Brass glared at the old, battered, and badly bruised man who in turn stared right back at him. Gods, that fellow was an ugly brute, no doubt about that. The weaponmaster had seen corpses with a more healthy pallor. With a mug like that, that poor sod probably had to be on the lookout for lich hunters. Brass chuckled – and his mirror image, did the same.

"Years," he muttered, "fucking years," his voice nasal due to the bloody strips of cloth dangling from his broken nose.

Broken. Again.

Of course, the one time he didn't wear his battle mask, he got his damn nose smashed in. As if the bloody thing had not suffered enough abuse over the years. He knew it would heal crooked, just knew it. Even swollen as the bruised lump was, it already had that telltale tilt.

That's what you get for trying to be the good guy. Idiot.

For most of his life, Brass had prided himself being "the most something" in any given room, usually the biggest, ugliest, or most dangerous. This had changed when he joined the Skulltakers. Suddenly Draemaugh had been the ugliest. Mountain had been the biggest, Craven the most dangerous, with Idana claiming the realms of best shot and most beautiful, and Echser the craziest.

Now Brass could fill a new category, two actually. With Mountain's death, he was once again the biggest, just as he now was the oldest... or at least oldest looking. His massive shoulders sagged, then he pulled himself up again and gave the figure in the mirror a smile. Such brazen vanity, you should be ashamed, old horse, he thought with bitter gallows humor.

The smile he quickly aborted. Smiling hurt. It also made him look even older, deepened the crags around his sunken eyes.

Brass sighed and let his gaze wander over his scar-pitted wall of a chest, frowning at the white hairs. At least his physique was still that of a massive thirty-something, with no sagging man-pectorals or any of that old guy crap. Thirty-something... Bah! In truth, Brass didn't even know if he was that old. It was a common problem of orphans abandoned at a young age: no birth certificate. He might have been ten when that fat sow from the Royal Orphanage of Liegeland sent him to the king's mines. Or just six. Yeah, probably just six.

Bit small for 'is age, the mine foreman had said, but taken him in regardless. And why wouldn't he? The young ones were perfect for scouting those narrow tunnels that sometimes ran on for miles through rock and earth. Just shove them in and let them search for new veins of ore, Sulphur, or precious stones, though most only found a miserable death inside those black tunnels.

Those damn tunnels... At least, all the knocks he'd gotten on the head over the years had pummeled much of the memories of his time as a miner out of him – a fair trade indeed. As far as he was concerned, he still remembered too much though. How many times had he found himself stuck on his forced explorations, wedged in as the tunnel had proven too thin or too corkscrewed to squeeze through?

Dozens of times? Certainly. Hundreds of times? Probably.

Like a worm, he had to wriggle himself forward, the weight of the mountain pressing down on him with infinite cruelty. How often did he have to dig himself free with his bare hands after a rockslide? How often did he soil himself after a collapse had buried him alive? Somehow, he always got out, more often than not unable to remember how. The damn spiders he did remember though... Those he couldn't forget. Blundered into a nest of rock spiders once: big as hairy eggs with legs and just as squishy. The atrocities scuttled over his hands, his face, crawling under his garments... Even today, he sometimes woke drenched in sweat, beating his body and blanket.

Needless to say, he didn't stay little for long.

That was the only good thing during his time as a royal miner – the food. House Bosen saw no merit in letting its workers starve, quite the opposite. There were enough ofthem dying as it was. Good food builds good muscle, they always said. And good muscles make good miners. Therefore, he ate, and grew, and grew some more, soon becoming too big for any tiny tunnels. Instead, he found himself put to work: crushing stone, pushing carts, digging tunnels. All the time growing bigger, all the time growing stronger. His muscles eventually were his ticket out of the mines and into the army. The gods alone knew how old he was by then, how many years he had spent in the dark deep below the earth. Probably still too young to join Liegeland's Best, but this time didn't matter. This time, however, he was no longer small for his age, dwarfing almost all the other applicants.

They took him in gladly, big as he was for his age.

He had to chuckle at the thought that he might barely be older than Draemaugh, never looked like it though. Now he looked older than any of the Skulltakers. "And all I got for it, is a broken nose and a bloody shirt," muttered Brass and sighed, staring at the battered old man in the mirror. He sighed. "I don't know you, but I'll shave you anyway."

Swallowing his anger, he spread foamed soap over the stubble on his head, then carefully guided the razor over his skin. As always, it was a somewhat arduous task. He had to take care so he would not nick the welted scars covering his skull. He had barely finished and considered shaving his now white beard when somebody knocked at the door.

"Craven is here!" Idana shouted. "Wants to talk to us."

"Comin'!," slurred Brass, his voice all nasal thanks to the clogs. Cursing under his breath, he pulled them out, trailing gooey strands of congealed blood from his nose and dropping the bloody snot-slugs into a rag beside the bowl of hot water.

He inhaled tentatively.

Squeeeeeeak.

"Oh for the love of..." A squeaky nose. Fuck!

He'd already suffered that same problem once and fixing it hadn't been pretty. Damn day is just getting better and better. Breathing through his mouth, he pulled over a white linen shirt, stomping from the bathroom, a glower that would have sent enraged bulls running for cover on his bruised features.

For the most part, the Grimhold had been a sinister and bleak affair, the art on display downright psychopathic. Not so their assigned rooms. Downright cozy, they sported several beds, comfortable furniture, and a decent sized fireplace, now crackling with a happy fire, hissing and popping contentedly. No gruesome artwork on display here, just a few racks with books clinging to the walls. The room even had windows. Tall and narrow, they loomed over the half dozen beds spaced along the wall.

Brass gazed at the beds with the longing of a man dying of thirst who stumbled across an oasis. Goose feathers... Angry or not, he had to suppress a shudder of delight when he thought about the softness of his pillow. He hadn't lain down, of course, just touched it, savoring it. Knowing with that dreadful certainty of the fatally tired, that he would not be able to get up even if they set the house on fire. He'd sleep right through it and no mistake.

Craven, his usual glorious dark and sinister self, loomed behind the largest table in the room, studying a big map stretched out before him. He fitted right in with the general theme of the Grimhold but looked somewhat misplaced in these comfy surroundings. He didn't even look up as Brass entered and merely stated, "Gather to me."

Draemaugh sat on a bed facing away from him, Idana at his back. She smiled at Brass as he entered, then turned to the barbarian, muttering, "Come Drae, let's go," placing both her hands onto his shoulders.

Brass' anger diminished somewhat when he saw the Northman's state: shoulders stooped, huddled under a thick blanket, gaze forlorn, hands absentmindedly stroking his brother's pet-wamster Fluffy. Even the stupid critter seemed diminished by Mountain's death, his snail-like eyestalks drooping like wilting flowers. He hadn't even the spite to snarl at Brass.

Brass took a deep breath. Squeak!

Goddamn it!

His fury somewhat rekindled, he stomped over to Craven, somehow managing a brief smile for Idana before he let himself fall onto one of the chairs. The piece of furniture groaned in protest. For some reason, Craven gave him an amused look.

Brass stared at the map sprawled on the table. "That's a map of the Grimhold, isn't it?"

Craven nodded, but before he could say anything, the door to their room flew open and slammed into the wall with a bang. Squeak! Brass instinctively reached for a weapon that was not there.

"Found it!" Echser shouted, storming inside, waving around a strange apparatus, before throwing the door shut with another bang.

Brass' right eye began twitching something fierce, but he calmed down quickly as he saw what the alchemist was waving around. A Husher... a device highly sought after by people for whom secrecy was of paramount interest, such as spies, cultists, assassins, and the worst of the lot. Politicians. What Craven wanted to tell them, must be dire news indeed.

"Come on... Come on... Work you age-addled gizmo!" mumbled Echser, fiddling around with the artifact – little more than a shiny metal box with a few rune-covered buttons, a green crystal, and circular depressions – as they all sat around the table.

Eventually, the green crystal sprang to light, emitting a low humming. Quite unspectacular for an item that was supposedly over ten thousand years old and had been created by beings with godlike powers. Nevertheless, Brass knew from experience that all the words spoken within a radius of fifteen feet of the device would be inaudible to others.

"Ha! Knew it would still work. Haven't I told you?" Echser exclaimed, showing a smile of such toothiness, it would make a horse proud.

"Yes, Mortin," said Craven, sweeping his fathomless gaze over the assembly, lingering longest on Draemaugh. "That you did. Now sit down, I bear grim tidings."

"Malhorn?" asked Idana, casting an anxious glance at the blanket-swaddled barbarian beside her. "Is Drae... Are we in trouble?"

"The gracious mercenary count was most accommodating in accepting my reparations. Draemaugh is safe from her wrath and neither do we have to worry about blades in the night. Well, not more than usual, at least."

Smiles all around – except from Draemaugh who just continued petting Fluffy. It was hard to tell if he had not heard, or simply didn't give a damn.

"However," Craven continued. "Her goodwill came with a price. A steep price I might add. I had to involve our sponsor, King Goorm, and as a result, we are now tied to him even stronger than before. Regrettable, yes, but it was either that or Draemaugh's head on a spike and I could not have that; the Skulltakers do not lose their heads, we collect them."

Brass frowned, taking a deep breath.

Squeak.

Oh, come on!

"Let's hear it then," he blurted out in an effort to overplay his aggravating nose. "What does the old warmonger want in return?"

"A trifling matter, really. One that is in line with what should be our main goal: departing this blighted city as fast as humanly possible."

Nods all around, except Draemaugh.

"So what's the plan? What does he actually need us to do?" said Brass, nodding at the map.

"For now? We have to become unifiers of a fashion. You see, the great and honored leaders of the Crusade are somewhat split on how to deal with our situation."

Echser let out a long, heartfelt moan and started to massage his temples. "By Science... These imbeciles can't even work together with death knocking at our door."

"Quite right, old friend," Craven said. "At least our employer sees the wisdom of breaking out of Covenport, so that we may warn the rest of the Empire. The others, well, are not so wise. I managed to bring Count-Colonel Malhorn over to our side, which means in terms of numbers, half the Crusade is with us. The other half however... They want to dig in and wait for reinforcements, fight the enemy from the security of the Golden Holt."

"Them be right," muttered Draemaugh. All heads turned towards him. He was speaking for the first time since their encounter with the mercenaries of Barvarus. "Runnin'... is for cowards. We should stay an' fight those undead bastards. Should fuckin' kill'em all."

"Draemaugh," Craven said, whipping out a broad smile. "So glad you could finally join us. I was worried your mental faculties had departed us once again, but now that I have your undivided attention, let us quickly move to a secondary point on my agenda."

SLAP!

Brass should have seen it coming, but he didn't. Literally, he should have seen it. One moment Craven was all smiles, leaning back in his chair, fingers interlaced at the table, the next he was nothing but a blur, delivering a stunning glove slap to Draemaugh's cheek. Just the glove, mind you, and even that was a thin and rather soft one, by no means heavy. Still, Draemaugh's head snapped to the side as if caught by a severe backhand. Craven was sitting again before the sound had faded, fingers once more interlaced. His smile was gone, eyes like the maws of two gun barrels waiting to unleash terrible devastation. Draemaugh just sat there, stunned, eyes wide, cheek reddening, still trying to process what had just happened.

The question was, what would happen next?  

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

Yeah, what will happen next?

I'm taking bets, folks... ;)