"Let me sum this up," Brass began. "The plan is to retake the city gates along with the adjoining ramparts. All so that we may use the siege engines on top of the Gate Tower to kill that... that thing out-"

"They call it the Colossus," Echser interjected. "A giant corpse-golem. The survivors said it's quite an impressive specimen. Not their exact words, of course, most have been weeping at the mere memory of it, but you get the meaning."

"Aye, the Colossus," Brass continued, his face sour, "a fucking giant made from dozens, maybe hundreds of corpses, a giant that killed a small army without even breaking a sweat."

"I'm not sure Corpse-Golems do sweat," Echser interposed.

"Not the point! We are to bring down that rotting behemoth with siege engines that might not even have seen use in a generation and that may or may not be in working order. And we are going to do this so that the rest of the army can make a break? Did I get that right?"

"Mostly," Craven said. "It's not so much the siege engines that will bring this impressive obstacle down, but rather the ammunition we are going to use."

Idana, their resident expert when it came to ranged combat of any kind raised an eyebrow. "We are not merely talking about big rocks and ballistae arrows then?"

Craven gave her a thin smile. "Far from it, my dear. The Liegeland contingent brought with it a sizable amount of explosives: we are talking barrels full of gunpowder. Luckily most have been rescued when they fled into the city and so far Prince Bosen is holding back on their use as much as possible."

Echser's eyes lit up with unholy interest. "Are you saying what I think you are saying?"

"That depends, old friend. If you are thinking that we will use the remaining stock of gunpowder to craft a deadly surprise for our colossal friend out there, then yes."

Brass frowned, massaging his temples. "And Prince Bosen is willing to part with the ammunition for his troops? That would leave his noble-born pistoliers and marksmen as little more than foot soldiers and knowing those arrogant dipshits I can't quite believe they are happy with their new role."

"Aye," said Craven. "I very much doubt that his lordship would be willing to make such a sacrifice, even if he was not vehemently against breaking out from the city. The prince is certain that his personal mage managed to send a warning before the Rising nullified all magic in the area, killing said magus in the process. So nobody really knows if he was able to tell the word of our plight."

"What if he's right?" asked Idana. "What if help is already on the way?"

Craven shrugged. "I for one doubt it very much, but Prince Bosen fervently insists it is so. I do question his motives, though. As was so keenly pointed out, his troops are mostly made up from the sons of the spoiled elite of Liegeland; men and women that came for an adventure, not for true war. Knowing the Spider of Liegeland, this little excursion was no doubt meant to strengthen King Bosen's influence over the nobility. If our young Prince is going to lose any more of his charges, his father, always so fond to dispose of heirs he deems unworthy, might decide he has outlived his usefulness."

"Great," said Brass. "So how will we change his mind?"

"We will not," said Craven. "It will be much more expedient to simply kill him."

Silence ruled supreme after these words, so casually delivered. The remaining Skulltakers - with the exception of Draemaugh, who looked up with an almost hopeful gleam in his eyes - changed worried glances.

"You can't be serious," Idana whispered. "Prince Bosen is the heir to the throne. It would be regicide!"

"Damion Krugar," Echser blurted out, speaking so fast that his words became a slur, "was convicted of regicide for murdering King Thais Varkon. His hand, holding the dagger used in the assassination, was cooked in boiling oil, sulfur and finally lead. Boiling oil was also poured in his wounds and he had many after three days of torture. His execution was by dismemberment, but he did not die right away. His wounds were sealed by hot tar, and his torso was then burnt at the stake - after he had been impaled through the rectum."

Brass felt like laughing, but swallowed the urge, afraid it might sound insane and instead took a deep breath. At least his nose squeaked no longer. Good, that way he would at least not embarrass himself at his execution.

Draemaugh leant forward, his chair creaking, wicked smile spreading over wicked face. "Thank ye for that, Echser. Not sure how ye lot feel, but I'm up for it."

Of course, you would, you suicidal maniac.

"Can't we just break out with King Goorm's troops?" asked Brass. "Maybe enlist the mercenaries as well?"

Craven shook his head. "Without the gunpowder and the whole Crusade united behind one leader, we don't stand a chance."

Idana slowly shook her head. "It won't work. I mean, wouldn't it be awfully convenient if King Goorm's rivals all get murdered?"

"Aye, this is why we have to perform assassinations on the whole lot, well, most of them - King Goorm included."

"What?" Echser, Idana, and Brass blurted out in unison. Draemaugh hissing laughter was like the dying breath of a maniac.

Craven had this smile again... "Here is what we will do."

***

Echser didn't like acting as a poisoner. Oh no. Still Craven in his infinite malice forced him into this most despicable role time and time again. And the black-eyed bugger had actually the audacity to call himself his friend.

Bah! Damn-it all!

He was no poison peddling quack, but Mortin Cornelius Echser, greatest lover of Science, a true genius of this time and age. On par with - no surpassing! - even the great minds that walked the rocky path of the scholar before him. By all rights, his name should be up there with Coppericus, and Zweifels, and whatshisname. But no, if Craven got his will, his name would be right up there - or down there, depending on how you looked at it - with the vilest poisoners of their time.

Some friend...

Echser sniffed and let out a long sigh, gazing forlornly at the cages full of contentedly snoring wamsters. Not a brain between them but happy as happy could be, as long as they were not hungry of course. Thank the Fates that the magic spell holding them in hibernation had not simply faded in the wake of the Rising. That's the last thing they needed. Cages full of explosive ankle-biters and toe-devourers on the loose.

He shuddered at the thought and then surveyed the rest of his small kingdom. Cozy for a wagon that has once had served the Inquisition as traveling fortress and torture dungeon, no doubt about that. Truly, there was all a man devoted to science needed in order to be happy: a narrow bunk, almost long enough for his tall frame; a small closet with a handful of practical and sturdy garments of the same making, even a few knickknacks of personal nature he had collected over the years...

He smiled at the autographed Edition of Science! from Stefan Falke. This book set him on his rocky path to becoming the greatest genius of the age, a lofty goal indeed and one that leads to another memento up there on the shelf: a judicial scroll. Echser cherished it because it was a constant reminder that care indeed is a virtue, even for those on the quest for knowledge. At least the scroll looked extraordinary enough. Made of the finest parchment, with an impressive array of golden lettering, squiggles, and ornamentations, it was signed by no other than King Michaelus the Third of Morgenheim himself. Needless to say, he prized Stefan Falke's autograph more, but as death warrants went, his one was quite fancy.

Mortin Cornelius Echser. Master alchemist. Scientist. Mass murderer.

"Bah!" spat Echser.

He'd always wanted to become a legend in his own lifetime, but not like this. In retrospective, he should have given more thought to security when experimenting with forgotten technology. But who could have known that the darn thingamabob would increase the fertility of his wamsters to such a ludicrous degree? It's not as if he intentionally bred thousands upon thousands of them to put them into the cities grain storages during winter. Gluttonous little monsters managed that on their own. Most kings send thousands to death every year and nobody gives them grief, but make one little mistake and breed a species of super-fertile, hypermetabolic, ultra-aggressive critters and you never hear the end of it!

He allowed himself a long sigh, and then took a deep breath, rising from his bed to scan the shelves bending with books. Large and small. Thick and thin. Old and new(ish). Many he had penned himself. They held the knowledge of his scientific crusade, detailed maps of the inner workings of all the monsters that had found themselves on his dissection table at one point or another. Then there were the volumes about mutations he had penned, often going hand in hand with reports of their exploits and maps and descriptions of the many secret places and ruins they had discovered over the years. There were thick tomes about plants, the odd grimoire or two, volumes filled with alchemical formulas... and of course, his poison books.

His poison books...

Most of them were quite literally poisonous. It was in the ink, the leather bindings, sometimes even on the paper itself, a regrettable, yet necessary precaution. After all, the world was full of evil people, the vilest of them - well, maybe apart from child molesters and rapists - were undoubtedly those despicable monsters that stole another man's glory.

The thieves of intellectual property...

They were everywhere!

It was only just that he took every precaution to protect his life's work, his Magnus Opus. After all, it wasn't as if he could just go and publish his works. Not him. Not Mortin Cornelius Echser. Alchemist. Scientist. Mass murderer. How could he if the deal Craven had made with King Michaelus was that he remained dead to the world? Oh, the cruelty of the man, the spite... True, he could always publish under a different name, but that would be like betraying his legacy. His mother had always been so proud of him. She didn't have much, but she always had that. Always said she knew one day, he would show them all.

In his case, as with so many great men to clever for their time and age, this would probably mean post-mortem glory. Frowning, he took a pair of thin but sturdy leather gloves from a drawer on his work desk and put them on. A precaution whenever he worked with one of his books. Strictly speaking, he did not need them thanks to his acquired immunity against the poisons he used. Still, if his career had shown him something, than that you could never be too careful. An accidental splash of this and that on the book paper and a completely new poison might be born. Care is better than cure, after all.

Gloved up, he reached up and pulled the volume "Master Mortin Cornelius Echser's Marvelous Cooking Recipes Volume III" from a shelf almost bent double by the weight of the accumulated knowledge on it. Wisdom indeed was a heavy burden. Then he went into his laboratory, which was a masterwork in itself. He was sure that in all of Ruuin, there was nothing quite like it: a mobile laboratory. Genius, truly genius... It had taken quite some time to get it all right, to make it as safe as safe could be, but did he ever get appreciation for it? Of course not! Every time a little explosion or fire burned something, he had to listen to the same-old-same-old again.

"It wouldn't rain inside, if you hadn't blown the roof off, Echser!"

"Why am I bleeding from all my orifices, Echser?"

"My eyes, Echser, my eyes, I can't see!"

He snorted. "What a bunch of crybabies."

Didn't they know that you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs? In terms of security, his setup was rock solid! Likeminded souls would probably prostrate themselves before Echser and worship his laboratory as a close second. Not that he would allow anybody with a whiff of scientific knowledge in here, of course. Too dangerous. They might touch something and blow it all up... or worse, steal his books.

He placed "Master Mortin Cornelius Echser's Marvelous Cooking Recipes Volume III" into a specifically designed wall bracket - roughly chest height, in easy reach for him to both write and read - and opened it, loadstones clicking into place as they secured the book. Flipping pages he went to the section labeled "Deadly Delights" and started to read. It would be a long night. Of course, Craven wanted different kinds of poisons. Couldn't just use any poison to kill a king, after all, oh no. Only the good stuff for his lordship.

"Can't even die like the rest of us," muttered Echser.

He squatted down, knees popping in protest, making him regret for the umpteenth time that he had not put all his ingredient containers at head height. The design dated back to the time when he did not yet have equipment of neigh unbreakable glass. Back then, he'd dropped more than one container full of acid, having the scars on his feet to prove it many times over. The floor did as well. It was on the fourth floor now. This one covered by a thin sheen of real Nocturnium. Pricey, but worth every coin. No burning through this stuff and the axle below, oh no.

His knees popped again - this time in relieve - as he pushed himself up, a bottle of Sulphuric acid in his hand. Other bottles and containers soon followed: Withermoonflower extract, pure alcohol, Aqua Ragia, Wismuth, Oil of Tartar... The list of ingredients went on and on and he placed each into a specifically designed holding bracket. Once he had all he needed, he fired up "The Oven" - a crooked finger stabbing at the appropriate rune switches on the ancient device. Like his unbreakable glassware, they had received the doodad as part-payment for a completed contract. The relic from the Forgotten Ages still held energy, even after thousands of years and soon lightning sparked and crackled along metal rods, casting shadows against the walls. Blue flames sparked to life below bulbous bottles, bringing them to simmer, and a bellows-like contraption of his design began sucking out already rising many-colored fumes. Fumes that could be quite dangerous, sometimes even explosive, his non-existent eyebrows living proof of that fact.

Mortar and pestle, beakers, flasks, funnels, tubes, and tongs followed, as he began to crush and pulverize, to heat, refine, dilute, and combine. Soon all sorts of vile elixirs were bubbling, simmering, condensing.

It would be a long night indeed.

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