“But not for Fen Wolf,” Owen said. “Its draft is much shallower. With the map, you could make your way along the interlocked network of streams, make your way back to the river—behind the chain!”
“At night?” asked Kora. “What if Fen Wolf becomes grounded in the mud and the weeds?”
“What if she doesn’t?” said Fioni. “A magnificent ship like Fen Wolf might just be able to do exactly that. The crew can disembark near the cape and then follow the path to the Water Gate.”
Owen leaned forward. “Where I and a small group of others—your stealthiest crew members—can be waiting to let them in.”
“I’m stealthy,” said Kora.
Fioni shook her head. “Not compared to me. Besides, you’re taking Fen Wolf through the swamplands. There’s no one I’d trust more than you to sail through that mess.”
Kora opened her mouth to protest, but Fioni had already turned away and held a dagger, handle out, to Gali. “Show us.”
Taking the dagger, Gali knelt down in the wet sand and drew a surprisingly accurate map of the Rose Palace, displaying the different towers, the throne room, the hanging bridge, and the East Barbican, where the Water Gate was located.
“Gods help us,” said Fioni, staring at the map in the sand and then turning to smile at the others. “This might actually work.”
Rolf stepped closer, smiling at Fioni. “Your father spent his entire life trying to do what we’re about to. We can’t let him down now, can we?”
“No,” said Fioni. “We can’t.”
Owen watched them all, seeing the prospect of success spread from one face to another. He needed their help—especially now that Modwyn was here. Fioni would be furious with him when she discovered his real plan once inside the palace, but he had no choice. He had already failed Lord Palin—there was no way he was going to let down Lady Danika as well.
He was going to save her.
Chapter 41
Modwyn
The Hishtari guard commander, his arm held in a sling across his chest, led Modwyn through the Rose Palace and out onto an open courtyard where a large dark tower stood separate from the others. Modwyn carefully noted his surroundings as he followed the man, memorizing the route and counting guards. There were far fewer soldiers within the palace than he would have expected. On his trip here from Docktown, Modwyn had been surprised to see so many guard posts in the city. Something was going on. Something that Kalishni’coor, the dreaded Blue Man of Daenipor, didn’t want him or Serina to know about.
No fool, Modwyn recognized an opportunity.
Just in front of the entrance to the tower, a single soldier snapped to attention. The guard commander halted before the tower’s doorway and cast a worried glance at Modwyn. “This noblewoman…is she a… friend of yours?”
“Hardly,” answered Modwyn, sweeping past the man to enter the dark tower. He paused before the spiraling steps, waiting for his eye to adjust to the dim. Danika Dain was the source of his misery—he understood that now, the bitch! He still didn’t understand how everything had gone so badly so quickly—especially after he had succeeded beyond all expectations in freeing Serina Greywynne, his own great-aunt, from her decades-long coma beneath the ruins of her fortress. Everything he had ever wanted should have been his now—glory, riches, women…and the greatest reward of all, eternal life.
Serina Greywynne, the master blood fiend, could turn others into blood fiends like her. She had already done so twice now, even turning that damned fool warrior Brice Awde. And what reward did Modwyn receive? Pain and humiliation.
She had done something to him—forcing him to drink her foul ‘mother’s milk’ had… changed him. He was stronger and faster, but he wasn’t a blood fiend. He understood that much. A ‘blood thrall,’ she had called him, a slave. If he didn’t do something drastic now, something to impress her, he’d die a slave.
She respects strength and bravery, seeks out great heroes to be her captains. I can be brave. I can be a hero.
The guard commander, clearly upset, shoved past Modwyn to lead the way up the stairs. They passed several floors and chambers filled with boxes and barrels, but Modwyn saw no other guards, nor even servants. He paused beside a slit window in the tower that looked down upon a separate courtyard, a much smaller one with a stable and a stone ramp leading down to a gate. A wooden wagon sat beside the stable, its bed filled with water barrels, two draft horses still hitched to it. Nearby, two of the garishly dressed guards with their stupid animal masks leaned on their pole-arms, chatting to one another. Only two guards?
“Kingdom man,” said the guard commander from the stairs above him, the impatience clear in his voice.
Modwyn briefly considered how easy it would be to reach out, grab the other man’s neck, and snap it. “I’m no kingdom man.”
At the top floor, a single black door stood before them. Even from here, Modwyn could smell the blood and feces, the stench of fear. A torture chamber. What is it the Blue Man wants from Danika?
The guard commander pounded his fist on the door, ordering those inside to let them in. The door swung open almost immediately, confirming Modwyn’s suspicions. A current of excitement coursed through him at the sight of the naked Danika Dain hanging from chains in the ceiling, her thighs and buttocks striped with whip marks. Her head hung forward, as if she were passed out, and perhaps she was, as a fat man, one of the torturers, was in the process of hefting a bucket of water at her. When the cold water hit her, she gasped and cried out. An old, gray-haired hag stepped forward and peered into Danika’s eyes.
“Does this satisfy you?” the guard commander asked Modwyn.
Modwyn shoved past the fool and pushed the hag out of the way. He examined the noblewoman. Her wet hair was plastered to her skin, and her eyes were dull and unfocused—no doubt she didn’t even know where she was. He saw no open wounds, no broken bones, nothing that wouldn’t heal in time. Clearly, the torturers knew their craft.
“Have you seen enough?” the guard commander repeated.
Modwyn ran his fingertips along the vein in her neck, checking her pulse. He licked his lower lip, felt his erection grow rock hard. Many a night back in Castle Dain, he had pictured her exactly like this in his dreams, helpless before him.
“Why are you torturing her?” he asked.
The commander’s back stiffened. “That is no concern of yours, kingdom man.”
“It’s my queen’s concern. Your men are clumsy and stupid. They’ve pushed her too hard. This woman is going to die if they don’t give her some rest, let her sleep.”
“Not true,” said the hag, addressing the guard commander. “She’s strong yet.”
“And close to breaking,” said the thin torturer.
“Listen to me carefully,” said Modwyn to the commander. “I am a university-trained physician, not some dirty cut-nurse and not some heavy-handed brute. If you do not let this woman down and let her sleep, she’ll be dead before nightfall. Her heart is failing. Any fool should be able to see this,” he added as he scowled at the hag.
The guard commander’s eyes darted about in uncertainty, finally resting upon Lady Danika, her head hanging forward, her long dark hair covering her face. “You fools. If you kill this one, the Blue Man will skin us all.”
The hag tried to push past Modwyn and failed. “But—”
“Bring her down,” said the guard commander. “Start again in the morning.”
Modwyn shrugged, as if disinterested, and turned away. “Let’s go. This place stinks.”
He hid his smile as he departed the torture chamber.
Chapter 42
Galas
Galas Gilt-Mane stood on the decorated stone balcony of the guest suite he shared with his warriors—and that one-eyed toad Modwyn—sipping from his wine goblet and staring across the water of the estuary at the walled city of Daenipor. From this height, he could easily see over the white walls and down into the city itself. The sun had set hours ago, but the city was stil
l alive with lights and noise. Unlike other Fenyir, who distrusted cities, Galas found them endlessly captivating. He had travelled all over the world, visiting many cities—from dirty Port Ollechta with its thief-merchants, to exotic Xi’ur and its fascinating slave pens. In comparison, Fenyir towns were boring, filled with little people, with little dreams.
Galas had big dreams.
And Serina could help him achieve those dreams.
He drained his wine and entered the suite to pour another. His men, hardened killers all, sat about, eating, drinking, and belching. Men like this, Galas knew, were ill accustomed to the finer things in life, given to excess when they finally experienced them. But it didn’t matter. They might as well enjoy themselves until Serina arrived, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps another day.
Hringol was lying on cushions, his shirt lying open, exposing his hairy belly, a wineskin upended so that a stream of red wine poured into his mouth. Galas sighed. The man was a good fighter but utterly lacking in couth. “Pour it into a goblet, you disgusting peasant,” he said as he held his hand out.
Hringol lifted an ass-cheek with one hand and farted before tossing him the half-full wineskin. Before Galas could catch it, Modwyn darted forward and snatched it out of the air, holding it against his skinny chest.
Gods, the one-eyed freak is fast.
“No more drinking,” Modwyn said.
Galas glared at him. “You don’t give me orders, you kingdom fop.”
“I’m Fenyir, not Conarckian,” Modwyn said. “Have some respect. I’m her great-nephew.”
Galas snorted. “A whale’s dick, you are. Besides, we might as well get stinking drunk. We can’t do anything until the queen arrives.”
“Not true.” Modwyn shook his head. “We can take the Dain bitch ourselves and bring her to the queen.”
Galas considered the other man in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about taking the Dain woman from the Hishtari—right now! You and your men will make your way to the East Barbican. There, you’ll find a small gate, poorly guarded. There are horses as well—only draft animals, but they’ll do until we reach the ship. Kill the guards, steal the horses, and wait for me. I’ll bring the woman.”
His men looked at each other, clearly already drunk. “What nonsense is this? We’re guests here. We can’t just kill—”
“Yes, we can.” Modwyn dropped the wineskin to the floor, where it burst open, splashing red fluid across the white tiles. “I don’t understand what’s happening, but the palace is barely manned. Go now. Just do as I tell you, and the queen will be pleased. She’ll reward you. She’ll reward us all. She admires heroes.”
Galas shook his head and leaned in closer, towering over the man. “Go shit in your hand, kingdom man. There are two guards in the hallway outside this suite. The Hishtari don’t trust us, nor would I. If we try to leave these rooms, those guards will raise the alarm.”
“Kill them, then,” Modwyn said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
Galas laughed. “Listen to me, fool. I’m as dangerous a swordsman as you’ll ever see, but even I can’t kill two men silently. This is your stupid idea, not hers. The queen said nothing of kidnapping the woman. I won’t do it.”
Modwyn’s one eye narrowed in anger. Galas slid his palm over the hilt of his dagger. If the one-eyed fool came any closer, fast or not, Galas was going to gut him. They stared at one another for long, heavy moments before Modwyn looked away, never understanding how close he had just come to dying.
“Are you refusing me, Yarl Galas Gilt-Mane?”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?”
Modwyn shook his head and turned away, putting his back to Galas. Galas met Hringol’s eye, and his first mate scowled, the message clear: he doesn’t like or trust Modwyn either. But Galas knew men, and he knew that Modwyn didn’t have the balls to stand up against him. What a stupid idea, steal the woman from a palace filled with Hishtari warriors. He’d have the servants bring more wine—a lot more. Now Galas felt like getting stinking drunk himself. Modwyn opened the suite’s door and stepped out into the hall.
What?
A second later, the door closed behind him. Galas and Hringol stared at one another. They heard a thump followed by a soft grunt and a crack. A moment later, they heard what sounded like a rug ripping and then silence.
The door opened again, and Modwyn—drenched in blood from face to feet—stepped back inside. In each hand, he gripped the hair of a man’s head. The flesh around the necks was jagged and torn; one of them still had a length of spinal cord hanging from it. Without a word, Modwyn tossed both heads to clunk against the tile floor and roll to a bloody stop near Galas’s feet, the guards’ dead eyes staring, their mouths open in surprise.
“They’ll find the corpses soon enough,” Modwyn said. “Best you go right now, before that happens. Take the gate. Prepare the horses. When I come with the woman, I’ll be moving quickly.”
Galas stared at the heads, his breath quickening. “Armor and weapons,” he finally said. “If we don’t get out of here right now, we’re dead.”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” said Modwyn.
Chapter 43
Owen
The waves gently pushed the Hishtari patrol vessel up against the rock face of the cliff. High above the cliff sat the Rose Palace, a dark shadow in the night. Owen stared up the cliff face, thankful for the dark night. They had rowed the patrol vessel just beneath the bridge spanning the estuary, using the bridge’s bulk to conceal their presence.
They had set sail from Corcas Island just after midnight, with Kora having already sailed Fen Wolf away to the south hours earlier. So much of this plan depended on Kora finding a way through the swamplands and then making her way back to the river and the cape. Eight other Fenyir warriors crewed the patrol vessel, but only Fioni and two others would climb with Owen: Astra, a tall, muscular woman with short dark hair, and Herlin, a ruddy-faced redheaded man with hands that looked strong enough to bend metal. According to Fioni, Astra and Herlin were among the stealthiest of the crew.
Like the others on the patrol boat, Fioni, Astra, and Herlin wore the padded Hishtari gambesons, thickly padded cloth armor capable of deflecting glancing blows. Their animal masks hung from cords around their necks, and they had strapped their swords to their backs so they could climb easier. Owen, though, wore only his breeches, with the skin of his chest and face darkened with burned cork. Nor did he carry a sword; the weight of the rope would already be like an anchor around his waist. He hung the oilskin-wrapped Sight-Bringer around his neck upside down so that the handle hung down against his chest. He gripped it now, feeling the heady rush of magic as the Illthori relic enhanced his senses, letting him see the cliff face better. He’d need every bit of magic the sword gave him this night. He flexed his fingers and toes, took deep breaths, and rolled his shoulders. Around his waist was tied one end of the rope; the rest of it lay curled on the deck beside him.
“Owen,” whispered Fioni, “are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure,” he whispered back, his pulse racing as he hoped she wouldn’t hear the lie. Even with the magic of Sight-Bringer—which he would only be able to use while hanging one handed from the cliff—this was going to be a hard climb. The rocks were wet, it was dark, and the higher he climbed, the more rope he’d be dragging up after him.
Fioni hugged him, her body heat a welcome relief in the cold night air. “Well, I’ll say this much,” she whispered into his ear. “The guards would never expect anyone to be stupid enough to risk such a climb in the dark.”
A soft smile slipped past his lips, momentarily easing his nerves. “Us Wolfrey types are notoriously stupid.”
He climbed up onto the hull and then grasped at the wet rocks near the waterline, pulling himself up and away from the heaving boat. His bare foot almost slipped from the slimy rock he had chosen, but then he managed to find his balance and hang onto the cliff face.
Hanging onto the cliff face with one hand, he gripped Sight-Bringer and looked for his next handhold. He then began to climb, his pulse racing as he moved from rock to rock. As expected, the weight of the rope soon began to pull on him, but the higher he went, the dryer and more safe the cliff face became. When he needed to, he clung to the cliff, using Sight-Bringer to find the next handhold before starting again. Soon, he was high above the patrol boat and began making his way sideways, moving away from the bridge above him to a length of dark wall that he hoped was less likely to be guarded. When he reached the lip where the wall of the palace met the cliff, it was almost a surprise. He sat back against the wall, panting, his fingers trembling.
He couldn’t rest too long, though; there was too much chance someone might look over the wall and see the boat. He rose and turned about, facing the palace wall, and began to climb again. Up he went, from handhold to handhold, his toes gripping the stones. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran, stinging, into his eyes. Glancing down, he could now look onto the surface of the bridge below him. While the bridge itself was dark and empty, torches burned near the portcullis, illuminating the sentries standing guard. The rope began to pull more and more on him, as if it were trying to drag him from the walls. His shoulders and back ached with the strain, but he was almost at the top, only an arm’s length below the stone crenellations. He felt near giddy with relief.
Bless you, Father Craftsman. Bless you.
His excitement vanished a moment later when the astonished face of a Hishtari guardsman appeared over the edge of the wall, staring right at Owen.
Chapter 44
Danika
Danika’s dreams bring no comfort. In her subconscious, she knows her rest is only temporary and that the pain will begin again when she wakes. Her misery has grown so acute, she no longer remembers what normal feels like. Yet as bad as this is, she knows that it can get much, much worse.
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 53