Clack-Clack-Clack.

The sounds of hard boots drumming their beat upon the cold marble of the corridor had something efficient to it. You just knew the owner of these boots was given neither to tally, nor to hurry. It was the sound of somebody who knew where he was going and what to do there. Brisk. Efficient. Controlled.

It fitted to what Craven had heard of Count-Colonel Alicia Malhorn.

The Crusade's supreme-leader of Barvarus' mercenary companies came around the corridor's corner with an entourage of sell-swords but a moment later. At once severe and flamboyant, she was clad in dark leather armor no less exquisite than Craven's, but with considerably more style, all accentuated by an outrageous hat of the kind favored by musketeers: wide-brimmed and pinned up on one side, the other shadowing her face, a huge feather plume whipping to her brisk step. Quite dashing and debonair...

Craven awaited her arrival, flaunting one of his best fake smiles.

Lord Ashk, the king's blind advisor, leaned towards him, whispering into Craven's ear. "Remember, our liege needs her support in the coming days and doesn't want this whole mess to turn any uglier than it already is. Find a way to settle it quickly."

Craven turned his smile not toward the old man, but to the finely crafted staff he carried with him at all times, nodding at the flaming jewel-eye on its top. "No worry, friend. She and I are mercenaries, after all, I'm sure we will come to an agreement for my man's... behavior."

"You better do," said Lord Ashk. "They call her the Malice for a reason and the behavior of your men begins to outweigh their usefulness. This is the second time I am forced to mitigate on their behalf in a single day. Please, don't let there be a third time."

"There won't be a third time, you have my word on it."

"Good. Good... Ahh, Count-Colonel Malhorn," Lord Ashk began, bowing low before the mercenary leader. "King Goorm sends his regards and thanks you that you could find the time to-"

"Enough with the pleasantries, old man," the Malice said, her voice as cutting and cold as a frost-covered scalpel. "There's a war raging on beyond these walls if you haven't noticed and I have no time for useless pleasantries."

Craven took that moment to study the Malice. Probably in her early forties, she was tall enough to look Craven in the eyes thanks to the high heels on her rider's boots - which she did without a flinch. Interesting... Even with half her face cast in shadow by that monster of a hat, it was painfully obvious how very attractive she was: sun-tanned skin, eyes glimmering like frosted sapphires, the tresses falling onto her shoulders so dark they had the faint bluish shimmer of polished Nocturnium to it.

Quite interesting indeed...

She unbuckled her weapon belt, shoving it into the hands of the brutish fellow at her side, undoubtedly her personal bodyguard - or executioner. A specimen as bulky, but a head smaller than Mountain had been - which still put him at seven feet. The face a mask of scars, he glowered at Craven, beady eyes full of a terrible promise should any harm befall his mistress. As was customary for parleys of this nature, Craven and Malhorn would talk in private without any weapons. He had already delivered his to King Goorm's chaperons and stood before her empty handed but for the smile on his face.

"Let's get this over with," said Malhorn, then swept past Craven, passing him by so close that her hat's giant plume nearly slapped his face, almost as if to wipe the insolent smile from it.

Craven gave Lord Ashk a wink, and then followed in her wake, his fake smile unbroken, but perhaps a tad more honest than before. The room was an austere affair, decorated by an insane genius, its walls covered with large paintings depicting the most abhorrent scenes of torture and execution imaginable: the eyes of men sawed in half, of witches burning on the stake, and torture victims stared down at them from the canvases, disturbingly life-like. A not too subtle hint of what the former master of the Grimhold could do to his guests, no doubt.

Malhorn did not even bat an eye. She just sat down on one side of the long table, Craven on the other and took off her thin gloves with studied calm, placing them beside her. Her hat followed but a moment later. She turned her profile to him so that he could fully appreciate what feather and shadow had conspired to conceal.

A carpet of waxy burn-scars partially covered the right side of her face, waves of molten flesh flowing over neck, temple, and cheek, clawing at her eye. It marred her beauty, but not fatally so. A sight, no doubt meant to unsettle her opponents and Craven was indeed unsettled - about as unsettled as a rock. Turning her burned profile towards him, she then pulled forth a whetstone and placed it onto the table.

Craven, in turn, placed his broad-brimmed leather hat beside him, took off his gloves, and interlaced his fingers in front of him, his smile never wavering.

Still without looking at Craven, and in blatant disregard of the rules of parlay, Malhorn made a small throwing knife appear from somewhere around her person with the dexterity of a conjurer performing a trick.

My, my...

Calmly, she scanned the edge for any imperfection, eyes, and blade glittering in the faint candlelight. She grunted as she found a flaw, then spat on the whetstone and began sharpening the blade with calm, even strokes. Metal sighed over the saliva-coated stone in a calm Hiss-Hiss-Hiss.

It was then that Craven decided that he liked this woman everybody called the Malice - at least, behind her back. She set about sharpening her knife with the deliberation and attention of a painter working on a masterpiece, each stroke carefully executed. Malhorn took her time, cleaned the knife on a piece of leather when she was satisfied by the keenness of its edge, then made it disappear while making another appear in her other hand. Not even Craven was able to see where the blades came from or went to, which was quite the achievement.

Yes, he really liked that woman, and not only because of her aptitude with hidden blades. This was somebody who knew the Game and Craven always appreciated a skilled opponent. Silence could be wielded just like any weapon and wielded well by those who knew how. In a conversation - or interrogation - it had the peculiar power to pull forth words with more efficiency than shouts or threats. Most people could not stand silence, felt smothered by it.

Craven was not most people. Neither it seemed was Malhorn.

And so they waited, each one wielding their silence as efficiently as their weapons. It gave Craven time to think, to meditate over what he knew of this interesting woman and found that it was far too little. He knew about mercenaries though. It took a special kind of man to become a mercenary and a very special kind of woman. It was one thing to pick up a weapon in the line of duty, to defend friends, family, and country, but quite another to do so for coin.

Craven knew from hard experience, that killing another sentient being for any reason is apt to change something deep inside you. Snuffing out a life with the stroke of a blade, the twist of a dagger or the pull of a trigger is bound to leave a stain on even the brightest soul. The simplicity of murder, the ease with which frail human beings can be shattered shakes us to the core.

Craven knew only a few who did not vomit after their first kill, or suffered from nightmares thereon. Those whose souls did not weep after taking another one's life were a rare breed indeed and more often than not already damaged beyond repair. Still many on this blighted world chose to make a trade of murder in one form or another and the most interesting breed of mercenaries undoubtedly hailed from Barvarus. A land scarred by the Forgotten Ages and war alike, a country of perpetual bad weather, skeletal forests, bogs, and ancient battlefields. A kingdom where so much blood had been spilled over the centuries, it salted the very earth. It was a common saying that on Barvarus' soil, the only thing that grew was men of war. The truth as far as Craven was concerned.

In Barvarus you have to either fight the ground to wrest some meager spoils from it, or you take up the sword and join one of the many mercenary companies in order to support your family. Most choose the latter: a decision, which for the last three hundred years, has worked rather well for the general populous. For half a millennium, the other twelve kingdoms of the Empire have fought over the central region of Barvarus like dogs over a bone.

This has changed with the rise of the first Mercenary King, Kane Sorrowbringer.

The Sorrowbringer had forsaken any claim for the throne of the Eternal Emperor, declaring him and his nation a Kingdom of Mercenaries. They would instead fight for anybody who could pay them, but only as long as nobody attacked their home. For three hundred years now, there had been no war on the soil of Barvarus, and yet half its nation had been locked in a war unending.

As a mercenary of Barvarus, you were bound to sooner or later see every corner of the Empire and do battle in it, sometimes against the soldiers of other kingdoms, sometimes against your own countrymen. For the many mercenary companies of Barvarus sell their services to all of the kingdoms. Friends of childhood days may eventually find themselves on two sides of the same battle, spilling each other's blood for another man's gold.

Thus is the way of Barvarus.

In this kingdom of killers and fortune seekers, only the most ruthless, the cruelest, and most intelligent eventually rise high enough to claim the highly sought after position of nobility. He wondered over how many corpses Malhorn did have to climb to reach that high and lofty position, on how many corpses she had stepped over the years... and what all this has turned her into.

"Your savage has killed one of my men," the Malice eventually said, ending the silence after she had made her fourth knife disappear while bringing forth a fifth. "Splattered his brains all over the floor... Two more had their face broken and will be of no use in the coming days." She looked up, icy-blue eyes trying to penetrate the darkness of his gaze. "I wonder what you would do if somebody did that to your men?"

Craven let his head fall to the side, allowing a smile to creep over his features. "If some unarmed fellow attacked my men, killing one and wounding several armed others I, my lady, would invite him to fill the vacancy he just created."

He saw it then, a brief glimmer of amusement in those cold eyes of her, gone as quickly as a bullet leaving the barrel.

"Oh," she said. "Are you offering your savage to me in reciprocity? A maddened dog - dangerous as his bite may be - might still be useful in a situation as dire as ours. We could chain him up before the Golden Gate where he could bare his teeth and crack the bones of those shambling atrocities you and your men are allegedly so well-versed in killing. I'm sure it would be quite the sight."

Hiss-Hiss-Hiss - Metal sighing over stone in calm, even strokes.

"Draemaugh is not mine to give away. Any debt he may have had towards me is long paid off, so feel free to woo him away if you can. Who knows? He may actually succumb to your charms, my lady. After all, the two of you share quite some... similarities. Birds of the same feather, and all that..."

Hiss-Hiss... Hiss.

A slight pause in her labor, as well as a twitch in the corner of her eye, told him she didn't find that one particularly entertaining. "Anyway," Craven continued. "The point is mute, for Draemaugh is no mad dog, nor did he do anything he was not supposed to."

Hiss...

She stopped sharpening her knife then, frowning and staring hard at him. "What are you talking about?"

Craven leaned forward, drawing forth one of his most wicked smiles. "Come now... Did you really think that one of my men, one of my Skulltakers - handpicked and trained for many years - simply lost it and went berserk?" He gave a soft chuckle. "Causing a diplomatic incident at a time like this?" He let his head fall to the side. "Did you really? No. All this happened because I needed to talk to you about a sensitive matter and to do so in a fashion that would not draw any suspicion." He spread his arms. "Dare I say that my ploy was successful if not even your famed intellect saw the truth of it?"

Flattery at the right moment will get you anywhere. Well, most of the time, at least.

Malhorn leaned forward, placing her throwing knife beside her on the table, eyes narrow and even colder than before. "You have my undivided attention. Speak."

"I am here as an... an emissary of his Serene Highness, King Goorm. A secret emissary, no less, and one not too directly tied to him."

"Is that so? And what could his Serene Highness want from me that he can't tell me himself?"

Craven opened his hands. "Unity."

"Unity?"

"Aye. With an enemy as the one we are facing, we no longer have the luxury to indulge in petty squabbles and bickering. Too many cooks are bound to spoil the broth, and all that... King Goorm thinks it imperative for the survival of the Empire to get out of Covenport as fast as possible in order to bring warning of what appears to be the greatest danger ever visited upon it. Others like your current employer are either so full of fear or ferocity, they wish to stay and hide behind the walls, or do battle from them with our deathless foe. They hope reinforcement will arrive in time to end this threat to our realm here and now. In short: Too much fear, too much ferocity... too many cooks. It is high time for the Grand Crusade to become one, to unite behind one man, one will - thus the king is in need of your support in the coming days. You may be bound by contract to the Covenporters, you still retain an independent vote on the war council. It is that vote that we want."

Malhorn leaned back, her gaze level. "Let's assume you're not full of shit and there is actually some merit to your words, why would the king send you? And why the hell would you attack my men over it?"

Craven opened his hands. "Plausible deniability, of course. As for your men, it seemed the most prudent path of action, though I have to admit, the death of one of your mercenaries was rather unfortunate. When his blood is up, Draemaugh is easily carried away. He is a savage, as you so aptly pointed out, a good boy, but a savage no less. Nevertheless, the incident did grab your attention in the end, a simple brawl might not have."

Malhorn frowned, staring at Craven, her cold eyes searching for any sign of a lie; any hint that his words were not the absolute truth. Craven showed her nothing, his posture perfect and uncaring, his eyes, as dark and fathomless as the deepest abyss.

After some time she muttered. "Let's say I believe that tale of yours, I'm still here on the behest of the survivors of Covenport and you are right in one thing: they do want to stay and fight. They've run away once, most to bring friends and families to safety, yet every one of them has lost somebody dear to him in this cursed city and all lust for revenge. My men will see no coin if they turn and run like whipped dogs - and coin is what brought us here in the first place."

Craven leaned back and thrust a knowing smile at her. "The promise of coin, perhaps. What did the Covenporters offer you? A share of the gold waiting in the bank and merchant vaults below the city?"

Malhorn said nothing, her silence speaking more than words. This was almost too easy...

"Just out of curiosity, how much gold would that be?"

Malhorn studied him for a while, but then shrugged her shoulders. "Half a million Imperial Marks."

Craven let out a whistle. "I see I've been underselling my services. Then again, maybe not - after all, I have insisted in payment up front, with a sizable bonus waiting for me at the end of this endeavor. This means that at least somebody will profit from our deaths, should we choose to stay here. Kith and kin of your mercenaries will see nothing of course, except maybe the faces of your dead men once they return to Barvarus as shambling corpses, naturally."

Malhorn scoffed. "Let's hear it then. What is the mighty King Goorm willing to pay, so that we dogs of war would bite the hand that might feed us?"

Craven spread his hands wide. "First off, there won't be any betrayal. The king is keenly aware of the legal implications that go along with any contracts signed by the companies of Barvarus. He will do nothing that forces you to directly breach said contract, merely providing you a lucrative way out of this death trap for your support and voice on the war council."

"Go on."

"As to my understanding, your mercenaries are at all times meant to be accompanied by Covenport fighters. It must be dreadful for them having those zealots around, always watching so that no looting occurs." He made an all-encompassing gesture. "Especially in a place like this; all those spoils still lying around in the Golden Holt, ripe for the taking. Why, that golden chandelier over there alone is probably worth more than what a unit of your men would get at the successful completion of this endeavor."

Malhorn continued to stare at him blankly, but he saw it then, the dawning of understanding a greedy glimmer in her eyes.

"Give King Goorm your voice in the war council, and when he is voted to lead the Crusade, he will have it well within his power to... adjust certain unit arrangements. After all, doesn't it make a lot more sense if everybody sticks to his or her specialty? If the Covenporters want to fight so desperately, why should they not have the honor of standing on the wall of the Golden Holt and do battle with our foe? Your mercenaries I reason, are much more useful to us on the relatively save city ramparts - and patrolling the Golden Holt." He let his gaze trail to the ceiling. "With their obscenely rich owners gone, you never know what may still lurk in those glorious mansions. Might be worth to check them more thoroughly..."

He had her then, saw it in her eyes. The greed. After all, mercenaries were nothing if not practical: soldiers may be happy to die for their country, but for mercenaries, war was but a mere profession. The compensation Malhorn and her men had been promised for the liberation of Covenport were high indeed, but it was just that: a promise. Worse still, her men had been prevented the mercenary's most favorite pastime for too long: looting. This was not strictly war against an opponent after all, but liberation. Surrounded by so many riches, it must have irked them greatly not being able to fill their pockets. With the Covenporters out of the way, however, they could do as they please.

Malhorn smiled. "Tell your king I'll consider his offer and will do what is best for my men."

It was as good as a yes.

Craven returned her smile, nodded and leaned back. Two birds with one stone...

It had all been a lie, of course, one he hoped to turn into a truth when he informed the king of Malhorn's offer to support him in the coming days. All for a little favor regarding troop allocation.

A small price to pay for unity - and of course, for getting Draemaugh's head out of the sling.