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

by William Stacey

  Silence.

  Would she kill him, feed upon him now?

  She turned away without a word and addressed Galvin, the former Port Eaton barrel-maker. He also knelt before her, his hands clenched before him.

  “You lead the Islanders?” she asked.

  “I-I do, Your Majesty.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Galvin, Your Majesty.”

  “Galvin. My childe and I will need to feed.”

  Galvin trembled. “Yes, my queen.”

  “Volunteers would be best. We will start with two, no older than sixteen—and healthy. They must be healthy.”

  “Yes, my queen.”

  “Once that is done, you will personally choose a dozen of the best men and women among the townsfolk. Choose only those with courage, men and women who can lead others. You will then present them to me for consideration.”

  “Yes, my queen.”

  She reached out and ran her fingers through the hair atop his head, as if he were a prized hound. “The gods smile upon you, Galvin. Don’t fail me.”

  Jealousy stabbed through Modwyn, and he glared out of the corner of his eye at the Islander. He hated him, and he hated her newest childe—just as he had hated Brice Awde—who had been granted the immortality that should have been his. I freed her, me!

  As if sensing Modwyn’s displeasure, Serina turned her attention back on him. In a moment, fear replaced his jealousy. Glistening blood covered her body, now drying and cracking like mud. He only dared look upon her for a moment before averting his gaze again. Her nipples had been hard, as if she were aroused. Please gods, please, I don’t want to drink any more of her milk. Not that, anything but that.

  “And you, my great-nephew, my own kin, once again you fail me.”

  “I’m… I’m sorry, my queen. But it was the Fenyir.”

  “What Fenyir?”

  “He speaks the truth, my queen,” said Galvin. “Fioni, the Red Wolf, daughter of Yarl Taios Oak-Heart, leader of the Waveborn clan from Great Drake’s Head. Had we fought them, we would have died.”

  “I don’t know a Fioni or a Taios,” Serina said, “but the Waveborn clan I do know. Traitors and oath-breakers. Led by that coward Serl Raven-Eye.”

  “Serl’s been dead since just after the war,” said Galvin. “Killed by the Hishtari. But Taios, his grandson, leads the clan now. “

  “The niece of Stron.”

  “Your Majesty?” asked Modwyn.

  “She has taken the hilt of Sight-Bringer, hasn’t she?”

  “She… yes, Your Majesty. She cut me with the damned thing.”

  “There’s so little we understand of the long-dead Illthori,” Serina said. “Most alarming, for reasons long since lost, the Illthori crafted Sight-Bringer with power over the undead. That damned weapon cost me so many of my childes.” She shook her head. “Even broken, it must be recovered. It must be kept safe from our enemies.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” answered Modwyn and Galvin together.

  Rage swept through Modwyn as he glared at Galvin. She’s not talking to you, you fat fucking peasant. Learn your place!

  Serina turned away and opened the door of the alehouse, standing naked in the doorway, her skin glowing silver beneath the moonlight. Modwyn rose and followed, remaining close behind her, in his rightful place as her kin. Outside, on the village green, the entire town stood waiting—hundreds of peasants come to worship her. As one, they fell to their knees. In the town, a clamor arose as if every single dog began howling at once, as if they were being tortured.

  “I don’t like dogs,” she said.

  “Yes, my queen,” said Modwyn. “We’ll deal with them.”

  She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, and his heart soared with joy once more. All was forgiven, all was set right once again.

  “And I’ll need new clothing. Something more suitable.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Modwyn, desperately needing to be useful. “We’ll find something from Danika Dain’s possessions in the fort.”

  “Danika,” Serina repeated softly, as if trying the word out for the first time. She stared up at the fort on the hill, now dark. “Thank you, my blood thrall.”

  “It is nothing, my queen.”

  “My childe,” she said softly, almost a whisper.

  “Yes, mother,” answered her newest blood-fiend childe, his voice only inches behind Modwyn.

  Modwyn’s fear spiked again, his heart leaping into his throat. When had he moved?

  “Take one of his eyes as a lesson.”

  Without another word, Serina stepped outside and began to walk amongst the townsfolk. Despite Modwyn’s enhanced strength and speed, the blood fiend handled him as if he were a child, throwing him back against the door and gripping him tightly by the collar. Panic overwhelmed Modwyn as the blood fiend exposed his fangs, a feral gleam in his red eyes.

  “Please, no,” Modwyn squeaked.

  The blood fiend leaned in close, his opened mouth moving toward Modwyn’s right eye. When he placed his mouth over the eye socket, his dead lips tight against the flesh, there was a bizarre suction sensation, followed an instant later by fire burning through Modwyn’s skull.

  Chapter 8

  Taios

  Taios leaned back in his chair, pinpricks of cold fear running down his spine as he thought of that night so many decades ago. A furtive silence descended over his daughter and his guests. Auslaug was infamous, almost as frightening as Serina had been. Even now, parents used her name to frighten children—but she had been so much more terrifying in person.

  “You fought Auslaug?” Fioni asked him, disbelief in her voice.

  He sat in silence for long moments, his eyes closed.

  “It happened like this,” he finally said.

  Thirteen-year-old Taios stood, wet and shivering, near the prow of his father’s longship, looking out into the dark night. Rain still fell in sheets, with intermittent lightning flashes in the distance, but the brunt of the storm had finally blown out. Most of the others had fallen asleep where they could find space on the crowded deck, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. The unholy storm had been too much for him, and his nerves were tighter than a drawn bowstring.

  Are we right to stand against Serina? Are the gods angry with us?

  But if the gods were truly angry, their storm should have sunk both ships, including his grandfather Serl’s massive drake-ship Iron Beard, which he knew was less than a hundred feet away, bobbing in the turbulent waves. But if the gods aren’t angry, why did they—

  His head jerked up as a massive lightning bolt hammered into the sea, illuminating the ship coming from the island—a ship sailing directly toward them. His heart pounding, he looked about to see if others had seen it as well, but only snores drifted his way.

  “A ship,” he yelled. “There’s a ship!”

  In moments, the crew was awake. He heard the rush of movement in the darkness, the excited chattering. The longship listed to starboard as the men and women rushed to see. Thunder boomed, cracking across the night like Wodor’s hammer.

  From close by, his older brother, Denyr, called out, “Taios, are you sure you saw a ship?”

  “Aye,” he said, “coming from the island, clear as a shield and coming right at us.”

  The crew began to mutter amongst themselves.

  “Quiet, all of you,” his father ordered.

  For several long moments, the only sounds were the wind, the creaking of the wooden hull, and the crashing of the waves against the island’s high white cliffs far off in the distance. Someone accused Taios of dreaming.

  His fingernails bit into his palms, and his face burned despite the cold. “I saw a ship.”

  “There’s nothing out there,” another voice said angrily. “This voyage has been a waste of time. Nothing good will come of serving mainlanders.”

  “You shut your mouth, Gern,” his father snapped, “or I’ll throw you into the sea myself—useless sack of wha
le shit!”

  Taios felt a firm grip on his shoulder. In the dark, he could only make out a vague outline, but he was sure it was his brother. “Are you sure, Taios?” Denyr whispered.

  “I saw a ship,” Taios insisted. “A double-masted ship. Someone’s running the blockade.”

  His brother let go of his shoulder. “I believe you.”

  Taios prayed he hadn’t just embarrassed his father. Could I have been dreaming?

  When lightning flared again, once more revealing the ship—now much closer and still bearing down right on them—Taios felt a surge of relief, replaced almost immediately by the cold rush of fear as he realized he was about to have his first-ever battle. The crew cheered, and a moment later, a lantern flared into life on their port side, illuminating the massive bulk of Iron Beard. The drake-ship’s oars dipped into the water in unison, and the longship began to surge forward to intercept the other ship. A drum began to beat aboard Iron Beard, matching the pounding of Taios’s heart.

  “Light, now!” his father yelled.

  A lantern flared into life near the stern of their own longship, revealing the sixty men and women of the ship’s crew. His father, tall and fierce, stood at the rear of the longship, his hand upon the tiller of the steering board. Beside him was his first mate, Baldwin, a huge brute of a man with one good eye and a monstrous pink scar where the other had been.

  “Oars out, and forward,” his father ordered.

  Baldwin set about his task, shoving men and women onto the benches, kicking any who moved too slowly. Within moments, the oars were in the water and the longship surged forward in Iron Beard’s wake. Denyr left Taios’s side and jostled his way past the crew to stand upon the prow platform. His father joined him, having handed the tiller to another crew member. The crew took up their weapons and wooden round-shields. Taios joined his father and brother, his own shield now on his arm, his never-bloodied sword in hand. Cold fingers of fear gripped his heart as a thought occurred to him—what if Serina is aboard that ship?

  “Do you see anything?” his father asked Denyr.

  “Nothing,” his brother replied.

  “A kraken,” his father said. “I only saw it for a moment, but I’m sure of it.”

  “Then we’ll only get one chance to stop it,” his brother said.

  A kraken, Taios knew well, was a purpose-built, oceangoing longship, with two sails and a crew of about eighty. Built for speed, not battle, if it slipped past them in the darkness, it would be gone.

  “Gods damn it,” his father said, shaking his head, shading his eyes from the rain. “It’s too dark.”

  “No,” Denyr said. “The gods won’t let them get away. They curse Serina, curse her for what she has become.” Denyr stepped back, his near-beardless face determined, a righteous fury in his eyes.

  Denyr had always been a pious young man. Everyone knew his destiny was to be a holy man. But since returning from Echo Island, he had become even more devout—fanatical even—making daily sacrifices to the gods. Whatever Denyr had seen at that monastery had forever changed him. Now, he held his staff high with both hands. The wind whipped at the feathers and bones tied to its length. Throwing his head back, Denyr screamed into the wind. “Mighty Wodor, help us. Don’t let the Dark Shark’s servant escape your wrath. Show them your fury.”

  Taios stared in wonder as the storm clouds above—moved by the hand of the gods themselves—suddenly drifted apart, exposing a full moon, once again revealing the kraken as it tried to slip past the two ships. The crew cheered.

  “Do you see?” screamed Denyr, spittle flying from his mouth. “The gods have abandoned Serina.”

  His father drew his sword and pointed it at the ship. “Row! Row, damn you! Don’t let them get away.”

  But it was already too late for the kraken. His grandfather’s longship, far faster than any ship that size should have been, came into missile range first. Taios heard the release of bowstrings, the whistling of arrows in flight. Rather than turn and fight, the kraken’s master still tried to slip past, his sails filled with wind. Only a fool goes into battle with his sails up, but if they get past us, they’re free.

  Burning torches flew spiraling through the air, thrown by his grandfather’s crew as they attempted to set the kraken’s sails ablaze.

  “Yes, yes,” yelled his father, thrusting his sword in the air. “Burn them.”

  Most of the torches fell short, landing in the churning waves, but several hit the deck of the kraken. Its crew rushed to pick up the torches and throw them overboard. Now, his father’s longship was close enough to join the fight, aiming for the kraken’s prow while Iron Beard headed for its stern. Taios screamed curses as he lobbed a torch at the ship. Moments later, one of the kraken’s two triangular sails was burning, followed almost immediately by the other. The crew screamed in victory.

  They’re done. There’s no escape now! They’ll have to cut the sails free or burn.

  Men and women pushed past Taios to crowd near the prow of the longship, prepared for battle. The warrior standing next to Taios fell to the deck, an arrow through her cheek, its barbed point extending out the back of her neck. Taios stared at her as she flopped about, gurgling in her own blood. He was terrified, ready to wet his breeches, but he’d do his part. The gods are watching.

  With a crash of splintering wood, Iron Beard rammed the kraken in its stern, caving in part of its hull above the waterline. Men and women screamed as they rushed forward.

  “Faster,” his father yelled. “Ram her.”

  As his father’s longship surged forward, Taios saw some of Serl’s crew were already battling on the deck of the kraken, illuminated by the flames of the burning sails. Massed ranks of warriors with shields battered away at one another. The enemy, although already fighting Serl’s warriors, tried to form ranks for the second ship. Taios stared in disbelief, shocked at their courage. They’re outnumbered, their ship is on fire, and they’re about to be surrounded. They have to surrender. To fight is to die.

  His father’s longship surged forward, ramming the prow of the kraken. A mighty crack shook Taios, the impact almost knocking him down. His father screamed in fury as he led his crew over the prow and onto the other ship. Men and women fought one another with sword and axe, spear and hammer. Some fell overboard, but others rushed forward to take their place. The battle was bloody and unforgiving, but fighting on two sides, the kraken’s crew began to give way, to fall back. Denyr, holding his staff aloft, jumped from the prow of the longship onto the kraken’s deck, screaming encouragement to the crew. Taios, knowing that if he waited any longer, the battle would be over, forced himself to move. He leaped onto the deck of the kraken but then slipped on blood and fell forward onto his belly.

  Then a short woman with long raven-black hair tied in a single braid hanging down her back stepped forward from the ranks of the defenders, and all fighting ceased. The kraken’s crew moved away from her, their faces showing both respect and terror. Of all the warriors battling on the deck of the kraken, only she wore armor, a fine ring-mail coat, its hem reaching the top of her knees. She carried no weapons, and Taios realized with horror that she needed none. Nor could she drown if she fell overboard.

  Because she was already dead.

  Taios climbed to his feet, recognizing her in a single terror-filled moment—Auslaug Oar-Arm, Serina’s greatest battle captain. A blood fiend!

  Her bloodred eyes looked upon them with open scorn, and she hissed at them, exposing her fangs. She attacked, sweeping forward faster than a moonbeam. His father’s crew fell back, falling over themselves to get away from her, but in moments, she had already killed two men and a woman, tearing their throats out with her bare hands. Only Taios stood before her now, but it was terror, not bravery, that held him in place.

  He saw his death in her hungry red eyes.

  But then Denyr was beside him, holding his staff out before him. The moonlight shone down upon him, bathing him in silvery light. “Back, monster!”
Denyr commanded, religious fury in his young voice.

  Auslaug shrieked and staggered backwards, as if the sight of Denyr offended her. Taios’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

  They had all heard tales of how some—always the most pious—of the kingdom’s priests had been able to immobilize Serina’s blood fiends with the power of prayer, freeing up other men to try and drive a wooden stake through the blood fiends’ hearts—one of only four ways to kill them. Beheading them was another, as was dragging them out into the sunlight. The final method was to use Sight-Bringer, the kingdom’s holy sword, currently wielded by Duke Stron.

  Most attempts failed.

  As Auslaug fell back, covering her face with her forearm, one-eyed Baldwin stepped behind her and, with a mighty thrust, rammed a steel-tipped spear into her back, tearing a gash in her ring mail and stabbing into the flesh beneath it. Auslaug screamed in fury and spun on Baldwin, knocking the spear from his hands. Then, gripping his head with both hands, she crushed it like a piece of rotten fruit, splattering Taios with his brains.

  Denyr stepped forward again, thrusting his staff and striking her on the forehead. “Back, fiend!”

  Once again, Auslaug recoiled. His father picked up the spear Baldwin had dropped and circled behind her while Denyr advanced again, chanting as he held his staff before him. His father thrust forward with the spear, driving it through the hole in her armor—impaling her. Auslaug stared in disbelief at the point of the spear lifting the front of her ring-mail coat like a tent pole. Throwing her head back, she screamed so loudly, Taios fell to his knees and covered his ears. She fell onto her back, ripping the spear from his father’s hands and snapping its wooden shaft against the deck. Then she began to shrink in upon herself, as if she were being consumed from the inside. Her bones cracked and snapped. Her skin withered and sunk. In seconds, all that remained was the armor, her clothing, and a foul stench.