Free Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK by B. V. Larson Page B

him. They would ply him with gifts, even as they had once paid tribute and lavished thoughtful favors upon the elves. Now that he had power, Old Hob, once the object of universal scorn amongst the lords of the various folk, had come into good fortune. Oberon was forced to recalculate the other’s status, and he did not enjoy the sensation.
    Hob watched Oberon’s face closely in the light of his newly relit lantern and his grin did not diminish. In fact, an observant witness might say that he leered.
    Oberon sniffed. “You have gained some facility with the horn. I’m glad to see it.”
    “Indeed,” said Hob, voice dripping sarcasm. “I’m sure that you are.”
    “I have need of an ally of capacity.”
    “Don’t we all?”
    Oberon eyed him. He did not like this new Hob, this creature of confidence and condescension. As irritating as the groveling, wheedling Old Hob had been, he thought now that he had preferred that old cur to this new, confident one.
    “I’ve dwelt these past months upon the lost battle in the Dead Kingdoms. Your forces retreated in the face of the enemy,” said Oberon, his mocking, cheerful attitude having shifted. It was unlike him to be petulant, but these were trying times.
    “Your forces never bothered to engage them at all,” pointed out Old Hob.
    Oberon shrugged. “Goblins whip rhinogs to fight for them. Few of your real folk died.”
    Old Hob raised a hand that was all long bone and hairy knobs of knuckle. “Let us leave that day, the day of battle, in the past. What would you have of me now?”
    “The Kindred gather. They have selected a Queen. Worse yet, they have Pyros. They may march upon any and all of us.”
    Old Hob nodded, clucking his tongue. “Sad tidings. I have heard such tidbits of information. Be of good cheer, however! Rest assured that my goblins are safe. We will stay in our strongholds in Eire and watch with great interest—and sadness—should anything happen to our friends on this side of the sea.”
    Oberon flashed him a look of irritation. “I’ve asked you here to rejoin me. I see an opportunity to reforge our old alliance. I see a future, where our two peoples are again united and strong.”
    Hob nodded sympathetically. “Oh yes, I feel your loss. I recall those days with fondness. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed. Rather drastically, I’m afraid.”
    Oberon’s expression darkened further. “Hob, I ask you: what would it take to have the goblins march with the elves again?”
    A very long finger tapped thoughtfully at a lumpy chin. “A boon, perhaps?”
    “What boon?”
    “A great boon,” said Hob, and here, finally, his eyes alit with greed.
    The expression almost brought a shudder to Oberon, one who never felt an emotion such as disgust. He had seen too much in his impossibly long lifespan. But, imagining what Hob may have in mind brought him disgust , and the sensation did lay there, unbidden and raw upon his mind.
    “I say again, what boon?”
    Hob’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I don’t know yet,” he said, sounding almost dreamy. “But I will think of something. Let me assure you.”
    Oberon blinked. He almost drew his dagger and slashed Hob’s leering face. Better to chance it all and live or die now, than to suffer some future ignominy at the hands of this monster. An unstated boon. A future debt of uncertain magnitude. Almost nothing could be requested that was greater in measure for one of the Fae.
    He thought of attacking Hob, of trying his luck right now. With Osang, he could march without Hob’s legions at his back. But he held himself in check. He might fail, and he wanted an army more than he wanted a Jewel of the second rank. Besides, he had other enemies he hated far more than Hob, his fair-weather friend.
    “Be forewarned,” said Old Hob, “gone are the days when my folk will gleefully die as fodder on the front lines while your people nibble delicacies and watch from a safe hill at twilight. Your troops must