Zhaneen had accepted the brittle letter that originated with Carnstein, a count of some power who served under Prince Vlad. Her only thought was to secure aid from Carnstein, to sell him on the possibilities of hiring her men as counter-agents against the folds of Chaos and its fiery brands, which were quite able to turn against him in the near future.
She forgive his glare and those eyes of his, like boiled eggs, staring at her from over the candlelight. The Broken Broadsword had supplied them the private dining room, the hen, and the potatoes–hashed. Carnstein ate nothing, but sipped a mysterious cup of red wine, which more often than not drizzled thickly down his chin. She forgave the count such rude manners, for what the hell, she was Chaos. But the hen didn’t go to waste. She found herself sucking at the marrow–long had it been since she ate such a fine meal.
“My darling,” he said, his corpse-like face attempting a smile, which came out looking like a carrion bird’s repose before a meal, “let us be honest with one another. I am in love with you, and you shall have my love and power, but under one condition: leave Chaos for my militant bands. I give much, so shouldn’t you give as much?”
The words stunned her.
What had she here?
Power beyond her dreams stared at her from across the table, and all she needed to do to vouchsafe it was to act, to swear, to say “yes.”
“May I bring my men with me if they will come?” she asked.
“But of course, darling,” he said, sipping the red wine deeply. “You shall have your own militia under you. And you may make war upon any band that you think would make war on me. Eradicate them in any way you please. No qualms.”
“My love,” Zhaneen said suddenly, holding out her own goblet of deep red wine, “to our venture.”
“To our enterprise. In time, Zhaneen, in time you shall be more powerful than in your wildest dreams.”
Zhaneen clinked his chalice, thinking of the layers of power that she would unfold, one at a time, like the leaves of a dark, dark rose. Already, she could hear the stomp of her army, smell the cinders in autumn rise up as she burned her way across creation, heard the cries of the wounded as they suffered a slow, uneven death.