“It wasn’t your words that brought me.”
“You found the gems and coin I sent spoke more eloquently. I understand. But that was a trifling gift compared to what you could gain.”
Avarice flashed in his dark eyes, along with suspicion. “What do you want of me?”
“Two things. First, I need an additional ship.”
“Why?”
Jennesta fought down the impulse to tell this creature to mind his business. “I’m recruiting a certain number of… helpers on my travels. I need another ship to transport them, and I understand you’re best placed to supply one.”
“It could be possible. If you make it worth my while.”
“I’ve no shortage of funds.”
“I will see what I can do. You said there were two things.”
“I take it that’s your famous bow,” she said, eyeing it and seeming to ignore his question. “It’s a handsome weapon.”
“It’s not for sale,” Gleaton-Rouk hissed.
She laughed. “I didn’t intend making an offer.”
“Nor can it be taken from me,” he added charily.
“Really? Don’t worry; I’ve no need of it.”
“Then why speak of it?”
“Partly out of what you might call a professional interest, as a practitioner of the ancient art myself.”
He gave a derisive snort. “Any power you might command would be no match for Shadow-wing’s.”
“Be that as it may, I didn’t ask you here to debate the efficacy of magic. The bow touches on the second reason I wanted to meet with you.”
“How so?”
“I know you used it recently to kill an orc.”
“What is that to you?”
“I commend you for it. I, too, have a blood feud with the Wolverines, and particularly with its leader. Working together, you and I could bring about a reckoning.”
“I’ve no taste for being recruited.”
“I said working together. What I’m proposing is an alliance.”
“You have a small army, and you claim magical powers. Why do you need me?”
“Because you have something greater than mere magic. You have a passion for vengeance. As do I.”
“Yet you seek an ally.”
“I need one I can trust. I’m surrounded by fools.”
“And what would we achieve?”
“We could pour pressure on the warband, and bring about the death of its damnable captain, Stryke.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“I should hope that the sweetness of revenge would be reward enough.” She noted his expression and added, “Though of course I would also show my appreciation in the form of further riches.”
Gleaton-Rouk thought about it, and at length hissed, “I agree. Subject to the details being to my liking.”
“Of course,” Jennesta replied smoothly, reflecting on how best to betray this new partner. She had no doubt he was thinking the same. “And as a token of my good faith I would like to present you with a further pecuniary offering. As a down-payment, let’s call it.” Having looted the treasury before fleeing Acurial, her apparent generosity was of no consequence. Besides, she could always get more, one way or another.
The goblin gave her the tiniest nod by way of acceptance. “And for my part I shall make arrangements concerning the ship you require.”
“How long will that take?”
“It will be settled before the day’s end.”
“Then I suggest you return here to continue our discussion.”
Gleaton-Rouk nodded, and together they left the tent.
There was a lot of activity outside. Her troops were going about their chores, along with a few of the zombies. The latter were watched with suspicion and not a little bewilderment by Gleaton-Rouk’s entourage. They numbered about a dozen, and stood together not far from Jennesta’s tent, clutching their tridents.
As Gleaton-Rouk headed their way, Jennesta stopped him with, “There’s one more small matter to clear up.”
“What might that be?” he said, turning to her.
“When my delegation approached you to arrange this meeting, one of them was killed.”
“A regrettable occurrence. We had no idea who this group of humans were, or whether they were hostile. We thought to defend ourselves.”
“I see.”
“It was no more than you would have done yourself, I expect.”
“Your feud with the Wolverines is over them having killed some of your kin, is that right?”
He was puzzled by the turn the conversation had taken, but replied, “You know it is.”
Jennesta looked at his retinue. “These are your kin?”
“Some are, some aren’t. All are my clan.”
She pointed at a goblin. “Is he kin?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?” She indicated another.
“Him? No, we do not share blood.”
Without a further word, Jennesta raised her open hand, palm up, and placed its heel against her chin. Like a child dispersing dandelion heads, she gently blew. A jet of black vapour streamed from her hand. As it flowed it solidified into something resembling a cluster of catapult shot. Faster than the eye could follow, the cloud of shot flashed towards the goblin she had singled out. It struck with tremendous force, riddling his body with a myriad of tiny crimson explosions. Many passed clean through him. Instantly he was rendered little more than pulp, collapsing in a gory heap.
Such was the precision of Jennesta’s spell that the dead goblin’s companions, although standing with him, were completely untouched, except by their comrade’s blood. For an instant they froze, then they began brandishing their weapons, their faces twisted with outrage. Jennesta’s followers tensed and reached for their own blades.
“You took one of mine, I’ve taken one of yours,” she told Gleaton-Rouk, her voice strident enough to be heard by his retinue.
For the first time since he arrived the goblin leader wore an expression that betrayed his true feelings. It was disbelief and awe. But as the realisation of what he was dealing with dawned on him it gave way to the kind of grudging respect one bully feels for another. The whole thing was fleeting, and he quickly returned to seeming passivity, but Jennesta saw.
“I understand the need for… compensation,” he said, signing his bodyguards to stand down with a flick of his bony hand. They did so uneasily. “Let us regard this as a debt paid.”
“And I’ll levy no interest,” she replied, giving him a smile designed to be charming without quite achieving it.
“Until later then.” He bobbed his head. Glancing at the lightly steaming remains of his dead follower, he added in a softer tone, “You must teach me that sometime.”
“I might just do that,” she said.
They left, and she returned to her quarters.
Killing the goblin had fatigued her further. Not seriously, just enough to be annoying. But there was one more thing to do before she could take nourishment.
She ordered complete privacy, and in the cool of her tent enacted a ritual. One that forged a mental link with another party. Someone not too far away, and approaching.
Dynahla leaned against the rail on a quiet part of the orcs’ ship, head in hands, crimson locks flowing in the breeze.
“Hey.”
There was no response.
“ Hey. Dynahla!”
The shape-changer stirred and slowly turned.
“You all right?” Stryke asked. He was accompanied by Jup.
“Yes. I’m… fine. I didn’t know you were-”
“What were you doing?” Jup said.
“Communing.”
Stryke frowned. “You better explain that.”
“I was in touch with someone. Mentally, that is.”
“Who?”
“Serapheim.”
He was nonplussed. “You can do that?”
“Under certain circumstances. Though it’s not easy.”
“How do you do it?”
“We have a psychic link, you might say. It’s hard to explain.”
“You said Serapheim couldn’t talk to us directly,” Jup recalled. “That’s why you brought his message.”
“He can’t communicate directly with any of you. There has to be the link, and even with it, it’s difficult. But none of that’s important. What he told me is.”
“So spit it out,” Stryke demanded.