Waterfire Saga, Book Three: Dark Tide: A Deep Blue Novel (12 page)

N
OTHING, NO NORTHERN river or arctic flow, felt as cold to Serafina as the gray North Sea. Restive winds howled across its waters, whipping up
enormous swells. Storms swept in with savage fury.

Even here in Scaghaufen, capital of the Meerteufel sea goblin tribe, with its hot, sulfurous vents and its bubbling lava pits, the cold went right through her.

Sera was in the palace of the Meerteufel’s chieftain, Guldemar. The palace was made entirely from slag—the molten waste separated from pure metal when ore was smelted. It loomed up
from the seafloor like a black cloud—craggy and misshapen. From its windows, visitors could see the entire goblin city.

The capital’s fiery heart was a blast furnace fifty feet high that roared day and night. It was shaped like the head of the first Meerteufel chieftain, Kupfernickel. Lava bubbled in his
mad eyes. From his snarling mouth flowed a white-hot stream of slag. Foundries dotted the city. They belched steam and sprayed sparks as molten Kobold steel was cast into weapons and armor. In the
distance, mines pitted the seafloor, and slag heaps rose like mountains.

Sera was waiting to be admitted to Guldemar’s stateroom. She and her retinue of twenty Black Fins had assembled with ten chests, each filled with gold, silver, and jewels.

The Black Fins were in serious trouble. They’d managed to steal plenty of treasure, and to hide it well, but they’d enraged Vallerio and he’d vowed to kill every last one of
them. His forces were moving ever closer to their hideout, making it almost impossible to leave it. Two Black Fins had been captured while trying to gather food. The youngest fighter, a mermaid
named Coco, had witnessed it and raced back to headquarters to tell Sera, but there was nothing anyone could do. When the captives had refused to give up any information, even under torture,
Vallerio had had them executed. It was only a matter of time until the Black Fins’ hideout was discovered, and they needed to be long gone when it was.

Sera wished she could go to the new Duca di Venezia for help, but word had it the palazzo was deserted and the Duca nowhere to be found. She’d sent envoys carrying requests for safe haven
to the elder of Qin, the president of Atlantica, and the queen of the Freshwaters—the leaders of every free realm except Ondalina. With tensions running high between Kolfinn and Vallerio,
she’d thought it too dangerous.

The envoys had returned empty-handed. The leaders—stunned by Vallerio’s invasion of Matali—were playing their cards carefully. They’d been told Serafina was dead, the
envoys reported. She would need to prove her identity. Meetings would have to be held. They needed time. But Sera didn’t have time. Desperate, she’d decided to seek help from the
fractious Meerteufel.

Yazeed swam to her side now. “Nervous?” he asked her.

“Very,” she admitted.

“Who do the Kobold hate?” he asked.

Sera laughed darkly. “Everyone.”

“Who do they hate the
most
?”

“Each other,” she replied.

“Exactly. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Remember that, Sera.”

Sera nodded, grateful, as always, for Yazeed’s counsel.

The Kobold goblins, once a single people, had splintered into several tribes thousands of years ago, and had feuded over lava seams and ore deposits ever since. Many members of the Feuerkumpel
tribe were in Cerulea, serving as mercenaries in her uncle’s army. The Feuerkumpel and the Meerteufel despised each other. Sera planned to take advantage of that fact now.

Sera heard the sound of footsteps, so alien to mer ears, and then doors to the stateroom swung open. Standing in the entry-way was a short, stocky goblin. Like all other sea goblins, he had
transparent eyes, holes for nostrils, and gills on his neck, but Meerteufel goblins had two features that distinguished them from other tribes: black-lipped mouths, and horns. One pair of horns
curved up from the goblin’s temples, the other sprouted downward from his jaw. Sera recognized him. He was Stickstoff, head of the Meerteufel’s military.

“Hövdingen tar emot nu!”
he barked.

Sera understood him.
The Chieftain will see you now!

Her hand automatically went to her ring—Mahdi’s ring. Touching it made her feel like he was near, and that gave her strength. She took a deep breath and led her fighters into the
stateroom. Her back was straight, her head was high. She wore no silty camo fatigues now; she’d come before the Meerteufel dressed as the queen she was in a shimmering blue sea-silk gown and
long, high-necked black coat. A choker of pearls and sapphires circled her neck. A crown of pure gold adorned her head.

The goblins did not need to know that Neela had made the dress and coat out of draperies she’d found in an abandoned mansion, or that the jewels had been snatched during the Black
Fins’ raid on Miromara’s treasury vaults.

They didn’t need to know that Sera, and her Black Fins, were in constant fear for their lives. That they were weak, exhausted, and desperate. That these negotiations were their last
hope.

Sera was doing what generations of reginas before her had done in times of peril—she was bluffing.

Sera hadn’t had the luxury of learning how to rule during peacetime. This was war, and she had to learn fast, while hungry and dirty and scared. Her mother had often told her that ruling
was like playing chess, and that she must play the board, not the piece. The last few months had taught Sera the meaning of her mother’s words: ruling was a game of moves and countermoves, of
feints and ripostes. One had to anticipate her opponent, and think several moves ahead. Sera was now playing a game of life and death. And she was playing to win.

“Approach…
regina
,” snarled a goblin voice in Mermish.

It belonged to Guldemar. He was sitting on his throne, which was shaped like a giant sea serpent. Its coiled lower body was the throne’s seat, a pair of fins the arms. Its horrible, thick
neck stretched up above Guldemar, and its fanged head hung over him like a canopy. Sera knew this was Hafgufa, the kraken. According to ancient North Sea legends, the Meerteufel chieftains could
call the creature forth from its lair, deep under the seabed, in times of great trouble.

Fanned out on either side of Guldemar were prominent members of his court: Nok, his wife; Pelf, the keeper of his treasury; and Nörgler, his foreign minister. Stickstoff took his place with
them. They regarded the Black Fins with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.

Sera swam to the throne and curtsied deeply to the fearsome leader.

“Greetings, most dread chieftain,” she said, rising. “You have my gratitude for welcoming me, Miromara’s true regina, and my court, into your presence.”

Guldemar chuckled derisively. “Fine clothing and flowery words do not a regina make,” he said. “Another sits on the throne of Miromara now and demands that all sovereign realms
recognize
her
as ruler. Some say she has a legitimate claim. She, too, is a daughter of the blood—a Merrovingian and your cousin. Your uncle has told the world that Regina Isabella
and her unfortunate daughter are dead.”

Sera’s blood boiled. How could he even
suggest
that Lucia’s claim was legitimate?

“Lucia Volnero is the daughter of a
son
, Guldemar. The ruler of Miromara must not only be a daughter of the blood, but a daughter of a daughter.”

“Unless—as I believe the law states—there isn’t one,” Stickstoff interjected.

Sera turned to him, eyes blazing. “But there
is
,” she said. “She’s right before you, and she plans to retake her throne.”

Guldemar flapped a hand at her. “My sources tell me that the Black Fins are few in number. You have little food or currensea. Your uncle’s soldiers hunt for you day and night. You
fight bravely, but how long can you
keep
fighting?”

“Not long,” Sera admitted. “That’s why I’ve come. To propose an alliance.”

Guldemar laughed raucously. His court followed suit. “And why would the Meerteufel wish to ally themselves with
you
? You have no palace, no throne. You are poor, and the Kobold do
not work for free.”

Serafina smiled. She had expected this. “As long as one is bold, one is never poor,” she said. She nodded at her Black Fins. They swam to her, placed the chests on the floor, and
then—at her command—opened them.

Scaghaufen was rich in iron, copper, and nickel, but it lacked precious metals. The Meerteufel adored silver and gold, and they especially loved jewelry.

Guldemar’s eyes lit up with greed as they roved over the treasure, then became sly. “You offer me what I can take,” he said, nodding at the fierce goblin soldiers standing at
attention all around the room. “What’s to stop me from ordering them to kill you and your Black Fins and help myself to these chests?”

“Nothing,” Sera said. “But if you do, you won’t get the rest of my payment—twenty more chests, all as full of treasure as these, delivered to you the day we advance
on Cerulea.” She paused to let her words sink in, then said, “My offer is a good one, Guldemar.”

He held up a hand and inspected his filthy claws. “A good one for
you
, perhaps.” He sniffed.

“No, for
you
,” Sera shot back, fed up with his coyness. “While you play games, your enemies the Feuerkumpel, fueled by my uncle’s gold and arrogance, talk openly
of attacking your people when they return to the North Sea. They want your lava seams, your furnaces and foundries.”

Guldemar lowered his hand. His eyes met Sera’s. Though he tried to hide it, she could see worry flicker in them.

“Help me now,” she urged him, “and when I take back my throne, not only will I give you the treasure I promised, but as Neria is my witness, I will declare war on the
Feuerkumpel traitors. The world will see what becomes of those who betray Miromara.”

“And when your uncle obliterates you—which is the more likely scenario—what then?” asked Stickstoff.

“The Meerteufel still get the twenty chests of treasure.”

Guldemar stood up. He walked to one of the chests, scooped a handful of gold coins out if it, then let them fall through his fingers. He picked up a silver goblet, studded with gems, and admired
it.

“We will give you troops,” he finally said, tossing the goblet back.

Sera’s heart leapt, but she kept her face impassive. “How many?” she asked.

“Ten thousand.”

“Thirty.”

“Twenty. That’s my final offer,” Guldemar said. “Each will be armed with a crossbow and battle-ax.”

Sera pressed for more. “I also need a place to billet and train the troops you’ve just given me. I need a safe haven,” she said.

“Take the Kargjord,” Guldermar said.

“Please,”
drawled Stickstoff, to more laughter from the court.

Sera’s heart sank. The Kargjord was a hilly, desolate barrens at the northernmost reaches of the Meerteufel’s realm. The rocks surrounding it were full of iron ore, which wreaked
havoc with magic. It was cold, too. Little grew there, so finding food would be difficult. Supplies would have to be bought from the Meerteufel, and Sera knew they’d charge her dearly for
them. She also knew it was the Kargjord or nothing.

Curtseying once again, she said, “I thank you, Guldemar, for the generosity and loyalty you have shown Miromara.”

Guldemar clapped loudly. Instantly, servants appeared carrying jugs and platters. As was goblin custom, the negotiations were concluded by pouring
räkä
, a thick, frothy drink
made from fermented snail slime, and passing goblin delicacies:
sej
, pickled squid eyes;
smagfuld
, blackened cod tongues; and
sprøde
, the wrinkled toes of drowned
terragoggs.

Guldemar enlivened the celebrations by grabbing several pieces of jewelry out of a chest and making his courtiers fight for them. He thought it great fun to pit soldiers, ministers, even his
wife and her ladies against each other.

Sera had no taste for bloodsport. She took her leave and motioned for her fighters to follow. Guldemar barely noticed. He was too busy applauding Nok, who’d just beaten Pelf’s wife
silly over an emerald ring.

As the stateroom doors slammed behind them, Sera’s shoulders sagged with relief. She’d secured the troops and weapons she so desperately needed, and a safe haven, too. She would send
word to her fighters who were still in Miromara to head for the Kargjord right away.

Today’s success marked a new phase in the resistance. With the goblin allies they would no longer be guerilla fighters, sabotaging the death riders’ barracks, raiding the treasury at
night. They’d be a full-on military force.

“Nice work,” Yaz whispered to her, as they swam down the hallway to the palace rooms where they were staying. “You got what you wanted.”

Sera laughed joylessly. “Did I?” she said. “We’ve got twenty thousand troops now. And I have no idea how to feed them, or where to house them in that godsforsaken
Kargjord.” She shook her head, wondering why every time she met one challenge, a bigger one took its place. “I don’t know how to do this, Yaz.”