The deeper they pushed into Therannia, the more of a nightmare it became. The skies darkened, the trees that weren’t trees walked and wept blood and begged to be released from their torment. Animals, hideously mutated, grunted and slouched across the ground in horrific shapes.

An elf in armor similar to Malacath’s wandered aimlessly, his throat shredded, growling and moaning because he no longer had the capacity to scream. The articulated armor that Malacath and his elves wore had melted to the man’s flesh. The gaps between the armor showed angry, cooked flesh pocked with blisters.

The plants themselves seemed to have given up life entirely; everything was withered and dead.

The deeper they pushed into Therannia, the more of a nightmare it became.

Every time Daveth decided, “this is it, this is as bad as it gets”, something shambled, crawled, moaned, wailed, or shrieked at him, reminding him that it was worse.

They couldn’t eat anymore. Nothing sat easy on the stomach. Some new blighted creature, some new strange blasphemy, some new horror would appear before them and invariably someone would vomit. It spread to the others like hiccups or yawning. They couldn’t help themselves. The land should not be twisted so. The body should not be subjected to such horrific treatments. Animals should not look like that.

With every step, the sky got darker and more malignant. The smells were much stronger, the air itself had a flavor that churned the stomach.

No one spared a breath for idle talk. Nobody wanted to breathe in that air. It was noxious, vile, and toxic. It burned in the nose like pepper, caught in the throat, teasing a choking cough.

Daveth took Malacath aside and showed him the handkerchief he’d gotten from Corvin in another land, in another campaign, in another life.

Malacath stared at the handkerchief with mute wonder; he’d never seen an enchantment like it held before. He understood Daveth’s request without the giant asking for it. He waved his elves over, and they began passing the handkerchief back and forth. One by one, other handkerchiefs popped up and were passed around. Only when everyone had a handkerchief did Daveth call out to Aldric.

“Don’t look at anything.” His captain muttered. “Don’t focus on anything except putting one foot in front of the other.” Sweat trickled down his face, which was eggshell white. Bruised circles ringed his eyes. The land and its horrors were taking their toll.

Daveth looked to Malacath. “Was it always this bad?” He asked, and the elf shook his head.

He pulled the map out of Aldric’s saddlebag; the man didn’t even seem to notice. His face was a grim totem of determination, but his eyes swam in their bruised sockets.

Daveth marked the map where he assumed they were, and counted on his fingers. He wasn’t so great with numbers, so he counted them, counted again, looked back at the Seventh Seal. He could see the mages handing out more handkerchiefs to the others. His eyes burned and tingled. Still, it was easier to look at the Seventh Seal than the things that groaned, wept, shambled, dragged, crawled, moaned, wept, and pleaded for mercy.

They still hadn’t readed the capital, yet. Mile after mile of unrelenting hell awaited them long before they even reached the streets of the city.

Daveth roade back to the Tross. Morden was riding his horse easily next to one of the wagons; his regeneration was successful, it seemed.

“You’re welcome to ride at the front with the rest of us, Morden.” Daveth offered. “You’re fit to return to duty.”

Morden snorted behind his bandanna. “With all due respect, Lord Commander, I think I like it back here.”

“You have no idea how envious I am of you.” Daveth growled, and fought against the urge to choke and cough. Morden didn’t say anything. It was wiser not to. It was best to speak as little as possible.

A million questions went through Daveth’s mind, but he held back from asking them. The Tross was a collection of retired soldiers that had taken up the tradecraft of smithing, armor repair, preparing and fletching arrows, leatherworking, tailoring and essentially everything that an army needed to stay on the move. The only true noncombatants were the prostitutes, who were more than happy to part a man from his coin.

“What do you think about one last supply and then sending the Tross back to the border?” Daveth finally asked.

“I think you’re going to need every man who can lift a spear or draw a bow, Commander.” Morden replied simply.

“The women?” Daveth asked after a minute.

“They can shoot crossbows. Can’t shoot for shit, but they’re not leaving.”

Daveth couldn’t help himself, he immediately replied, “Takes a special kind of crazy to ride into this hell with a crossbow.”

Morden didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Daveth urged his horse forward to reclaim his place in the line. As he passed the soldiers, he could see the same grim determination etched in their faces as Aldric’s. Come what may, they were committed.

The deeper they pushed into Therannia, the more of a nightmare it became.

*****

Riding into the capital was like riding through a soap bubble made of clinging spiderwebs, or rotted cheesecloth. There was a translucent barrier they had to push through in order to enter the city.

The men, women, beastment and elves were all wide-eyed and staring with glazed eyes at everything. The closer one came to the capital, the worse the horrors became.

Things lurked out there, blasphemous things. Elves fused together, animals fused with them, massive, horrific things that screamed and shambled towards the Seal with a multitude of legs and arms and wide-staring faces horribly stretched beyond all possible measure. Grotesque, multi-jointed limbs reached for them with thick calloused hands with too many fingers.

Each fight pressed them to the brink. The towering abominations regenerated, and they especially liked to pull men off their horses, horses off the ground, and add them to their screaming collective.

Aldric had lost twenty men with the first encounter.

Arrows did little; the body mass was too massive, too thick, any arrow could sink up to the fletchings and still not do any significant damage. Fighting with sword or spear ran the risk of getting grappled and pulled into one of many gaping maws that thrashed and screamed and drooled spittle. Only ranged magic was effective at blasting the things apart, and even after they were seared, frozen, shredded, torn, cut, and blasted in every conceivable way with elemental magic, the shredded parts still writhed and seethed on the ground.

The cries of the dying drew more of the wretched things. If they weren’t just as interested in fighting each other as they were in fighting the Seventh Seal, Aldric’s men would never have stood a chance.

The ground was covered in blood; trickles of blood gave way to freshets, to creeks, to rivers of blood that the Seventh Seal splashed about in, trying to find the right angle with which to cut into the monstrous abominations.

Blasts of stone slivers tore into the horrors, ripping fleshy tears that spurted and sprayed. Searing fireballs and smaller firebolts slammed into the creatures, setting them alight. Icicles stabbed into them, spears of earth drove up from underneath them, impaling them, blasts of wind knocked them off their multilegged feet, and still they struggled forward, trailing gore and bits of viscera. Lightning pulled from the sky struck them again and again, and while they were smoking, jittering lumps of flesh, they still advanced forward, towards the Seventh Seal.

Daveth’s cursed blades, the Orgus blood-drinkers were gluttonous things, slurping up as much blood as they could, but even they couldn’t stem the tide and drain the life from the monstrosities. The giant himself fought on the front lines, chopping with axes, thrusting with spears, slashing with swords.

There was never a break in the fighting. The Seventh Seal fought for every foot, cutting deeply, savagely into the twisted things. The ground was covered in mud, mud made from lifeless soil and blood. It sucked at the feet as if it itself were a living thing, desperately hungry for the lives of the soldiers.

A hole opened up in the press of bodies, and the Seventh Seal punched through, struggling, desperate to reach the capital while the things howled in rage and frustration and pain behind them.

The city radiated a strange cheerfulness. The elves gasped in shock and surprise at the sudden arrival of several hundred blood-drenched soldiers as they punched through the magical barrier that kept the outside from coming in.

The sun was back, though there was something wrong with it that nobody could explain. The air was clean and pure, but strangely felt flat on the tongue. The roads had medians with green grass and trees, there were parks that were tastefully cultivated. Everywhere the Seventh Seal rode, curious eyes followed.

Aldric ordered his men to dismount and held a brief conference with Daveth and Malacath, after which Malacath spread the word to all the elves under his command; they began washing off all the blood and gore and offal that they’d accumulated. The streets ran red as they conjured showers of water over the heads of their non-magical fellows.

A crowd of rubberneckers gathered and watched as the army cleaned themselves and tended to their wounded.

One of the rubberneckers approached hesitantly.

“Captain... Malacath, isn’t it?” He asked, and the elf turned and nodded.

The man nodded. “I thought I recognized you. Is Teryl with you?” He asked.

Malacath blinked, and cast his mind back. “You’re her father, right?”

The man nodded.

“Then I’m sorry to say that she ... didn’t make it.” Malacath informed him. “There were things out there... things beyond our power to defeat. She died... honorably.” He didn’t want to tell the man she’d died a meaningless death, plucked off her horse and indifferently stuffed into the gaping maw of one of the monstrosities they’d battled. They didn’t even have the ability to retrieve her body.

“It’s... bad out there, right?” The man asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

Malacath nodded. “The freezing cold of the Long Night would be a welcome respite after the atrocities we witnessed out there.” Malacath described.

A man wearing armor similar to Malacath’s but with golden rope on the shoulders and an impressive cape of black silk and golden thread rode up on a dainty horse that made Aldric’s horse look like Daveth’s in comparison.

“Captain Malacath. There were... stories... about your disappearance. It’s good that you’ve returned.” The man spoke curtly, and then eyed the Seventh Seal. “You bring humans with you? Outsiders? Is this some sort of betrayal?”

Malacath pressed his lips together. “I was outside. I had to fight my way to get here. The cities lie in ruins, the countryside defiled, our people warped and twisted into soul-crushing blasphemies.” He shook his head. “This is not the sort of thing I wanted to see, General. Why has this been allowed to happen?”

The general adopted a sour look. “I’d forgotten you had a streak of idealism in you. Those that need saving will be saved. Those that don’t...” He trailed off, and then shrugged helplessly. “I tried, man. I tried to save as many as I could.”

“Forgive my interruption, but I need to speak to Malacath for a moment.” Aldric called out. He looked to the elf. “We need to call on the services of the healers. We’ve got a lot of wounded.”

“Of course, you shouldn’t need to ask-” Malacath spoke up, but the general raised a wordless shout.

“Don’t!”

Aldric and Malacath turned to the man.

“Magical healing is ...forbidden, for the time being. We’ve learned it causes...” He paused, and then swallowed, “unchecked mutations. If you use magical healing, then those you healed will have to be put out of the city for our safety.”

Daveth was wide eyed at hearing this. “Those things... You mean to say that... those things...” His voice trembled, and his face reflected a myriad of emotions, finally settling on anger. “You did this to your own people? Willingly?”

The general sized Daveth up and licked his lips nervously. “We did what we needed to do. What we had to do. We didn’t have a choice.”

Daveth marched on the general, fury painting his face red. “Bullshit you didn’t have a fucking choice, I’m gonna fucking show you what having a fucking choice really is, you piece of-”

Aldric grabbed the giant’s arm and shouted, “Stand down, Commander! This isn’t the fucking time!”

“Fuck you, now is the best fucking time to-” He cut himself off as Alysia stood in front of him, arms wide to obstruct him.

“Now isn’t the time for your rage, Lord Commander.” She urged. Nervous sweat ran down her face. “They’re scared, not monsters. There will be a time for your rage later.”

“You’re protecting him?” Daveth asked, his face a mask of confusion and anger.

“I’m protecting my Lord Commander.” She replied firmly.

He suddenly looked up, and the million crowd of rubberneckers had at some point been replaced with soldiers.

“I’m not afraid of them.” He growled in a low voice.

“Neither am I.” She replied simply. “But we pick our battles where we can. The men are wounded and exhausted. They cannot handle an extended fight. Please stand down for now.”

Daveth turned away from the general and headed back to the Seventh Seal.

“I thank you for your help, Wolf Sister. I would not like to see this city torn apart by battle.” The General spoke up.

Alysia turned to face the elf, eyed him carefully, shook her head, and headed back towards the Seal.

Aldric approached the General. “We wouldn’t have come into the city unannounced if we had a choice. The last stretch of twenty miles was a running firefight against impossible odds. We had no choice but to chance the barrier -and the city- for safety.” He offered blithely. “Is there a place where we can bunk down and tend our wounded? Are there places where we could trade for food, water, supplies?”

“You ask for a lot, human.” The general managed. “You shouldn’t even be here. This city- this land- is for elves alone.”

Aldric shrugged. “If our coin is good, it shouldn’t matter who’s buying and selling, true?”

“Not true at all. Your kind is not welcome here.” The elf replied solidly.

“You mean to throw us back out into the shit?” Aldric asked carefully.

“You can go willingly or by force. Those are your only choices.”

Aldric wiped his face with his hands. “Tell me something, General. Satisfy my curiosity if you would.”

The man eyed Aldric silently. Taking that as an affirmation, Aldric plunged ahead. “You a career man, or do you have a family?”

The man frowned and blinked. “I don’t understand.” He replied with a guarded expression.

“Simple question.” Aldric insisted. “Do you have a family? A wife? Children?”

“I don’t understand why I should tell you.” The general sneered.

Aldric shook his head. “It’s a simple question, with a simple motivation. I want to know if I should send your head to your family or to your king.” His voice grew as flat and as hard as his face towards the end, and he snapped his finger and pointed at the general.

A rifleshot cracked out and the general choked and grabbed his throat as freshets of blood spurted from between his fingers.

“No quarter!” Aldric roared, and the men from the Seal still capable of using weapons drew them and pushed into the ranks of soldiers in an aggressive wedge. Aldric himself plunged into the fray, his battered cavalry saber seeking throats, the vulnerable gaps between armor plates, and faces.

Malacath was shouting some nonsense, but Aldric was much too busy with the man in front of him to care. Where was Daveth? An elf hurtling through the air to slam into the side of a building with a wet crunch was his answer. Aldric kicked the feet out from underneath the elven kid he was fighting, and followed through with a blade through the gorget.

They weren’t trained very well in close-quarters fighting. Too dependent on their spells, on their weapons. One elf goggled at him in shock as Aldric punched him in the face with the basket of his sword, shattering the elf’s nose. He swung his blade, and the elf’s throat opened up and his head rolled back.

Suddenly, there was nobody left to fight.

Aldric took a look around; all that remained of the general’s men were the cries of the dying.

He turned and looked back; his own troops were wiping down their weapons and mopping their faces.

“Cut their throats; You’ve got five minutes to grab what you can and get back in formation. We’re taking the city.”

“You didn’t have to kill him!” Malacath yelled.

“He didn’t really give me a choice. I’m not taking my men- you included- back out into that shit. Not if I can help it. Not if I can stop this madness.” He paused and put his hand on Malacath’s shoulder. The elf tried to shrug it off, but Aldric firmed his grip.

“You knew from the beginning that it’d come to this.” Aldric replied. “From the moment we decided to come to Therannia and save your people, you knew it’d come to this.” He gestured at the wavery, shimmering barrier they passed through to get into the city. “Out there is nightmares and death. Ahead of us is madness and demons. We’re in the shit, and up to our tits in it.” Aldric insisted. “We stay the course, or we are all lost.”

Malacath took a wavering breath and shook his head. “We’re already lost, can’t you see it?” He asked in a hurt voice.

Aldric shook his head. “My friend, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”

Daveth looked up from stuffing something into his saddlebags. “I don’t know nothing about a fat lady singing, but I think she just hummed a few bars.”

Aldric burst into delighted laughter. “You’re finally getting it, Daveth.” he looked around. “I didn’t see too much when we were busy. Any runners? Any stragglers get away?

“Not that I could see.” Daveth called out.

“Reassuring. We’ve got a few minutes to fortify. Daveth, send some of the Tross into these buildings.” He gestured at two of the buildings on the street. “We’re looking for cloth for bandages. That’s it. No looting, no pillaging. If there’s civilians, push them aside and grab what you can. Try not to hurt them.”

“We’re bogged down in the middle of the street with nearly half our men wounded.” Daveth complained. “We can’t use magical healing, and I don’t know if the Tross has enough healer’s kits, poultices and potions to deal with all of them.”

“We do the best we can with what we have. We’ve survived worse.” Aldric replied.

“Like what?” Daveth muttered irritably as he turned to his job.

Morden could be seen hard at work, stripping corpses as was his fashion.

“Really man?” Daveth offered in a pained voice, but the man simply grinned as he worked.

Some of the men came back from the buildings with what looked to be sheets and curtains.

“Not bad, not bad. Get them cut up and see to the soldiers.” Aldric called out. “Malacath, I need you.”

Malacath was there, eyeing the men as they cut sheets into strips of cloth.

“I need to know where this king is, and the quickest route to get there. I’m trusting that you know the city?”

Malacath nodded. “I can lead you to the...” He shook his head. “Before Malachi, it was called the Crystal Palace. Now it’s called the Obsidian Palace.” His mouth twisted. “There’ll be demons.”

Aldric nodded. “We’re about as equipped to deal with them as ever, I suppose. We’ll try to avoid civilian casualties as much as we can, so check your targets before you engage. Your magic will be strong leverage against demons, so don’t go crazy.

He turned to Daveth. “How’s the men?”

Daveth shrugged and seesawed his hand.

“Good enough. Mount up. Malacath, you’ve got point. Get us to the castle.”

“Time’s wasting and there’s killing to be done.” Malacath muttered as he pulled himself into his horse. He checked his orientation and set off deeper into the city, the battered Seventh Seal following in his wake.