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

by William Stacey

  “Not even a bit,” she lied.

  Fighting was always exhausting, but never more so than when the battle was between two skilled fighters. He launched himself at her again, and their blades clashed in a flurry of feints, attacks, and ripostes before locking in a bind, each blade holding the other while they strained at one another. He tried to overpower her with his greater size and strength, but she danced back, disengaging and switching to the rear guard, forcing him to change his stance as well to counter it. He’s faster than I would have thought, she grudgingly admitted. Her muscles were already tiring, and she was beginning to slow down. If I don’t at least cut him on the next exchange, I think I’m going to lose this fight.

  “Your lover Talin didn’t do nearly as well as you, cousin,” Galas sneered with just a trace of breathlessness, “especially after I cut several fingers from his sword hand. After that, he just begged.” He snorted, shaking his helmeted head. “It was pathetic. Such a worm was beneath you, Fioni, the great-granddaughter of Serl Raven-Eye. You should have thanked me.”

  She knew he was trying to goad her into a mistake, but her temper flared regardless. “Talin was a better man than you,” she snarled as she launched another attack, swinging her blade up and aiming for his outstretched sword-hand, where even a small cut would be his end. But he had already slipped back, while cutting low against her now-exposed front leg. She was already drawing her leg back, but tired now, she moved too slowly, and the tip of his blade cut into her thigh. Stupid, Fioni, stupid, she admonished herself as she hobbled back. She already felt the blood trickle down her knee and calf.

  He could have finished her while she was off balance, but instead he taunted her again. “I don’t hear any more fighting, cousin. Does that mean your knight is dead?”

  Tentatively, she placed some weight on her injured leg. There was a sharp spike of pain, but the leg held, which meant the cut couldn’t have been that serious. But, serious or not, it would slow her down, and against a swordsman of Galas’s skill, that meant the fight was a foregone conclusion now. She forced bravado she didn’t feel into her voice. “Maybe it’s your men who are dead. Maybe you should run away—again.”

  He shook his head, his eyes shining happily. “It’s over, Fioni. Drop your sword, and I’ll make your death fast. Keep fighting, and I’ll give you to the queen, although I’m not sure she’ll want you after I’m done. I’ll start with giving you what you’ve always needed and split you in two.”

  Despite the dire situation, she sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “Oh, Galas, please, stop it with the ridiculous bragging. Women talk, even ones that would lie with you. I know all about you. You couldn’t split an orange with that little thing between your legs. Galas Snail-Dick should have been your name-gift.”

  His eyes filled with rage. “She-wolf bitch!” he snarled as he rushed in, just as she had hoped he would. She easily caught his thrust and pushed it away before bringing her sword up and around in a desperate reverse cut that, while it probably wouldn’t work, was her last chance. But then he did something she hadn’t expected—he dropped his sword and gripped her wrist, immobilizing her sword as he stepped to the side and smashed his other palm into the back of her hand, sending Wave’s Kiss flying away from her to clatter amongst the stones. Sweeping back in, his arms snaked around her in a wrestler’s stance where he could flip her over his hip and drive her into the ground. “Here’s your embrace, cousin!” he snarled.

  “And here’s yours,” she answered as she stepped into him, slipping her leg behind his and kicking it up as she twisted her hips, throwing him into the air.

  His back slammed into the rocks, smashing the air from his lungs. His speckled helm flew off, the chinstrap broken. Without pause, she slipped forward and caught one of his ankles, immobilizing him while spreading his legs. She stepped between them, still holding his ankle, controlling him. His eyes widened with terror. “No—”

  She stomped down three times on his testicles, hopefully crushing them.

  His screams turned into a tortured mewling as she let go of his ankle and he rolled over onto his side, curling into a ball. She retrieved Wave’s Kiss and stood over him, shaking her head. “When I was eight, Vory Eel-Gifted—a far better fighter than you—taught me to wrestle. Mostly, he taught me how to outmaneuver larger men.”

  “Wa...wa...wait!” he managed to sputter, holding one hand out.

  She drew her sword up over her head with both hands. “You should have kept the sword.” The pattern-welded blade swept down, cleaving through Galas Gilt-Mane’s perfect blond hair and into his skull.

  #

  Fioni stared at the dead man for long moments before she noticed the black fish sigil around his bloody neck. She bent over and yanked the cord free and then held it, spinning, before her eyes. Father, wait for me in Nifalgen. Someday, we’ll swim the oceans together. When she heard running boot steps behind her, she spun about, her bloody sword held ready before her. Owen dashed out of the night, concern on his features, a loaded crossbow held across his chest. When he saw her, a smile lit up his face. She flew into him, staggering him. “You’re hurt,” he said, his voice thick with relief.

  “I’ll live,” she whispered into his neck. “And you?”

  “I’ll live.”

  She drew back, held him at arm’s length. “Galas’s men?”

  He shook his head. “They were kind enough to return one of our crossbows, though, but I could only find a single bolt. We’re going to have to ask the Kur’teshi for more.”

  She laughed as she wrapped his arm around her, using him to help support her. “You’ll find we Fenyir have the best woodworkers. I may even know a man who can duplicate the weapons themselves.”

  They hobbled across the courtyard and approached the bridge. On the other side was the broken tower, silent and dark. “We’ll find her,” she said, seeing the worried cast to his eyes.

  As they stepped onto the ancient stone bridge, she glanced nervously over its crumbling side, seeing the empty moat was much deeper than she had at first realized—certain death if they fell. She had never been particularly frightened of heights, but a debilitating fear swept over her now. Her skin turned clammy with cold sweat, and her pulse began to race like a gull sweeping over the waves. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she froze, staring at Owen, seeing the same fear in his eyes. “Owen, what…”

  “The Dread,” he whispered through trembling lips.

  They turned. Serina and Dilan stood at the end of the bridge, silently watching them. Dilan, in his torn ring-mail coat and hate-filled red eyes, was terrifying, but it was Serina, the Blood Queen, who commanded her attention. She was beautiful and terrible, like a perfect steel blade poised to strike, and her pale skin seemed silver in the moonlight. She wore a dark fur-trimmed cloak over a beautiful blue gown and high otter-skin boots. Her blond hair, interwoven with gems and chains of silver and gold, was tightly braided. Intricate tattoos covered the upper half of her face, resembling a beautiful death mask. When she spoke, Fioni felt as though ice-cold hail lashed her skin. “Where is the niece of Stron?”

  Fioni pulled away from Owen and drew her sword, but her fingers couldn’t hold the weapon, and it slipped from her grip, clattering onto the stones of the bridge.

  Serina raised an eyebrow. “You threaten your own queen?” She raised a single hand at them, and the Dread suddenly increased, like the weight of a mountain, crushing down upon her, driving her and Owen to their knees. Helpless, her heart hammering in her chest, Fioni watched Serina slide across the stones of the bridge, with Dilan following.

  Serina looked down her long, narrow nose at Fioni. “So you’re the one who’s given me so much trouble.”

  Fioni’s teeth clattered together, resonating in her ears.

  “I met your father, you know—a traitor to his people, as was your foul great-grandfather Serl. Before I make you love me, you should know your father’s soul suffers. For plotting against his queen, I have damned h
im. Taios Oak-Heart will never see Nifalgen, never be reborn as a black fish. You, however, shall not suffer his fate. I have special plans for you, Red Wolf. You shall serve me as my new general. As my beloved Auslaug was, so shall you be.”

  “Bu… burn, witch.”

  Serina snorted in amusement. “No, not I, but my enemies will burn—and you shall light the fire, Fioni.” Turning away, she stood before Owen now. “Who is this handsome one, Dilan? He has the look of an islander but not the smell.”

  “Owen Toscovar, Mother,” Dilan answered coldly. “He was the one who took the sword from the Great Crypt.”

  “Ah,” Serina softly exclaimed, trailing her fingers through Owen’s hair as if he were a pet. “Such a powerful destiny the crones have woven about you, Owen, to bring you all this way. Tell me, kingdom man, where is your Dain noblewoman? Where is Sight-Bringer?”

  Owen shook his head. “Dilan, help…”

  Serina turned her red eyes upon the tower. “No matter. I feel my heart calling out to me. Do you know how hollow I’ve felt all these decades? It felt like a part of me was missing—and it was. Of course, I had to do it to protect myself, had to remove my heart and sacrifice all my childes to power the spell, all for this, to finally be free of any threat.”

  “Dilan,” pleaded Owen.

  “It’s time,” Serina said softly, almost to herself. “The end of the Dain line is personal, Dilan. Stay here while I deal with Stron’s kin.”

  She slipped past them, ghosting toward the tower, and as she moved away, Fioni felt the debilitating fear begin to recede. She flexed her fingers and then made fists. Wave’s Kiss glittered in the moonlight, only inches away. Dilan, however, remained standing before her, watching her and Owen. “Mother?” he called out.

  Serina’s voice drifted across the night. “Go ahead and drain the man, Dilan, but leave the woman. I’ll turn her later.”

  Dilan bared his fangs hungrily.

  Chapter 64

  Danika

  Danika lay on her side next to the jewel case, her numb fingers brushing against its closed hasp. She had drifted off, she was certain of it, but then, abruptly, her eyes had just snapped open again. Vaguely, she remembered a voice… calling her, drawing her from her dream. Realizing where she was in a heartbeat, and galvanized by sudden fear, she had dragged herself across the sloping tower wall to the chest. But now, her numb fingers wouldn’t work the clasp, couldn’t even flip it up. When her hand fell away for what felt like the tenth time, she moaned in frustration, tears running down her cheeks. Try again, Danika, she admonished herself. You can do this. You have to!

  The sword!

  If she could retrieve Sight-Bringer from the nell spider’s corpse, the magic might counteract the poison, even if only a tiny bit, and let her get the hasp open. The nell spider’s cocooned carcass lay wedged behind some fallen rubble. With what little strength remained in her legs, she pushed herself along the floor, scrabbling forward by inches. In moments, she was drenched in cold sweat once again. She could see the carcass more clearly now, and the white stone of Sight-Bringer’s hilt jutting out past the still-dripping fangs. Move, Danika! Move! She reached out, moaning as her fingers brushed against one of the bristly legs—and then a soul-crushing despair came over her, as if the gates of the underworld had just opened before her.

  “Niece of Stron, your quest is over,” a woman’s soft voice said.

  Serina.

  “No,” she moaned.

  “Oh, but yes,” the woman mocked in the darkness. “Are you hurt? Are you dying? Shall I end your pain for you?” Ice-cold fingers brushed Danika’s cheek. “I almost feel sorry for you, to come so far, so close. Your Father Craftsman can be as cruel as my master, Ator.”

  Serina approached the jewel case, unlatched the hasp, and flipped the lid up, bathing the chamber in the bright-red glow of hundreds of blood gems. Atop the gems, still glistening wetly, was a severed human heart, covered in fresh blood. Serina trailed her fingers over the heart, smiling before turning her attention back to Danika. The tattoos on her forehead seemed to flow and alter on their own, but that could simply have been a trick of Danika’s poison-addled mind.

  Danika fought to speak, her lips trembling. “No... No.”

  “It probably would have been better for you had you died,” Serina said simply. “Tell me, where is the sword? What did you do with Sight-Bringer?”

  Danika closed her eyes. Brice, help me, please. Give me strength. “Gone,” she finally managed to squeak. “In… shipwreck.”

  Serina sighed, as if at a willful child. “I very much doubt that. No matter. I’ll find it. After sleeping next to it for half a century, I’ve become… attuned to it. Even now, I can feel it nearby. But I must thank you, niece of Stron. Once I’ve consumed your blood and recovered my strength, I’ll prepare the counter-spell and return my heart to my body. Then, once I am complete again, I shall turn over every stone on this island and discover all the Illthori’s occult secrets. With such power, I can conquer all of the kingdoms: Hishtar, Lyr, and even Xi’ur—all shall fall before me. And you, descendant of the coward Stron, you led me here.”

  Danika moaned. “Please… no.”

  “Now that I have everything I’ve ever wanted, you’d think I’d enjoy this moment more. But no, looking down upon you, I feel… nothing.”

  “Brice…”

  “Brice? Brice Awde? Was he something to you? Were you the reason he betrayed me, throwing away the gift I gave him? I should have known as much. Always, your foul family has stood in my way—no more.”

  Danika’s terror spiked as Serina swept forward, her fangs now bared. With no more effort than lifting a babe, she wrenched Danika up, holding her against her. Serina gripped the front of her tunic and tore it from her, as if it were nothing more than paper. Holding her in place, one hand gripping her breast, she began to suck and lick at her neck, flicking her tongue over the throbbing vein in her throat.

  “Please, no,” Danika whimpered.

  “When Stron and his foul battle mage, Belion, came against me in my fortress fifty years ago—before I rammed Sight-Bringer through his own cowardly heart—I promised I’d end his line. This night, I keep that promise.”

  “No…” Danika begged.

  “Yes, niece of Stron.”

  She opened her mouth wide, her fangs glistening. In one pain-filled moment, her head darted in, and she drove her fangs deep into Danika’s throat, ripping through the vein. Danika cried out in agony, feeling her hot blood splashing down her neck as Serina began to drink, sucking at her. With the hand grasping her breast, Serina began to squeeze, pumping more blood through Danika’s heart, forcing it to flow faster. And then, far more horrific than any pain, Danika began to feel the first stirrings of lust, sensations she had only ever felt before with Brice, and unable to help herself, she moaned. Serina, her eyes shining, pulled her blood-soaked mouth and chin from Danika’s neck and then kissed her greedily, like a lover, slipping her tongue into her mouth, filling it with the sour taste of her blood. As Danika’s vision began to grow dim, Serina began to drink again, once more painfully compressing Danika’s heart. Danika, feeling her body begin to shut down, closed her eyes and felt her heartbeat slow.

  I’ll find you in the afterlife, Brice, my love.

  Chapter 65

  Dilan

  Dilan’s thirst for blood was like a living thing, an insatiable monster. He advanced on his one-time friend.

  “Dilan, wait!” Owen pleaded.

  The red-haired Fenyir woman grasped for the crossbow lying nearby, but to Dilan, she moved as if underwater, far too slowly. Disdainfully, he kneed her in the face, sending her falling over the crumbling lip of the bridge. She grasped at its edge, just catching herself as she hung swaying from the fingertips of one hand. Owen threw himself at her, skidding forward and catching her wrist just as she let go.

  Dilan glared hungrily at Owen, bared his fangs, and prepared to throw himself atop the helpless man.

 
; “Owen, let go!” she yelled. “Save yourself!”

  “No!” Owen groaned, trying to wrench her back up.

  Dilan froze. Shocked by the sudden memory of his dream and… Artur. Dilan had been hanging from the bridge, Prophet’s Bridge. Once again, he heard the roaring river, saw his brother, Artur, in Owen’s place, holding onto Dilan’s wrist as he swayed from the bridge. He saw the rebels rushing forward.

  “Let me go,” he had begged Artur.

  “Never,” answered his brother—just before the spear thrust that had killed him, sending Dilan falling.

  Dilan stared at his clawlike hands, now forever stained with the blood of the innocent. “Artur,” he whispered in revulsion. “What have I become?”

  Owen’s grip failed, and the red-haired woman fell—but only for a moment before Dilan caught her in a viselike grip. He pulled her up easily, holding her at arm’s length before him, her feet dangling above the bridge. Why had he done that? Owen scrambled to his knees while Dilan stared at the throbbing pulse in the woman’s neck. His hunger spiked once again, driving away all thoughts of a bridge and a brother. He opened his mouth wide, staring hungrily at her throat.

  Something hammered into his chest, knocking him back and sending the woman flying away from him to roll along the bridge. He stared in confusion at the feathers of a wooden crossbow bolt jutting from his chest where it had punched through the steel rings of his armor.

  Right through his heart.

  Owen lowered a now-empty crossbow as Dilan’s vision began to grow dim. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Owen said, his voice echoing as if in a tunnel.

  His last thought before his world went black was to wonder why Owen looked so sad. Then he was falling, spinning and twisting in the darkness. Once again, he remembered falling from Prophet’s Bridge, and he knew he should have died that day, with Artur. Then a familiar voice called his name, and he was no longer falling but standing on a hill, an autumn breeze blowing the tall stalks of grass around him. He didn’t question how he had come to be here or why he was suddenly a young boy again. It just felt… right.