“Actually, I have a problem with this plan.” Aldric objected from his horse, eyeing the elven woman that was rising to her feet.

Malacath turned to face the man.

“We’re taking the word of the enemy and formulating a strategy that divides our forces in half? I don’t think so. That’s fucking stupid.”

“Captain-” Malacath began, but Aldric raised his hand, forestalling the elf.

“There’s two things that are effective against demons: magic and weapons made by the False Gods.” He paused. “They might’ve been false, but at least they hated demons. That’s one good thing they had going for them.” He took his pipe out from his coat and turned it over in his hands, and then he pointed the stem at the elven woman.

“Right now, you’re suggesting we send all of our magic users outside the city, where all sorts of blasphemous abominations frolic and play, leaving us, the mundane, powerless humans here, so that when Malacath and his men fall to the monstrosities outside, we’ll be powerless to go on and kill your king. Not a bad strategy on the surface.”

Malacath rolled his eyes. “Captain, I-”

“And you, Malacath. You seem awfully quick to trust her. I thought we talked about this, again and again, on the way here. You knew you would be standing against your own people. You knew you would have to fight them. You knew you might have to kill them. You’re awfully reluctant to do any of it, despite all the times you reassured me that there would be no problem.”

Aldric pulled out his tobacco pouch and began packing his pipe full. He took his time, struck a lucifer, cupping it in his hand as he puffed his bowl alight.

“So why are you so quick to defend them? To go along with the enemies’ ideas?”

Malacath shook his head with frustration. “They’re my people! I came here to save them, not to slaughter them wholesale! I aim to cut Malachi’s lunatic head from his body, wrap it in preservative magics, and then mount it on a pike outside the city so that everyone can see for ten thousand millennia what happens when you truck with demons!”

Aldric sighed. “I thought I explained it to you, but maybe you didn’t get it when you signed up: When you join the Seventh Seal, you have no people but the Seventh Seal.”

“We still share a common goal.” Malacath offered. “Kill Malachi and close the portal. No more demons. No more abominations. No more madmen.”

Daveth eyed the elf with a dubious expression. “We’re mercenaries. If there’s no percentage in it, we don’t fight.” He explained carefully. “Killing your king sounds like a trip... but what percentage is in it for us?”

Malacath’s mouth dropped open, and he swung to Aldric.

“I could turn the Seal around right now. Fight our way free of Therannia, head back through the Ouros Gate, pick up a bunch of odd jobs as we cut across Montesilvano to Blackwall, catch a ship to Begierde and never set foot on this continent again. We go where the jobs are, Malacath. Where the money is. I thought you understood.” Aldric replied, puffing on his pipe.

“It’s a question of loyalties, Malacath: Where do you stand? With us, or with them?”

“I stand with you.” He spat bitterly, his heart a hot and heavy stone in his chest.

Aldric folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle and nodded. “That’s good to hear. I want to be perfectly plain when I say that I intend to help out the people of Therannia by doing my damndest to get rid of all this, and that I can’t do this without your help.”

Malacath looked up at that.

“But we’re absolutely going to have to discuss payment when this is over.” Aldric finished. “An army can’t move without food, supplies, weapons, and coin.”

“And the plan?” Daveth asked.

“Her plan seems solid, and if she fails to bring down the towers, then she’ll be abomination food, or she’ll turn into one of those trees. Either way, that problem is solved.” Aldric remarked casually, waving his hand as if he hadn’t decried her plan from the beginning. “Plus it’ll give us some time to take out some of the other patrols, secure us a forward post for the Tross, and...” He shrugged and then looked to Malacath. “You know your mission. Survive. Survive and tear down those towers. Once that’s done, haul your ass back here. Don’t think of yourself or your troops as expendable, because we’re going to need you in our assault on the palace. We’ve got our assignments; let’s move like we’ve got a purpose.”

*****

To those that survived Therannia, it was rarely spoken of, and when it was, it was spoken of obliquely, haltingly, with the greatest reluctance. The horrors of the countryside, the horrific shambling monstrosities that shamelessly gulped down man, elf, beast, and each other with equal indifferent greed.

The sacrifices made so that their brethren could continue on. The brave stands against the impossible. The screams of the dying, the terrified, and the laughter of thirsting monstrosities beyond description.

If songs could have been made, they would have spun poetic tales of the nobility of purpose, unflinching courage, refusing to budge an inch to the mind-destroying horrors of the demons that existed beyond the murky black sphere and into the demon realm of Phlegethos.

They never would have mentioned the shrieking horrors that swooped down from the ash clouds of the volcanic realm, giggling and laughing as they yanked men and women off their horses with knobby, clutching taloned fingers, or the mountains that endlessly belched thick clouds of toxic ash into the sky while horrors beyond counting pranced upon their slopes.

They never would have mentioned the endless fields of massive red crystals and the terrible things that lurked within.

For every one thing that caught the eye and wrenched at the sanity of the soldiers of the Seventh Seal, there was always something more, always something worse that threatened to rip the minds of the Seventh Seal’s soldiers and tear it apart like rotted cloth. Things lurked in the sky, catcalling blasphemous promises, great shambling things grunted and squealed and frolicked as the Seventh Seal raced across the barren plains of the blasted lands, eyes fixed on the distant castle, ignoring colors that shouldn’t even exist that pulsed in strange patterns.

They thundered across the plain on horseback, straight as an arrow, fired in deadly purpose at the heart of the castle that always seemed to be just out of reach.

When a man fell, screaming, the Seal wordlessly closed ranks. When a horse faltered, they grimly prayed to absent gods for a salvation that would never come.

*****

One man led the charge, and his eyes were filled with ferocious hate. In his hand was a spear that screamed its defiance at the demons that surged towards the Seventh Seal. His shirt had burned away, strange black zigzagging marks scrawled themselves across his arms and extended clutching fingers across his back and chest, visibly growing as he led the charge.

Demons faltered and fled at the sight of the ferociously glowing point of his spear. He trailed ribbons of fire that moved as if they were alive, snatching and clutching at the demons and searing their foul flesh, boiling and melting and searing.

His mind had retreated from the world, all that remained was the limitless depths of his berserker fury, sustained by the indiscriminate hate that surged from the spear. He and the spear were as one; berserker madness, lunatic fury. He hurtled forward as if shot from a gun, rocketing across the alien landscape of a demonic dimension not meant to be traveled by man.

His hate made the realm permeable, passage was possible due to his rage forcing it into shape.

*****

In another world, in another land, a pale-faced woman with silvery horns looked up and turned her head. The fabric of reality was trembling in recoil, something had happened, an event of significance. An Archetype had taken an Original Key into the Realms Beyond, and all of reality trembled in the force of it.

The Weaver looked up from her own task, following the gaze of The Sentinel. She, too, said nothing.

In a continent filled with hundreds of miles of bleached-white sand in every direction a woman with golden hair and emerald eyes rose from her seat and stood, absently brushing sand from her behind as she, too, looked south.

A Yamato Shrine Maiden turned over in her sleep, a frown etched on her face.

On a mountaintop bereft of trees or any living thing, a bald man with a face runneled with scars took off his floppy hat and rubbed his chin in contemplation.

Underneath a mountain so tall the highest clouds bunched against its base, a mountain where strange things cavorted on its slopes, unwilling to climb any higher yet compelled to do so anyway, an elven girl with silvery hair examined a room that was covered- floor, walls, ceiling- with tiny runes and trembled. She eyed her compatriots and nodded. The worlds beyond were resonating. It was nearly time for the final ritual.

*****

Stronghammer arrived at the blackened, twisted iron gate of the Obsidian Palace. His hammers, shining steel, pounded away at the gate, shattering the locks and shoving the gate open on shuddering, screaming hinges.

The Seventh Seal rushed forward into the palace, horses too winded and lathered to scream as they smashed through the great double doors and into the castle’s hall.

A scarred and muscular woman shoved the shattered doors closed as the giant tottered forward on unsteady legs, curling smoke wafting from his hair, his eyebrows, from his very skin itself.

Like an ancient tree finally giving up and collapsing, he hit the smooth, black stone floor on his knees, the ferociously burning spear falling from his hand. He slammed face-first into the floor hard enough for his feet to kick out briefly.

“Dismount! Weapons out!” Aldric screamed, dried blood sheeting his face. “Malacath! Get a barrier up!”

He glanced around at his men, eyes passing over them without seeing them. “Malacath!” He shouted, waving his saber.

His men eyed each other, none of them wanting to say what couldn’t be said, what didn’t need to be said. There was no room to focus on those that fell behind.

“Fucking!” Aldric screamed, his voice hoarse. He couldn’t remember what he was swearing at or why.

“We need...” Aldric started, and then shook his head. “We need to...” He couldn’t think. He couldn’t remember. He’d forced his mind into an intensely focused state, he couldn’t remember- wouldn’t remember- refused to remember- the things he’d seen on the mad charge across a demonic plain.

A woman with black scorch marks across her armor ran to the giant’s side, her metal books clanking loudly on the black stone.

Aldric was certain he knew her name. It would come to him in just a moment.

“We need...” He breathed, and his legs gave out from underneath him.

Morden strode out of the press of soldiers. “We need a perimeter set up! Watch those doors! I need a file of cavalry to tend to the horses. If any of them fucking die, you’ll be right behind them!” he shouted, gesturing with his sword as he called out orders. “Riflemen to the fore! Archers to the flanks! Infantry, get ready for a push! We’re doing it, and we’re gonna face it on our feet, damn it!”

He rushed to Aldric’s side. “We need you up, sir.” He murmured. He glanced to the side.

“Alysia, how is he?”

She looked up from Daveth’s body, still facedown on the cold obsidian floor, and shook her head. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Shit. We need him.” he raised his voice. “I’m taking provisional command until either Aldric or Daveth relieves me. We’re still in it to win it, so stay sharp!”

Fists slapped armored chests.

He could hear the rattle of footsteps approaching their position from somewhere in the heart of the palace.

“If you’re coming, then come, you sons of bitches.” He muttered. Turning his head to the side, He called out, “Where the fuck is Nicola?”

“She stayed with the Tross!” Someone called out.

“Lucky whore.” he cursed under his breath. “They’re coming, and I need men to drag the Cap and the Commander out of the line of fire.”

“Lynnabel!” Alysia urged, but Lynnabel was scooping up Aldric and carrying him past the skirmish line. Alysia cursed and struggled with Daveth’s mammoth bulk, but was unable to move him.

“Fucking hell-” Morden cursed, and then a double dozen spellknights dressed like Malacath spilled out into the hall.

“Halt!” One of them yelled. “Please, we need you to-”

“Fire!” Morden ordered, and the files with rifles opened fire, the guns thundering in the enclosed space.

“Advance!” Morden ordered, and the riflemen moved forward cautiously.

One of the spellknights pushed himself to his feet, a runner of blood trickling from his mouth. “Please!” He cried, but Morden gestured and the elf was hit with ten jacketed lead slugs that smashed through his armor, his spine, his ribcage, his skull.

“Good!” He called. “Infantry! You’re on throatcutter duty. Cavalry! If you’re done fucking with the horses, drag the bodies back and strip the corpses!”

“Horses need more water!” one of the cavalry called.

“Great! So do I!” Morden called, and there was some good-natured laughter. Strangely, it seemed to push back the oppressive bleakness of the place a bit.

Morden eyed the hall. It was hard to pick out any detail from anything; the entire palace seemed dressed in the same glossy black stone. It was difficult to pick out stairs, doorways, accesses and entrances. He glanced up, his training insisting he cover all quarters, and was frustrated to spot a double catwalk on either side, that ran the length of the hall.

“Cover those catwalks!” he barked, and spun. “Is Aldric or Daveth awake yet?”

“Still down!” a voice called from the back.

“Damn, damn, and fuck.” Morden spit. He could take command in a pinch, similar to any of the file leaders, but he wasn’t ready at all to accept the mantle of command.

“How are we on mages?” Morden called.

“Only three.” A tired but familiar voice called from the doorway behind them.

Morden turned around, sword ready, expecting to die at any moment. Malacath stood in the doorway with two of his spellknights, one with the distinctive flag of the bloodwings, a healer, sticking up from his shoulder.

“Thought you were a goner.” Morden called, and Malacath nodded. “I should have stayed with the rest of you instead of swinging out to pick up those that couldn’t keep going.”

He stalked forward on legs that looked ready to give out at any moment. “I couldn’t just leave them. Their souls...” He trailed off. “So many will miss the cycle of rebirth.”

“We have to honor their sacrifices in the only way we know how.” Morden replied. Malacath nodded.

“You know this place?” Morden asked.

Malacath gave a limp shrug and winced in pain. “I knew it before it was transformed into ...this.”

“You think you can guide us to this lunatic we’ve heard so much about?”

Malacath shrugged again.

“Fine. We press on... and we take them with us. Everyone fights, no one quits. We go all the way to the end, and we kill that lunatic bastard.”

“The good news is that this place is protected.” Malacath muttered, holding his hand out to the air.

“Protected? What? How?”

Malacath rolled his eyes a little bit. “It’s safe to use magic here. That means healing.”

Morden let out a sigh of relief. “Music to my ears, man. Patch up the wounded, tend to the horses. Then we go in hot and kill the fucker.”

Malacath nodded. “One thing occurred to me. If he’s tied the magic of this place to himself, we have to take the king back out there and into our own realm before we kill him... otherwise we’re trapped here for eternity.”

The ground heaved beneath their feet, the stone cracking and shattering into jagged shards that skittered across the floor.

“Son of a bitch, now what?” Morden swore.

“Now we keep on.” Aldric replied in a cracked, rusty voice. One of the elves tended his wounds.

“Good to see you’re alive, Captain.” Morden replied.

“I could use a vacation.” Aldric complained, rising to his feet awkwardly. “Where’s Daveth?”

Morden pointed as he scanned the main hall for threats.

He staggered over to Daveth, who still lay facedown on the cracked and splintered obsidian floor.

“Get your ass up, Commander.” He complained, but the giant didn’t move.

“Shit.” He complained, and rubbed his shoulder. “See to my arm?” He asked the bloodwing, the healer mage.

“Alysia, in Daveth’s saddlebags is a blue glass bottle. You’ll know it when you see it. Bring it here.”

Alysia frowned. “I have reservations with going through another’s belongings, captain.”

“You want him awake, don’t you? Get the bottle.”

Malacath eyed him. “That’s the drink that ....woman...” He offered reluctantly, “gave him, is it not?”

Aldric nodded. “As close as I can tell, it’s pure distilled alcohol. One whiff of that and he should wake.”

Morden eyed him. “He was carrying something like that?”

“It was a gift.” Aldric replied. “From someone we couldn’t refuse. I think it’s strong enough to stop a man’s heart cold in his chest, but the vapors...” He shrugged.

Alysia returned with the bottle. Aldric doused a rag with some of the liquid and winced at the pungent fumes.

“By the false gods that’s pungent.” Aldric complained, but knelt and wafted it under Daveth’s face.

The giant convulsed, choking, and Aldric grinned. “That got some life in him.” He capped the bottle and handed it back to Alysia. “Stick that back in his bag.”

He tossed the rag aside and flexed his hand, which had gone numb and tingly. “Potent as fuck.” He complained.

Daveth climbed to his feet and stashed the ancient spear in his weapons pouch.

“So how bad is it?” He asked in an exhausted voice.

“We’re fucked, of course.” Aldric replied. “But we made it in to this black palace, so that’s a plus in our favor. Now all we have to do is find the asshole that built it.”

“Divide up into search and destroy squads?” Daveth asked.

Aldric spat on the shattered obsidian floor. “We don’t have enough men to divide. We are the search and destroy squad.” He complained.

Daveth nodded. Malacath relayed his worries to Aldric, who grimaced bitterly. “So we haul that asshole back into the real world and we cut off his head.”

“Taking him alive might pose a problem.” Daveth worried.

“We’ll deal with it when we deal with it.” He pointed to the passage the spellknights had come from. “Let’s move.”

*****

She’d fought demons and all manner of atrocities and blasphemies all across the world of Aggenmor, but not once in her nearly two thousand years of experience did she recall ever venturing into one of their home realms.

A shroud of golden mist enveloped her, illuminating the way to the Black Palace. Things that would have gleefully killed mortal men shied away from that light, but her gun sought them out, each shot like a bolt of thunder.

Her mind wandered from time to time and it took a constant effort of concentration for her to remember who she was. After the Battle of Liberation she frequently forgot her own name.

It was the others’ fault, of course. Each of them insisted that they were the rightful owner of the flesh she wore, each of them demanded and struggled for control. Sometimes she lost the battle. It couldn’t be helped, of course. What was done as a desperate act of self-preservation had consequences, consequences she’d been dealing with for... her mind wandered again.

When she came back to herself again, she was standing on some parapet, the smoking body of a titanic demon lay at her feet. Her wings were out again- when had that happened?

She looked up at the mottled sky. How she longed to be under the sun again!

From up here, the army of mortals looked like ants as they crossed the courtyard.

She smiled a little wistfully. “It seems as though I wasn’t needed here, after all.” She remarked to nobody.

She’d have to talk to The Weaver again. She didn’t much like that. The woman bore her a personal grudge that she couldn’t do anything about. They’d never be able to come to terms with each other.

“Good luck, heroes.” She encouraged the army, and launched herself from the parapet, her wings trailing embers.