The Dead Man sighed as he looked out over the turrets of the Brimonian fortress. The fleet he'd sent to the Guild had failed.
The lot of them.
Killed in one sitting, when their backs were turned. The Lieutenant had taken all their ships. Ran some aground, as well, trying as best as he could to get away from the treacherous island. But, for the most part, the mercenaries had gotten away from the Guild with few losses.
This was bad. Very bad, indeed.
The Dead Man would have been able to track their movements further, but another matter gnawed at him.
The matter of the Human.
He knew exactly who she was, what she sounded like. The marks on his forehead glowed. He knew what she looked like also - and this befuddled him greatly.
The Human bore a certain likeness to the Witch-Queen.
The Dead Man hadn't made mention of this - to the Witch-Queen or to the Lord of Brimone - but the Dead Man suspected that the Human was most likely related to the Witch-Queen. Perhaps her offspring.
This filled the Dead Man with an emotion that he was surprised he still had:
Could it be that the Witch-Queen had loved another before him?
The Dead Man rasped a curse and he frowned beneath his veil.
It didn't matter too much, he supposed. He knew that the Human and the elvish host were coming to Brimone - the Lord and Lady of Eversby with them. He could be rid of the Human then. Rid of anything that stood in the way of his mistress.
And, by it, perhaps he could win her affection.