large man, muscular, with wide shoulders—but he was clearly not the dumb, violent brute her father had thought him. Her father had often been a very poor judge of character.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “What about the dead?”

  Owen frowned, biting his upper lip. “It’s just… well, Serina.”

  “We’re afraid she’ll turn them to ghouls tonight,” answered Dilan. “If they’re inside the keep when that happens…”

  Sudden understanding made her sway. Father Craftsman, help us. “Can we burn them?”

  Neither man met her eye.

  “No, my lady,” Dilan said. “Most of the firepots went north. We only have two bombs left. We’ll be in trouble if they come again.”

  “When they come again,” she said.

  Dilan nodded.

  Owen looked very uncomfortable but inclined his head as well. “When they come again.”

  The reeve, Wendel Dert, joined them, looking pale and exhausted, his face covered in soot. “My lady.” He inclined his head, finally demonstrating respect.

  Another man accompanied Dert, one of the older guardsmen, a weathered sergeant named Tosk.

  Where was he last night, when we needed an experienced leader? No matter—Dilan Reese has proved his leadership. “Master Dert,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  “Inventorying the fort’s supplies,” Dert answered, glancing at Tosk, who nodded.

  “And?” Danika waited.

  Dert looked ill, as though he was ready to fall down.

  Tosk answered for him. “Not good, my lady. We’ve plenty enough of food and water, but it’s arrows we need.” His eyes swept the dead soldiers. “And hands to shoot them.”

  “We can’t defend,” said Dilan.

  Dert’s eyes grew wide. “Will Serina even take prisoners?”

  “No, of course she won’t,” said Danika.

  “Actually,” said Dilan, “I was thinking of attacking.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Dert, staring at him in disbelief. “We’re outnumbered—the islanders, the ghouls… Serina herself. We might as well cut our own throats. We can’t—”

  Danika raised her hand, cutting him off. “What are you suggesting?”

  “They won’t expect us to come out,” said Dilan. “We have Sight-Bringer. Serina will be asleep. We kill her, and this is all over.”

  “Master Dert isn’t wrong about the odds,” she said.

  “The odds will only get worse if we wait. She’ll sleep during the day. That gives us a chance.”

  “My father said Serina was still awake, waiting for them in the Great Crypt when Stron confronted her—during the day.”

  “Maybe, my lady,” said Dilan. “But what other choice do we have? I don’t know if ghouls sleep during the day, but we can’t see any from the walls, just the bowmen they left to watch us, but when the sun sets again, they’ll definitely return, as will Serina. They’ll come with more ladders and more ghouls. We no longer have the firebombs to burn the ladders. The only weapon we still have is Sight-Bringer, and only one man at a time can use it.”

  “Keep going.”

  “The islanders have left only a handful of men to watch us.”

  “They’ll attack us the moment we come out the gate,” she said. “They’ll kill us before we can get near them, let alone near the alehouse.”

  He shook his head. “No, they won’t. Because we’re going to form a shield wall. If we’re fast, we’ll be on them before they can do anything. These men aren’t warriors—they’re farmers and fishermen.” He pointed toward the dead. “There’s plenty of armor now, enough for all of us. We make straight for the alehouse. That’s where she’ll be. If she’s asleep—and I pray she is—we fight our way inside and drive Sight-Bringer through her heart. If she’s awake, we may still get lucky.”

  “Dilan,” Owen said, concern in his voice. “She’s… she’s far more powerful, more frightening than you realize. In the Great Crypt, running away was all I could think of doing. To go against her… I’m… I’m not sure—”

  Dilan reached out with his good arm, gripped the back of Owen’s neck, and pulled him in closer. “I know. I know what she’s like. I watched her rip apart our ranks in the fortress, but I believe we’re alive for a reason, that we have Sight-Bringer for a reason. You were meant to find that sword, to bring it all the way here. Now, we’re meant to go in there and finish her.”

  “You’re all insane,” said Dert, his frightened eyes going from Dilan to Owen to Tosk and finally to her. “No. We run and hide, in the interior.”

  “No,” said Danika. “They’d pull us from the woods one by one, bring us before her to be drained and discarded. And she’ll take the sword back so that no one can ever use it against her again. Then, she’ll raise her army once more from among the ot
her clans. By the time the rest of the kingdom even realizes she’s alive, she’ll be unstoppable.” She pulled her shoulders back, feeling small and insignificant and utterly incapable of confronting such a demon, but she knew she had to try. “No. We attack. We kill her today, while we still have a chance.”

  Owen, Dilan, and Tosk, their faces grim, nodded in agreement.

  Dert, looking like a trapped animal, glanced away at the rows of dead soldiers, wringing his hands. Then he also nodded.

  Chapter 53

  Fioni

  Fioni dropped the last several feet from Fen Wolf’s large single mast onto the deck of the longship. Vory and Kora were waiting for her, anticipation on their faces. Many of the crew were sitting back against the hull of the ship, watching her as well. The black smoke rising from the northerner’s fort was clearly visible to all of them, even that far out to sea.

  Earlier, she had had every intention of sailing past the island and its deep-water port. They had only been out to sea for a few days, and Fen Wolf was still fully provisioned, negating any need to visit Port Eaton. Besides, she really didn’t like the Greywynne islanders. They had forgotten what it meant to be Fenyir, giving up a life of raiding for fishing and pig farming. Still, they did act as a focal point for shipping, which made raiding those vessels that much easier for people like Fioni—who hadn’t forgotten what it meant to be Fenyir.

  “Well?” asked Vory.

  “Nothing,” said Fioni. “There was clearly a large fire, but there’s no smoke over the town, just the fort.”

  “Just a fire, then,” said Kora. “Not so strange.”

  Fioni stared at the island, hazy in the morning light. Something was not right there. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but her intuition was warning her that whatever had happened was not “just a fire.” She paused, biting her lower lip and thrumming her fingers over the hilt of her sword.

  “What are you thinking, skipper?” Kora asked, a hint of amused anticipation in her voice.