Kora cocked her head and glared at Fioni. “Don’t be—”
“Swear it, Kora Far-Sails. Swear it, or I’ll leave another in charge. I won’t risk the lives of my crew.”
Kora’s nostrils quivered, but she acquiesced. “I swear it. If there’s trouble, we sail from here.”
“Good,” said Fioni, moving on past the other woman. “Now I need a strong drink. This business has left a sour taste in my mouth.”
Chapter 23
Galas
Under a cloudless-night moon, Galas stood on the high deck of Iron Beard, staring at the watch fires in the distance burning along the shoreline of Voria Bay. Both Iron Beard and the much smaller Thunder Killer were nestled alongside one another, a bow’s shot from the stake barrier protecting the Windhelm clan’s home. On the other side of the barrier, blocking the channel through the stakes, were three Windhelm longships filled with warriors, including Yarl Vengir’s own Hard Stone. Galas could force his way past them, he knew—none of those ships could stop Iron Beard, but he’d lose valuable men doing so—especially taking the town, which, unlike Welmen Town, was ready for them. He ground his teeth together. Damn Fioni, and damn Vengir!
The fact that the Windhelm longships were already in the bay, ready for battle, proved Fioni had been here, but Fen Wolf was gone. No doubt Fioni was already on her way to Daenipor, as Taios’s tortured spirit had insisted.
The trip from Great Drake’s Head Island had been ponderously slow. With the Greywynne Islanders augmenting his own men, Galas now had enough manpower to sail both ships, but only barely. With its sixty benches, Iron Beard’s full component was just over two hundred men; Galas had to manage with half that number. And the mighty drake-ship had proven difficult to control. Even simple tasks, like raising and lowering the sail, took far longer than they should have. His crew had had to relearn everything they knew about sailing. It was far worse with the Greywynne Islanders, who had only ever sailed fishing vessels.
His gaze drifted to Serina, standing with her blood-fiend warrior on the bow platform. Her one-eyed servant, the strange mainlander Modwyn, stood back in the shadows, never far from her side.
As if sensing his eyes upon her, Serina turned and stared at Galas, sending a shiver of dread down his spine. “Yarl Galas, come. I would speak with you,” she said, her words cutting through the night, although she hadn’t raised her voice.
He scurried forward, his head lowered. “Your Majesty,” he said, his tongue feeling too large.
“She’s gone already, the niece of Stron,” she said softly. “Hasn’t she?”
“I think so, Your Majesty.”
“We were too slow, far too slow.”
He didn’t answer. What could he say?
Serina stared at the beach and the town on the other side of the stake barrier and the ships. “They stand against me, the Windhelm clan, just as your clan did when Serl was yarl.”
“If…if they knew you were aboard, Your Majesty, they might surrender.”
She shook her head. “No. I grow weary of traitors among my own people, first Serl and your Waveborn, and now the Windhelm. I think, perhaps, a lesson is called for.”
Sweat ran down his back, and he had to grip his hands to stop them from shaking. “I…I…”
“Don’t worry, Yarl Galas,” she said as she reached out and caressed his cheek. “You have sworn an oath to serve me. I can’t very well punish you and your clan for Serl’s treachery. But the Windhelm clan…”
“What…what would you have me do, Your Majesty?”
“We must stop the niece of Stron. We must recover Sight-Bringer. It remains a threat.”
Iron Beard rocked slightly, as if the contents of the hold had suddenly…shifted. Again, fear threatened to unman Galas. His gaze darted to the closed wooden hatches that covered the stairs to the hold. He found it difficult to breathe, to swallow.
“We can…attack, Your Majesty,” he finally managed, almost a squeak. “But there are many warriors among the Windhelm. Taking Voria Bay will prove costly.”
“No. You will take my thrall, Modwyn, and you will set sail in the faster vessel. You must make haste for Daenipor. Speed is essential now. You are in a race, and if you lose, your queen will die.”
“I…yes, Your Majesty.”
“I have an ally among the Hishtari, a kindred soul. I’ve already communicated with him. He awaits you.”
“He…knows we’re coming?”
How is that possible?
Modwyn stepped closer. “You will obey the instructions of my thrall Modwyn. He has…gifts that should prove useful to your mission.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
She stared at Galas now. He felt as though he’d wither away under that gaze. His body trembled like a leaf, and spit ran down his chin, into his beard. “You must not fail me, Yarl Galas. No matter what it costs, you must not allow the niece of Stron to leave Daenipor with the shield of Serl Raven-Eye.”
“I won’t fail you, Your Majesty,” Galas whispered.
“I know you won’t,” she said as the hatches to the hold flew open with a resounding crash.
The first of the ghouls to climb out of the hold was Fatah Yur Min, his skin now glowing under the moonlight. The one-time commander of the Storm Monkey Company led the rest of his men, all walking dead, out of the hold. They formed a silent, unmoving mass awaiting Serina’s command, more than a hundred ghouls.
Serina turned from Galas and pointed toward Voria Bay.
As one, the ghouls climbed over the side of Iron Beard. Fatah Yur Min was the first to hit the water and sink into its depths.
#
Galas stood with his hand on the tiller of Thunder Killer as it sped away from Iron Beard under full sail, heading northeast for the walled city of Daenipor. Modwyn stood beside him, a feral gleam in his one eye as he stared behind them at the home of the Windhelm clan. Galas refused to look back when he heard the first of the screams drifting across the still bay.
Chapter 24
Owen
Owen sat with Lady Danika on the narrow bench of the large sloop, watching the shoreline of Daenipor as they sailed across its bay. The sloop, a single-masted vessel with a crew of three, carried the two northerners as well as Fioni and Vory to the meeting Erland had arranged.
Built against the northern bank of a river delta that flowed into the bay, the walled city served as a major trade hub for the Empire of Hishtar. Large, double-masted merchant hulks sat tied up alongside the city’s pier district—Docktown. The merchant vessels would sail from here for many distant ports, including Port Ollechta in the Kingdom of Conarck.
Home.
“That’s the Rose Palace,” said Fioni, leaning against the mast and pointing to a large pink fortress atop a high rocky island that sat in the river, just offshore of the southern bank of the walled city. “It’s the home of the Moon Lord, Kory’ander Dey, governor of Daenipor—and our host this day.”
Owen considered the palace. A long wooden bridge connected the palace, reaching from the island upon which the palace sat to the city’s walls. Opposite the island, a thick iron chain, its links each as long as a man, stretched just above the waterline, reaching to a small stone outpost built on the other side of the river. No ship would be able to sail into the river while the chain was in place. The island upon which the palace sat seemed…odd somehow, its cliffs too high for such a small spit of land. He asked Fioni about it.
“It’s not an island,” Fioni answered him. “It’s a cape, a spit of land sticking out into the river and curling, like a finger. From this angle, we can only see the end of it.”
“You know this place well,” Lady Danika said.
“Better than you could imagine. My father and grandfather bought every map they could find of this place. They studied the surrounding terrain, obsessed with finding a weakness they could exploit.”
Erland had provided Lady Danika with an expensive green dress, insisting she couldn’t go before the Moon Lord
dressed like a Fenyir warrior. Her long brown hair was now elaborately tied upon her head, her skin freshly scrubbed. Over her shoulders, she wore an ankle-length cloak with a fox-fur hood—a gift from Fioni that also served to hide the hilt of Sight-Bringer wrapped in oilskin and thrust beneath her belt at the small of her back. The transformation was remarkable. Now she was once again the finely cultured kingdom noblewoman who had ridden out of Castle Dain months ago.
Fioni wore her brightly burnished coat of ring-mail armor, as did Vory, whose own elbow-length blackened ring-mail coat included a hood that could be raised over the large man’s head. Despite their martial appearance, though, neither Fioni nor Vory were armed. Erland had insisted on that, stating unequivocally that weapons were forbidden in the presence of the Moon Lord. Fioni hadn’t been happy—and Vory had been outraged—but they had no choice. Owen didn’t even have armor. His own castle-forged ring-mail coat was long gone, and he very much doubted he’d ever see it again. He had, however, followed Lady Danika’s example and availed himself of the opportunity to bathe. While he doubted he looked like much of a knight, at least he was clean, his hair and new beard combed.
As the sloop came closer to the busy docks, Owen saw a contingent of Hishtari soldiers waiting for them, the crowds parting around the brightly clad soldiers as if they were rocks in a stream. A dozen soldiers, all wearing voluminous bright red-and-blue gambesons, stood unmoving on the edge of the cobblestoned street across from the pier. Held upright against his shoulder, each man gripped a massive bladed pole-arm, at least ten feet long with a heavy axe head protruding below the foot-long blade—a cumbersome, unwieldy weapon for close-quarters combat but devastating when used by well-trained soldiers in a tight formation. The soldiers wore shiny black, bowl-like helmets that flared out at the back, covering their necks. Each mask had a faceplate carved in the likeness of a savage animal, giving the soldiers a beast-like appearance—dogs, wolves, or lions predominantly. A single tall, thin man dressed in flowing purple robes with a golden scarf wrapped around his head stood before the soldiers—a functionary of the palace, no doubt.
“That’s a lot of soldiers,” Owen said to no one in particular.
“Aye,” answered Vory, his displeasure clear.
“Erland swears we’re to be welcomed as guests,” said Fioni, “particularly our Lady of Wolfrey.”
“Just follow my lead, Owen,” Lady Danika said. “Remember our deal.”
Docktown was a ramshackle collection of wooden buildings crammed into the narrow space between the high stone walls of Daenipor and the waterfront. Sailors, fishermen, dockworkers, and merchants mingled with citizens, most wearing brightly colored robes. The women wore wimples, while most men wore scarves wrapped around their heads. Foreign sailors strolled among them as well—dark-eyed and dark-haired Kur’teshi merchants, almond-eyed Lyrians, and more than a few kingdom sailors from Port Ollechta. As they came closer, he could make out the hum of large crowds of people socializing, children laughing, and vendors calling out to customers, advertising their wares.
“Foreigners are permitted in Docktown,” Vory told him, eyeing a pair of Lyrian men walking past, holding hands. “But not in the city itself.”
“It’s a death sentence for foreigners to be caught inside the city,” said Fioni. “Unless they’ve been invited, as we have,” she added with a wink.
Docktown’s wooden buildings were built tight up against one another, with some of the taller buildings standing four or five stories high. Geese ran about freely, while dogs and cats lurked in doorways. The stench of human waste and garbage hung in the air, intermingled with the aroma of baking bread and fresh fish. Owen stood on the pier, holding his arm out to Lady Danika, his gaze taking in the surrounding lumberyards, shipyards, workshops, warehouses, and merchant stalls that stretched as far as he could see down the waterfront.
Docktown was a city all to itself.
Vory stepped off onto the pier next, scowling at the soldiers. Fioni came last, acting as though the soldiers weren’t even there. The crowds kept their distance but paid little notice. It must not be that unusual for the palace guards to meet visitors, he realized. Lady Danika moved to stand beside Fioni, her hands linked before her.
“Shall we?” Lady Danika asked Fioni.
“We’re here to make a deal. Let’s get it over with,” Fioni answered.
The two women moved forward. Lady Danika seemed to float, a serene smile upon her lips. Owen, trying to look in all directions at once, noticed a young woman, no more than sixteen or so, drifting through the crowd toward Lady Danika and Fioni. He smiled, thinking of his sister, Tanda. She even looked like Tanda, with the same straw-colored hair sticking out beneath her wimple and the same expressive eyes. His heart stirred with a pang of homesickness as he watched the young woman approach.
What was Tanda doing now? Has Orin found her a husband yet?
Will I ever see her again?
The man in the purple robes and golden scarf stepped forward, a smile upon his painted-blue lips. The young woman in the wimple must not have been paying attention, because—before he could say or do anything—she stumbled right into Lady Danika, knocking her into Fioni. The woman, a look of horrified astonishment on her face, reached out to catch Danika before she could fall. She began speaking quickly in Hishtari as she helped Lady Danika to regain her balance.
Lady Danika smiled, answering her in Hishtari.
The young woman’s face lit up with relief, grasping Lady Danika’s hand and pumping it—as she slipped her other hand behind Lady Danika’s back.
She’s trying to steal from her!
If he hadn’t been watching her so closely because of her resemblance to Tanda, he’d have missed that little sleight of hand.
As the young woman tried to slip away, Owen surged forward and gripped her wrist, raising her arm above her head. “Thief! She’s a thief.”
A look of sheer terror filled the young woman’s eyes, and guilt flushed through Owen. The functionary from the Rose Palace rushed forward, calling out in Hishtari to the soldiers behind him, who formed a ring around them, keeping the crowds back.
“What is this?” the official demanded in perfectly acceptable, if slightly accented, trade common.
“Owen, what are you doing?” asked the Lady Danika as she stared at the young woman whose wrist Owen still held above her head.
“She was trying to steal from you, my lady. I saw her reach past your cloak.”
The functionary’s face went crimson, and his eyes narrowed tightly.
Lady Danika’s hands flew to the small of her back, where she had secured Sight-Bringer. A moment later, relief flashed across her features. “Let her go, Owen. She didn’t—”
The functionary gave orders to the soldiers, and two of them took the young girl from Owen, pulling her away.
“My lady,” the man said, bowing deeply to Lady Danika. “I am Yuri, Third Observer to his most holy radiance, the Moon Lord. I most humbly beg your apologies. I am deeply shamed by this act.” Yuri turned to address one of the soldiers. “Captain, deal with this Docktown scum.”
The soldier he spoke to, a thin, dark-eyed man who was the only soldier whose face wasn’t covered by an animal mask, nodded and spun away to where two of his men held the now-frantic young woman between them. She pleaded in Hishtari as they dragged her farther away. Now, guilt flushed through Owen.
“Master Yuri,” said Lady Danika, her face pale as she watched the young woman struggle against the soldiers. “She took nothing. Perhaps my bodyguard was mistaken.”
“Maybe I was,” said Owen.
Yuri shook his head. “You are as forgiving as you are beautiful, my lady of Wolfrey, but the thieves in Docktown grow too bold if they think they can steal from guests of the Moon Lord himself. No, she must be punished. She must be a lesson to the others.”
Lady Danika placed a hand on Yuri’s forearm. “It is your city, and I am a guest, but I ask that you show lenience—for me.”
“What will they do to her?” Lady Danika asked Yuri.
“Do not concern yourself, my lady of Wolfrey. Because of you, she shall not be put to death—as is the usual punishment.”
“Thank you,” Lady Danika said.
“Of course, we shall remove her nose and lips to serve as a lesson to others,” Yuri added in a bored tone.
As Lady Danika jerked to a stop and stared in horror, the girl began screaming. Owen spun about. Two of the soldiers blocked his path, but he shoved them aside as if they were children, sending them both sprawling. The captain held a small knife under the young woman’s nose, the blade pushing her head back, her eyes wild with terror.
In his mind, he once again saw Tanda the day Orin had broken her nose.
Owen grabbed the captain’s wrist, pulling the knife away. “Don’t!”
The captain turned to stare at Owen, as if he couldn’t believe someone had actually touched him. The surprise in his eyes was replaced by pain when Owen ground the bones in his wrist together—snapping them.
The captain screamed and dropped the knife.
Owen shoved him into one of the guards holding the girl, and the two men fell entangled. Lady Danika was screaming at Owen, but he was beyond control. He slid to the side, stomping down on the back of the knee of the guard still holding the girl. The cartilage popped in the man’s knee, and he fell to his side. The girl bolted away, vanishing into the crowds. The other soldiers advanced on Owen, the spears of their pole-arms pointed at his chest. The blood pounded in his ears, and he assumed a fighting stance. Then Vory was with him, back to back, facing off against the approaching ring of soldiers. He tensed, preparing to attack. If he—
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 43