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

  THE VAMPIRE QUEEN SAGA

  Blood Fiends’ Bane

  The Shield of Serl Raven-Eye

  The Mouth of the Gods

  William Stacey

  Copyright 2017 William Stacey

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Bastard Sword Press

  E-book covers by Isabel Robalo – IsaDesign.net

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio www.polgarusstudio.com

  Maps by Steam Power Studios www.steampowerstudios.com.au

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be considered as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Blood Fiends’ Bane

  Book 1 of the Vampire Queen Saga

  Part One:

  A Legend of Death

  The Siege of Greywynne Fortress

  Auslaug Oar-Arm hesitated only a moment as she stepped over the ring of corpses and dropped down on one knee before the queen. When she had received word that the queen had demanded her presence, she hadn’t known what to expect, just that it had been important enough to pull Auslaug from her defense of the fortress as the northerners breached the outer curtain wall. Certainly, she hadn’t foreseen the ritual slaughter of her fellow childes—the last of Serina’s battle captains—their bodies carefully arrayed upon the rune-marked stones before the throne. She felt no great kinship with them, no regret at their passing—or even real fear for her own safety. In truth, she had already accepted that she was going to die that night. What did bother her, though, was the uncertainty over what had occurred there because whatever it was had been significant—the air within the cavern was still heavy with the residue of eldritch power. Torches set in bronze stands flickered atop the raised stone platform upon which sat the queen in her antler-and-hide-bound throne. The only other servants present, trembling in the shadows, were human.

  Am I the last now? she wondered.

  Like Auslaug, the queen had girded herself for war, wearing a brightly burnished coat of ringmail. Neither she nor Auslaug carried a weapon—why bother when one’s own hands could rip and tear flesh and bone like loaves of bread.

  Auslaug’s gaze darted upward as the cavern’s high ceiling shook. Rocks and dust sifted down upon the coffins and vaults that surrounded them. The Great Crypt was as fitting a locale for the end as any other, although Auslaug had assumed she’d die in battle, killing as many northern dogs as she could before they brought her down.

  The queen herself was serenity, her face granite, looking not unlike the statues of her ancestors standing about the Great Crypt. More rocks fell from the ceiling, and the human servants scurried back farther in fear, pointlessly. A waste of time. Escape is no longer possible. The invaders would be there soon enough. They were coming with fire and stake and foul-chanting priests—coming to pull down the queen. Auslaug would die herself before that happened, but it would still happen.

  “My childe, my brave battle captain,” the queen said, filling Auslaug with love despite her melancholy, “lift your heart.”

  Even then, with the northern invaders almost within the fortress, the queen appeared utterly unconcerned, as if the northern army was nothing more than a hindrance. Her long blond hair was pulled back severely, woven into tight braids and interlaced with bone ornaments, gems, and gold chains. Her blue facial tattoos, intricate arcane runes covering the entire upper half of her face, looked like a mask in the shadows of the cavern. Despite her queen’s entreaties, Auslaug’s heart remained stone.

  This is so bitterly unfair, so crushingly unjust—and all because of Stron and that cursed sword. Why did the Illthori even craft a blade that was so dangerous to our kind?

  “My queen,” said Auslaug, casting her gaze down again. “I… I have failed you… It is over. They’ll be here shortly.”

  “No, my childe. You have succeeded, given me the time I needed, as have your brothers and sisters—given all.”

  “My queen, I don’t—”

  “You don’t need to understand, just to trust. Do you, Auslaug? Do you trust me?”

  “I… Yes. I love you.”

  The queen rose from her throne, approached Auslaug, and let her fingers trail through the hair atop Auslaug’s head. “I know you do, my general. And I love you, too. That is why you must leave me.”

  Above them, the cavern once again shook under the impact of the northerners’ war machines, dislodging stones and a fog-like curtain of dust.

  Chapter 1

  Owen

  The Duchy of Wolfrey

  Forty-eight years after the fall of Greywynne Fortress

  Duty is a double-edged sword blade. It can cut the user as easily as the foe. That was what Keep-Captain Brice Awde was always telling Owen Toscovar and the other men-at-arms. Most of the time, he and the other guardsmen would consider it just one more of the Keep-Captain’s oh-so-somber life lessons, but right then, Owen was beginning to understand the danger of following one’s duty. Will it cut me as well tonight?

  Owen shifted in his saddle and pulled his otter-skin cloak closer around his neck in a futile effort to keep out the constant patter of rain. His cotton-lined undertunic beneath his ring-mail coat was already damp and had been so since before the sun had set hours earlier.

  He glanced at the backs of the others riding ahead of him. Keep-Captain Awde led, with his second-in-command, Keep-Lieutenant Warin Sayer just behind him and Fin Tokke—at twenty-three, only one year older than Owen—riding behind the two officers. For four days, they had been searching the hinterlands for the Ballards. And for four days, they had found nothing but forest, endless summer rain, and a trail long gone cold.

  The Ballards were long gone, Owen knew. They wouldn’t remain in the north, not with a man like Keep-Captain Awde hunting them—and they had to know that Duke Oskaley would send his best warrior after them. Justice was swift and uncomplicated in the north, and while murder was enough of a crime to earn a hangman’s rope, murdering a traveling merchant was bad for trade. If the Ballards stayed in the north, they’d die. They must have known that. Once again, Owen muttered a silent entreaty to Father Craftsman, praying that the Ballards were far away.

  As young boys, Owen and Emrys Ballard had been close, spending hours hunting rabbits, squirrels, and fork-tailed wood-hets in the northern woods at the base of Mount Cloven, only a half-day’s ride from Wolfredsuntown. Life had been good back then, before his parents died, before his older brother Orin had inherited the stables. Often, he, Orin, and Emrys spent days out in those very woods, camping and fishing, riding recklessly across farmers’ fields, swimming in frigid northern lakes, and climbing any rock face that looked dangerous. Like all northern boys, they had been fearless, certain of their immortality. Together, they tackled some of the more dangerous cliffs along the east side of the mountain, risking life and limb while free climbing its rocky surface. In many ways, Emrys had been more of a brother than Orin.

  If it came to it, could I kill Emrys?

  Could I kill anyone? Could I really hack a man down, end his life? The older guardsmen back at Castle Dain insisted he would, told him that when the moment came, training and self-preservation would guide his arm.

  And if not, they said with grins, he’d die.

  I’ll never forgive Orin for this.

  Pushing his steel half-helm back, he ran his fingers over his forehead, raw where the helmet’s lea
ther liner rubbed against his skin. At least that night, they’d sleep under a roof, in a real bed instead of on the ground. He smelled the wood fire of the travelers’ inn before they came to the southern edge of the forest. From there, he could just make out the dark shape of the inn, seeing the glow of welcoming torchlight through its shuttered windows. His stomach rumbled at the smell of stew.

  Just past the forest’s edge, Keep-Captain Awde sat upon his mount, looking back at Owen and Fin. Sayer sat his own mount beside him, conversing quietly with the Keep-Captain.

  “Toscovar,” the Keep-Captain called out, “come here.”

  As he rode past Fin, the tall, thin young man with a big nose glanced at Owen, met his eye, then shrugged. Owen rode his sorrel up beside the other two men.

  “You’ve been here, the Green Heart Inn?” Keep-Captain Awde asked him.

  “I have. Once,” Owen replied. “My father sold horses to the innkeeper.”

  The older man nodded, his stoic gaze locked on Owen’s face. “Are the Ballards on foot or on horse?”

  Owen paused, considering his response as the two men watched him. Lately, that sort of thing had been happening more often, the Keep-Captain soliciting his opinion, trying to draw more out of Owen. For his first year of service, Owen had put his head down and done as he had been told, quietly learning how to fight, how to get by as a man-at-arms. But several months back, the Keep-Captain had begun to single him out for impromptu discussions on tactics and management. At first, Owen had thought it was because of his expertise with horses, but recently, he wasn’t so sure. As the younger son of the local horse-trader, Owen had no particularly impressive future as a soldier, especially since the only reason he was a man-at-arms at all was that the duke had offered him the choice between service or banishment.

  “Well?” Awde pressed him.

  “They’re on foot, I think,” Owen said, only realizing his opinion as he gave it. “There were no horses at their farm, but when they were seen at the murder scene along the Forest Way, they ran off on foot into the woods.”

  That meant, he realized with a heavy heart, the Ballards probably weren’t long gone from the Duchy of Wolfrey at all. They could very well have still been about.

  “Could have had horses hidden away somewhere,” Sayer said.

  Owen shook his head. “The stables at their farm hadn’t been tended in weeks. I think they must have sold their horses, probably before they took up robbery.”

  Sayer sneered. “That a fact or an opinion, Horse-boy?”

  Owen bit back an angry remark.

  “Well, Toscovar,” asked Awde, “which is it?”

  “Being on foot is an opinion,” he said. “But the state of the stables is a fact. There haven’t been horses on that farm in weeks. I’m sure of it.”

  Awde nodded. “I agree. That’s what the women told me as well, that the older brothers had sold the horses. Weren’t too happy about it, either. So, what sort of welcome do you think we’ll find in the inn?”

  “None at all,” Owen said. “The Ballard farm is close enough to walk from here. They like to drink and fight. This is where they’d do it.”

  “They’re all related hereabouts, anyhow,” muttered Sayer.

  “Keep going,” said Awde, drumming his fingers over his sword hilt. “How do you see things?”

  Owen pointed past the inn. “This is as far south as you can go and still be in the north. The King’s Road runs along the coast, two days to Port Ollechta.”

  Awde nodded. “Go on.”

  “They can walk it if they have to and be gone from the borders of the Duchy of Wolfrey within an hour. Easy for them to vanish.”

  “And they may already have,” said Sayer.

  “But they’re not from the coast or the south. They know these woods, these lands. They know these people. They’d feel secure here. They can run whenever they want.”

  Awde gripped Owen’s shoulder and squeezed it tightly. “We’ll go in quietly. I’ll do the talking.”

  “They won’t say anything,” Sayer said. “Not to us.”

  “Not in words,” said Awde. “But watch their faces. Watch what they do.” He motioned Fin over to join them. “The three of us—me, the Keep-Lieutenant, and you, Tokke—are going to go inside.” He glanced at Owen. “You, Toscovar, I want you to hang back on foot. After we’ve stabled the horses, sneak in close, somewhere you can watch the rear of the inn. If anyone leaves, I want you to stop him and bring him to me. You understand?”

  Owen nodded, swallowing.

  Awde locked his gaze on Owen. “Use your judgment. If there’s more than one, come get us first.”

  Owen dismounted and handed his reins to Fin.

  “I’ll save you some beer,” Fin said with a grin before following the other two men, leading Owen’s horse behind him.

  Owen pulled his cloak about him again and slipped away around the side of the inn, keeping his distance from both the inn and the stable. With the rain and cloud cover, the night was dark, but enough light was spilling from the inn for Owen to find his way. As he came around the rear of the building, he found himself breathing too hard, his heart beating wildly. He forced himself to breathe, to calm down. Chances were that nothing would happen and he’d soon be warm and dry, with a bowl of stew. He knelt down, moving his sword belt out of the way, in a spot where he could watch both the rear of the inn and the entrance to the stable.

  The others brought their palfreys inside the stable then, a few minutes later, left the stable to approach the inn. Light spilled around the corner of the inn as they opened the door, and Owen heard loud laughter and conversation as the others went inside. In a moment, the noise of the inn’s patrons abruptly died. After some moments, the sounds of conversation rose again. The moments stretched on, but nothing happened.

  Nothing is going to happen.

  He had no desire to fight anyone that night. He was a capable swordsman, one of the best in the garrison, and he was much bigger and stronger than most men—which was one of the reasons they had taken to calling him Horse-boy, his family’s stables being the other—but he was no killer, and he knew it. He suspected the other soldiers knew it as well, which was probably why they felt they could get away with ridiculing a big man like him. He had no business being a soldier. He didn’t want four more years of being a man-at-arms. It was never what he want—

  A shadow darted past the side of the inn, moving in the direction of the stable. Someone was trying to sneak out of the back of the inn after all. In the dark, distracted by his own self-pity, Owen had missed it.

  He felt his mouth go dry, followed by a sense of breathlessness. He wondered what to do. If he ran inside the inn and got the others, whoever it was might get away, but he had been distracted and didn’t know for sure whether just the one shadow had slipped by. If more than one person was there…

  He pictured the sneer on Sayer’s face and the disappointment on Keep-Captain Awde’s. Grinding his teeth, he flexed his fingers and then made fists. One person, he finally decided. It’s probably just one person.

  Drawing his sword, he rose into a crouch. He was a trained man-at-arms. Armed with a castle-forged sword, protected by a ring-mail coat, he was more than a match for any bandit. Moving cautiously, he stalked around the side of the inn and approached the stable’s open gateway.

  One of the horses whinnied, and he was certain it was his. He inhaled deeply, forced down his fear, and stepped through the stable’s entrance. The moment he did, he realized he had been wrong—two people had run past him. Emrys and Trystan Ballard stared openmouthed at Owen, caught in the midst of saddling his horse.

  Owen moved first, stepping forward into a fighting stance, his sword held two-handed in front of him, the point threatening the two men. “Don’t—”

  He sensed rather than heard movement behind him and had just begun to turn when someone tackled him, knocking him down to the straw-covered dirt floor of the stables, hammering the breath from his chest. His sword s
lid away, and the horses neighed in fear as Trystan and Emrys rushed him. Panic gave him strength as he flipped onto his side, throwing away the man who had knocked him down. However, a moment later, the other two men were on him, pinning him to his back, punching him repeatedly in the face and head. Even for a large man like Owen, three against one was near-impossible odds. He bucked his hips, knocking one man off, but only for a moment. The horses stamped and whinnied in terror.

  Will the others inside the inn hear?

  Owen tried to yell for help, but a hand covered his mouth, muffling him and restricting his breathing. Desperate, he wrenched one hand free and threw a clumsy, off-balance punch that hit something but didn’t have any real effect. Then, his hand was gripped tightly again.

  “Hurry,” a breathless voice urged. “Stick him!”

  He felt a painful jab in his ribs.

  They’re trying to murder me!

  Real terror washed over him. He realized he needed to get to his feet, or he was going to die. He felt another sharp jab in his ribs. That time, one of the men grunted with the effort.

  “Not… going in.”

  “The throat. Saw his throat. Hurry!”

  Bright lights burst in his vision, and then he heard a thump, followed by a wheeze. The weight atop him lessened. One fewer man was holding him down.

  “Someone else—”

  The hand over his mouth disappeared, and Owen sucked in air. Nearby, he heard a squeal followed by the sounds of blows striking flesh, punches. The others must have heard the commotion after all. The walls of the stable shook, and the horses screamed again. Then, only one man still remained atop Owen. Without thinking it through, he jammed his thumbs into the man’s face, feeling for the hollow of his eye sockets. When he felt the soft give of the man’s eyes, he rammed his thumbs all the way in until they were wet. The man screamed and fell back, freeing Owen.