Their wagon had not even come to a stop as the huge doors to the Grimmhold banged open, vomiting forth a squall of physicians and medical orderlies in pristine white garments. Against the backdrop of the foreboding fortress, they couldn't have looked more out of place if they tried. A handsome young officer in the colors of Solden purposefully strode ahead of them, a red cape whipping about him as he descended the stairs, his perfect nose and chin high up in the air. It was a wonder that he didn't miss one of the steps, Brass thought, certain that the pretty-boy had not seen any action tonight, at least not on the battlefield...

"Lucky us. It seems we have been expected," said Craven, moving with the alacrity of a great cat as he jumped from the wagon, gravel crunching below his boots. He didn't look at all like a man who had just barely escaped death's grasping claws. Truth be told, if not for the state of his garments, one might think he just arrived for an evening of entertainment. Brass, stiff and hurting all over, wanted nothing more than to punch the damnable drug-fiend in the face right then and there... From the looks the others gave their esteemed leader, the sentiment was a shared one.

Craven arched a slender eyebrow. "Why pray tell are you all looking at me like that?" Echser sneezed hard enough to make the chained monocle he had screwed on to fly from his eye socket. Suppressing a shiver, he tugged it into a chest pocket and made to climb down the wagon, grunting in pain all the way. The alchemist looked almost as bad as Brass felt.

Through clenched teeth, Echser muttered, "Bah! You wouldn't understand. You'd need empathy for that, or sympathy, or you know... feelings in general."

"You wound me, old friend," said Craven, his black eyes about as empathic as bullet wounds. "I can clearly see that you are all hurting and are in dire need of rest and recuperation. Hmmm. So be it... Tend to your injuries and recover as best as you can. In the meantime, I shall meet King Goorm and give him our rapport." He made to leave, then turned around once more. "Oh, and Mortin, please see to it that they take good care of Draemaugh. I need him back in fighting shape as soon as possible – with both his legs still attached, mind you. Remind any over-eager sawbones that we are not common rabble, but a valuable commodity to the king."

"Yes-yes... No sawbones. No funny business. Now shoo, there are people with stretchers coming and I have a mind of taking them up on their kind offer," Echser muttered, waving him away.

Craven turned and purposefully strode towards the throng of healers, snapping his fingers before the foppish officer could utter so much as a greeting.

"Bring me to your king and be quick about it," Craven ordered in his most commanding tone. "This cannot wait." To supplement his words, he padded the massive tome, now covered by an old horse blanket he'd gotten from who knows where. He didn't wait for a reply either and just strode past the open-mouthed young fop with an air of command that parted the approaching throng like some mage parting an angry sea. The dejected officer trudged after him, his dash and vigor all gone, the once-whipping cape all limp like a sail that had lost its wind.

"Cocky Bastard," Brass muttered with a smile, grudgingly admitting that if their leader had one thing, it certainly was style... and balls.

The healers arrived but a few heartbeats later and swarmed them like a flock of worried mother hens. Brass glowered at the lot in a way that suggested any offer of help might have severe repercussions. After all, there was such a thing as reputation to uphold here, especially since Echser all but flung himself into one of the stretchers, demanding something against the "soul-crushing agony". Strangely enough, Brass almost envied his lack of manliness at this point. The orderlies tended to Ferdinand and Draemaugh in a similar fashion and Brass was immensely thankful that he only had to worry about getting his walking carcass up the stairs and into the infirmary.

Small blessings, he thought and grimaced – apparently even thinking hurt – then followed the throng. Idana limped at his side, Aleot trailing behind like a grim shadow.

"Are you all right?" the markswoman asked as they walked towards the stairs. "You don't look so good..."

"I know," Brass muttered, pointing at his face. "Now that the mask is off, you can see it too, eh?" It was a bad joke and far closer to the truth than he would have preferred, but it made her smile at least a little – and a little smile goes a long way on a night like this.

"You know what I mean," she said. "You have lost a lot of blood and that monster of an axe must be heavier than me. Heavier than you too, come to think of it."

Brass absentmindedly lifted the massive weapon, gazing at the wicked twin-blades, both together easily as wide as a small shield. Forged from one piece of metal, the black axe was well over an inch thick at the blades widest point. It still felt ridiculous that he should be able to lift it with just one hand and it was ludicrous how light it felt, lighter even than wood, but as the night had shown, it was anything but. "To be honest, I hardly notice it... It has a feeling of weight, not much though, just enough to feel pleasant, more like a sword really. That's magic for you, huh? Wish the same was true for my boots though, I swear, it feels like I could plow a field just by dragging them."

"Yeah, mine feel like they could be used as galleon anchors."

"If you like, I could carry you... small thing that you are."

Now he got a real smile. He only hoped she wouldn't take him up on the offer...

"Maybe another time..."

Relief, hope, and a smattering of crushing defeat wafted over him. He pushed them all aside, focusing on what might be the most daunting enemy of this night. The stairs. There were twenty. Twenty more enemies he had to beat...

"Shit," Brass muttered with heartfelt despair.

He looked at Idana who glowered at the steps with a similar hostility. "Mmmhmm. I'm seriously thinking about following Echser's example."

Aleot came to a stop beside them, his grim countenance turning even grimmer as he stared and the black stone ramp ahead of them. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug and then took the first step.

Not to be outdone, Brass grinned at Idana – which really came out more like a grimace – as he took the first step. "Well, maybe you are getting too old for this shit." He winced, as a muscle in his lower back protested the effort.

"Look who's talking," Idana muttered and followed suit.

They had only made it to step three as the medical staff with their comrades vanished inside the Grimmhold. They had been bolting out those stairs as quick as mountain goats, urged onwards by Echser's agonized moaning and a barrage of "the pain, the pain!". A handful of the pale-faced, white-clad men and woman stayed with them though, probably to make sure they survived the climb... A youngish fellow actually took a tentative step forward, reaching out as if to support Brass.

How dare he!

The weapon master growled at him and the young man wisely took a few steps back, both hands lifted in placation. "I apologize... I... It just looked..."

Brass growled, or whimpered, he really couldn't tell anymore.

Idana didn't even chastise him – proof, if any was still needed, of how exhausted she was – but just slogged on, eyes fixed on the next stair ahead of her. Part of Brass wanted the assistance but he would be damned if he took it. Adrenaline had kept him going so far, but now every muscle hurt and the cold had crept into his very bones, making his flesh rigid and stiff. Cuts opened again as he moved and bruises started throbbing like the bastards they were, sending pangs of pain shivering up and down his body like electric discharges.

By the gods, he had not felt that beaten up since the Skulltakers rescued him from the Brass Dome Arena, but as so often before, he embraced his pain, concentrating on the step he was taking. That's all you really have to overcome. This moment. Always this moment. One more step, one more enemy, one more intake of breath... Always concentrate on the challenge you are facing right now, not the ones you still have to beat down the road, like for example the ten additional steps ahead of him.

He groaned and soldiered on.

The ten steps became one and after a felt age he, Idana, and Aleot stood on top of the stairs, sweat glistening on their faces. Was he just imagining it or were the orderlies looking at them rather funny? Was that a half-hidden smirk on the blond guy's face?

Brass lifted his axe to his shoulder in an effortless display of inhuman strength. Well, it would have been had the bloody thing been as heavy as it looked. That made the half-smirk disappear right quick...

His wounded pride placated, Brass took a deep breath and stepped past the huge oaken entrance doors and into an austere foyer filled with ancient armaments. He had seen similar displays of armors and weapons in the past, usually in the halls of kings or nobles that wanted to impress their visitors. This room, however, was quite different. All armors bore the sign of mortal wounds and almost every weapon was stained black from gore, some were even broken.

"Kind of morbid, don't you think?" Idana whispered, looking around. "What is this place?"

"It's called the Hall of Martyrs," one of the orderlies said. "What you see here are holy relics worn by heroes who fell over the centuries defending Covenport."

Brass winced at the sight of good weapons and armor left to rust and rot away but was too tired to give voice to his displeasure. He just wanted to get on and sit down somewhere. That changed as a pair of guards cast open the next set of doors. He stumbled to a halt. "Damn..."

The cavernous room was big enough to hold a house and constructed entirely from black marble, the lights of dozens of oil lamps and a huge chandelier of black iron burning away the gloom, ghostly reflections dancing in the marble. A wide set of stairs with a blood-red carpet dominated the rear, leading up to a small platform where a sinister, four-armed statue loomed over a solid stone altar. Depicted as wearing billowing shrouds, no face was visible below the hood, only an impenetrable darkness. A flash, aftermath of the thunderstorm, illuminated an enormous stained glass window behind the statue and an inhuman eye stared down on them for a heartbeat.

"That's... That's the symbol of Moriat," Idana whispered. "Doesn't the Faceless One belong to the pantheon of the Black Church?"

Aleot shook his head. "Not in Covenport. He's the patron god of those that have made killing their profession: executioners, spies, assassins and, yes, also inquisitors send prayers to the Faceless Lord when they are called upon to fulfill their bloody tasks."

Brass shook his head. "I guess the High-Inquisitor was the type of man who brought his work back home, eh?"

"Yes, Ebenezer Grimm and the rest of his line were quite famous – or should I say 'infamous' – for it. I have heard many a tale of people that visited the Grimmhold who just... disappeared." Aleot shrugged. "They might be true or they might have been tall tales – maybe even circulated by the Grimm's themselves. After all, fear was the base of their power. It actually created quite some dilemma, though. If you followed such an invitation you might disappear, but if you turned it down... well, then you must be hiding something, right?"

Brass snorted while Idana made a face.

Leading from the hall where several corridors, each guarded by a duo of elite soldiers busy with giving every other guard in the room the evil eye. The color of their uniforms, as well as the banners that hung from the balconies above the guarded entrances, identified them as belonging to different houses. There was the yellow flag with the black mountain of Solden, the snake skull and tree of Marschen on a banner of emerald, the Lion of Liegeland on a flag of blue and white squares, and the crowned skull of Barvarus on a standard of crimson. Even the iron-banner of Mount Nocturn was present, looming up beside the flight of stairs and held proudly by its bearer, a sinister looking dwarf clad from head to toe in Nocturnium plate mail.

"Looks like they are all here," muttered Aleot.

Brass snorted. "Yes, and don't they look happy?"

Idana shook her head. "All the leaders of the Crusade under one roof – who would have thought?"

"Might be safer if we'd stayed in the city proper," said Brass. "If looks could kill is all I say..."

They followed the orderlies through the hall and toward the entrance with the flag of Solden and into the adjoining corridors. Those at least were of a less oppressive nature than the entrance hall, though they still maintained the dark and brooding aura of a funeral home. Bleak stonewalls were hung with portraits and tapestries, and thick carpets covered the floor, adding some warmth to a place that otherwise would have been as cold as a grave.

Signs of battle were few and far in between: some of the portraits and tapestries had been slashed, and occasionally broken glass cracked under their boots, but all in all the turmoil's of the Blood Plague had left this house relatively unscarred. The same could not be said about its former inhabitants. Still visible were the blood splatters on the walls, dark even against the grey stone, or a stain of gore on a carpet, remnants of some desperate struggle that had taken place here.

If the walls could speak, Brass mused, what horrible tale would they be telling? 

************************

All right, all right, I'm a bit late with my weekend update. 

I do still hope the wait was worth it. :P

As usual, please vote and comment. I'm keen to hear your thoughts.

Next update (hopefully) next weekend.

M.