“I can’t tell what’s worse.” Daveth complained. “The elves or the demons.”

“The elves, definitely.” Malacath replied bitterly.

“Mmm.” Aldric muttered. “It’s obvious the elves are getting gang-pressed into service. They don’t really want this fight. The demons do. No matter which way you toss the coin, it always comes up shitty.”

They huddled in what used to be a storeroom, the bleeding remnants of the Seventh Seal behind them, desperately getting healed and bandaged.

Daveth and Aldric didn’t look behind them, adamantly refused to do the sums, run the numbers. The Seventh Seal had taken a pounding, and they didn’t at all want to know what the body count was. The bad death of Stronghammer had hit them hard. They didn’t even know his real name.

Over everything else, over the bitter tang of adrenaline, over the exhaustion that dragged at the bones, over the weird sense of of pressure in the sinuses, and the burning in their calves from the always upward battles, over the sense of frustrated sadness when someone had to be dragged back from the vanguard because he was missing half of his face, over everything else was the the hard-eyed grit of determination. They had to see it through to the end; they had to get their licks in, and it wouldn’t count unless it was face to face with the Mad King.

“I hate this fucking continent.” Daveth muttered.

Aldric barked a laugh that turned into a hacking cough he struggled to suppress. His handkerchief came away with ominous splotches in the uncertain light of the storeroom.

“You still think we’re on Rothgar?”

Daveth’s gaze moved from the handkerchief to his captain’s pale face.

“We’re not in Aggenmor anymore, Daveth. There’s no Hesperia, no Rothgar, no Yamato, no Bel-Arib, no Silesia, no Toledo, no nothing. This is Phlegethos, and the only things to give us welcome are demons.”

It didn’t take long for the demons to discover that the wards around the Obsidian Palace had fallen. A gift from Stronghammer’s maul, smashing the gates and the front doors open. Demons rushed in, and a war erupted between the demons from outside and the contracted demons within, with the elves and the Seventh Seal trapped in the middle.

Thunder had blasted around the keep for a while. Once the thunder had died down, Aldric had led a charge across a courtyard where the smoldering corpse of a truly titanic demon lay. Daveth himself was as tall as one of its fingers was long. There would have been no way for the Seventh Seal to defeat it on their own.

The Seventh Seal had taken refuge when the tide of demons from outside met the demons from inside. Strange iridescent blood flowed. Chunks of gelatinous flesh quivered and squirmed.

“I still think we should at least offer sanctuary to the elves.” Malacath complained as he worked on the brutal gash on Aldric’s side.

“Stupid move. Don’t you get it? Doesn’t matter who we are. We’re not them. They’re not us. That’s how they see it, that’s how we see it; things will never change until one of us lies dead. That’s how it’s always been, that’s how it always is.” Aldric complained cynically.

“It’s cynicism like that that keeps everyone at each other’s throats.” Malacath muttered as he worked to heal Aldric’s wounds.

They’d had to cross a parapet to move deeper into the castle, and exposed, they’d been attacked by screeching things that’d hurtled out of the sky with gibbering screeches. Aldric had gone down and was convinced that it was his turn into the black. No Patron would hear his cries here, in this godforsaken place.

“Da-Daveth,” Aldric panted up at him, face covered in sweat. The sky was green, and ash floated on the air like snow. An errant sword had grazed the side of his head, a flap of skin dangled obscenely as blood sheeted down the side of Aldric’s face. “Get them out,” he panted, faint from blood loss. “Please, you have to promise me that you’ll get them all out-'' he choked and spat blood all over the half-giant.

Blasphemies too horrid to look at screeched and taunted them, just beyond range of the archers, but the riflemen and Malacath finally caught up, and their gristly promises had turned to screeches of rage and pain.

Now the tattered remnants of the Seventh Seal huddled in a storeroom with boxes and barrels of foodstuffs, groaning and gasping their last moments. There were only two healers. There were only a hundred and ten soldiers remaining. Two healers for fifty-five men and women.

Malacath’s men had taken the worst of it in the beginning- they chose to fight their way out of the capital city to drop the weather control towers, fight their way back in, drop the towers in the city.

Finally, Malacath had chosen to swing his troops wide as they raced across the blasted plains of Phlegethos in a desperate bid to scoop up those that fell behind, living or not. That act of courage and heroism had cost him his command- all but two of his elves were dead or missing. The Seventh Seal’s assault on the black citadel had cost him one more.

“Wish Nicola was here.” Daveth muttered, rubbing a bandage on his arm. He refused healing; a cut on his arm was no big deal compared to the horrors that had been visited on his men’s flesh.

“She’d go insane.” Morden muttered. “She’s okay with the battlefield, but this goes beyond that.”

Daveth lifted his eyebrow at that, and Morden gave him a shrug and a nod.

Daveth snorted. “At least someone’s getting tail here.” He complained.

Marden gave him a look. “I’m pretty sure Alysia would oblige, if you asked nicely.”

“I’m pretty sure she’d chew my face off if I asked.” Daveth shot back. “Have you seen her teeth? She took a chunk out of my shoulder, you know.” He tugged his vest to the side to show the wicked scar she’d left on his shoulder.

Morden glanced at the scar- she really had bitten a chunk out of him- and looked over at Alysia, who was glaring at Daveth, her eyes smoldering coals in her expressionless face. She was one of the riflemen, now. Sacrifices had to be made.

“I think you’re right.” Morden muttered, though he pointedly did not ask why Daveth had her teethmarks in his shoulder.

“Anyone got a deck of cards?” A man called weakly from the back of the storeroom.

“Can it, Horse.” Someone else muttered.

“How many times do I have to tell you? It was just the one time!” His voice took on a bitter, wheedling tone.

“Malacath- how is he?” Daveth asked.

“He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s healed up. He’s gonna be weak and stupid for a while.”

“I thought magical healing restored that sort of thing.” Morden objected. Malacath shook his head and gestured to the remnants of the Seventh Seal. “I have to conserve my strength.”

“Aldric’s stupid all the time, so it’s not like we’re missing out on anything.” Daveth smirked.

“Fuck you shitpuck.” Aldric complained, flashing an obscene gesture.

“I hate to break up such an enlivening conversation, but I have a question.” Lynnabel offered as she approached the quartet.

Daveth gestured, but she looked to Aldric, who flapped his hand weakly.

“Lord Captain, Lord Commander, I wonder if you’ve considered what the demons coming in from the outside means, and how it impacts our mission.”

“Of course we have.” Daveth replied immediately. “But I bet you’ve picked up on something we’ve missed.” He added quickly.

She smiled a little at that. “It seems to me that if demons can get in, then other things might get in as well. Namely the toxic air we had to run through to get here.”

“Fuck, she’s right.” Aldric muttered. “Masks, everyone. That’s an order.”

“Dumbass, you just admitted you didn’t think of it.” Daveth complained, exasperated, and Lynnabel turned a smug smile in his direction. Daveth, however, had tugged his mask from where it hung around his neck up around his nose.

*****

Defying all capability of reason, the Seventh Seal managed to get some sleep in the heart of enemy territory, in the heart of hell, in the heart of the madman’s stronghold. Daveth straightened and twisted, letting his back settle and pop while the others rested.

“You swore you would never speak of it again, Lord Commander.” Alysia hissed at him.

Daveth thought back to their time in Philippa. “I did. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, and then asked, “Do you remember that night in Nauders?”

“You’re talking about when I was drunk?” He confirmed.

She nodded carefully, her eyes on his face.

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Then this conversation is over, Lord Commander.”

Daveth gave her a baffled look, but cautiously opened the door leading outside into a long hallway. The floor of the hall was cracked and shattered. The idiot that’d decided to floor the entire castle in obsidian was due for a thrashing. It cut into the boots and shredded them. It was universally disliked by everyone. On the other hand, the opposition had to deal with it, too.

Daveth stepped out into the hall, his boots gritting on the floor. Alysia stepped out after him.

“Why do you keep harping on me about that night?” He asked, as he cautiously eased down the hallway.

“Because everything begins from that night.” She replied in an equally low voice.

“And if I lied about remembering?” He asked. She immediately gave him a flat look. “Then I would not be able to trust my Lord Commander and I would ask to be released.”

“I think I’m going to give up on trying to make sense of you and your sister.” He muttered, and peeked around the corner. The hall was empty.

“I will once again complain that my sister and I are not suited for carrying guns.” Alysia complained.

“And yet you’re a better shot than the rest of who we have available.” He returned, and gestured to himself, and then pointed down the hall. She nodded.

He slipped down the hall, which suddenly opened up into a courtyard.

The ground was littered with bodies, demonic and elven; the courtyard bore the telltale scorch marks, shattered rock, and bloodstains of a ferocious battle.

Daveth stepped out into the courtyard and eyed the emerald-green sky. There was no sun or moon or stars with which to guide by.

A demon leapt down from some higher purchase, a thing with too many limbs, eyes sprouting from uncomfortable angles and massive frog-like feet. It slammed down on Daveth, who hit the ground hard enough to let out a startled yelp.

It screeched in a voice that grated on the ears and lunged forward. Daveth swung his sword, and two limbs flew away, trailing gobbets of black ichor. A second sword appeared in his other hand as if by magic, and he waded into range, blades flashing and whirling.

Alysia raised her rifle, lowered it, raised it again, and debated on whether or not to fire. The guns make a ferocious noise, and it was just her and Daveth at this point. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to attract more attention than they could handle.

She slung the rifle over her shoulder and drew her sword and ran at it from behind, impaling the thing through the back.

The demon squealed and writhed, but couldn’t reach back to knock Alysia away. She vigorously and angrily twisted and jerked and sawed with her sword, opening up a savage wound where more gelatinous ichor flowed.

The thing stiffened, and slumped over as Daveth hacked off its head.

He eyed Alysia from across the corpse.

“Not bad, soldier.”

She nodded, and jerked her thumb back the way they came.

Daveth searched the upper levels once more and nodded, jerking free a cloth and wiping down his blades. One of their discoveries was that some demons’ blood melted steel like acid. He sheathed his swords as Alysia scrubbed her blade clean, and the two of them threw the rapidly disintegrating cloths aside before retreating back to the storeroom.

“Little by little we’re thinning the swarm.” Daveth offered optimistically, and Alysia shrugged, deciding not to tell him that the entire realm was filled with demons and nothing was stopping them from breeding more.

On returning to the storeroom, Daveth updated their maps, a cobbled-together mass of sketches on a fistful of parchments.

“Heard some screams. You all right?” Aldric panted from his bedroll.

Daveth snorted. “Alysia had to take a massive shit. You heard her screaming to push it out.”

Alysia glared at Daveth, who simply ignored it.

“You updated the maps.” Aldric mentioned, and Daveth nodded. “There’s a courtyard, and then across from it is a set of stairs going up. Looks like another hallway.” Daveth passed the scrap of parchment over.

“Hmm. Could be our golden egg.” Aldric replied.

“Could be. But we’re pinned down, exhausted, and our captain is fucked.” Daveth replied. “If we have to get the fuck out of here in a hurry, we won’t make it. We should rest up as long as possible, heal up as much as possible, and then make our move.”

Aldric shook his head. “This fucking sucks the root. We can’t tell people that we got our shit pushed in like this.”

Daveth shrugged. “You think anyone will be telling stories about this place?”

Aldric shook his head. “No... no I suppose they won’t.”

Daveth nodded, and then looked to the elf. “What’s the verdict, Malacath?”

The elf gave him a twisted grin that showed his exhaustion through completely. “We’re combat ready.”

Daveth barked a laugh. “No we’re fucking not. Take a nap and we’ll be combat ready.”

Malacath shook his head, but obligingly laid down.

“What do you suppose happened to the horses we left on the first floor?” Aldric muttered.

“Stupid fucking question.” Daveth replied, and then paused. “Well, mine might be fine, though.”

“Why’s that?” Aldric asked.

Daveth scratched his chin. “No point keeping it a secret at this point, I guess.” He decided. “It’s a golem. The lady in Bel-Arib made it for me.”

Aldric’s eyes widened in shock, but then he chuckled. “Ass. Leave it to you to figure out how to get your hands on a horse you could ride without breaking it.” He paused. “Looks real, though.”

Daveth shrugged. “Golem on the inside, living horseflesh on the outside. It thinks it’s a horse, too.”

Aldric sighed. “I wonder if we’ll be alright after this.”

“Maybe.” Daveth replied.

Aldric shook his head loosely. “May the gods pity the man who in his callousness can remain sane to the hideous end.” He spoke as if he were quoting something.

“The Gods are gone. Only men remain.” Alysia spoke up.

Daveth shook his head. “As long as the Champions and Angels remain, the Gods and their works are still lurking around the corner.” He pointed at Alysia thoughtfully. “How do we really know they left? For all we know, they could be lurking in a place like this, whispering sweet words in the dreams of men.”

She frowned at that. “No one would listen.”

“Anyone with a brain would listen. ‘Pray to me and your crops will grow’. Seems reasonable to do because it costs nothing, right?” He pointed at Aldric, who had fallen asleep. “Even he’s shouted some desperate fucking prayers when we were in the shit.” He shrugged. “Also, there’s Patrons.”

Alysia frowned harder, but didn’t say anything.

“The more desperate a situation, the more desperate we look for something to believe in.” Daveth finished, tucking food into his mouth. Alysia wasn’t certain where he’d gotten it, but she wished he’d share it with her.

“You’re not wrong.” Alysia decided. “I, too, believe in something.”

He raised an eyebrow, and handed over the strip of jerky he was chewing on.

“I believe that as long as you’re alive, somehow things will always turn out all right.”

His face cracked at that, and strangely, she could see tears gathering in his eyes.

“Don’t say shit like that.” He growled hoarsely, and pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t follow me.”

He shoved open the storehouse door, left, and closed it with a sharp report.

Too many people had died under his command for that to be remotely true. The nightmare of Ankar Set. The bad death of Jonan. The massacre of the entire Radiant Sons, with the exception of Nicola. The Brotherhood and Edwin, who commanded them. Derrick Alhambra and his army of templars. Tsubame’s pirates. The Ebon Hand. Audra. Audra and half of her scouts. Half of the Seventh Seal, in their mad charge across the blasted lands of Phlegethos. Stronghammer’s ridiculous death as he cartwheeled off the balcony and fell three floors to meet his end.

No. Nothing turned out “all right” under his command. His hands were dripping with the lives of his soldiers.

He drew the ancient spear he’d found beneath a city buried in sand and it flared to hateful light, flames spilling off the tattered wrappings that hung from just beneath the savage spearpoint.

The spear was filled with rage and hate, and it was a perfect consolation to him; He wanted to drown his pain in action. The spear demanded destruction, and he gave himself over to it.

He rapped the butt of the spear against the floor of the hallway and watched as threads of malevolent flame surged across the cracked volcanic glass, seeking cracks, surging up the walls, crackling in the ceiling. Yes. Hate was better than pain. Rage was better than sorrow.

He stepped out into the courtyard and things began to die.

*****

“I do not understand, sister. I thought telling him that I had faith and confidence in his abilities as a warrior and as a Commander would boost his morale.” Alysia complained to her sister.

“I do not claim to understand humans, and I must say that I understand him even less than others, sister.” Lynnabel replied. “Is there perhaps more of that jerky?”

Alysia shook her head. The Seventh Seal had arrived with what food they could afford to bring from the Tross, which waited on the other side of the breach, in the capital city of Therannia. That food and water had depleted quickly in their savage campaign through the massive castle.

Aldric awoke when Malacath began using his magical restorative powers on him again to encourage blood production and circulation.

“Thanks, Mal.” Aldric complimented, clapping the man on the shoulder as he hoisted himself to his feet.

“That’s ‘Malacath’, captain.” Malacath complained. “Only my sister calls me ‘Mal’.”

Aldric chuckled.

“All right you assholes, It’s time to push on. Maybe we die. Maybe we win. Regardless, this is our last push. Let’s carve the name of the Seventh Seal into that Mad King’s heart.”

The soldiers of the Seventh Seal, battered, bruised, bandaged, but dangerous, reached for their weapons.

The courtyard was blasted and scorched as if a massive explosion had been set off in the center. The walls were melted like wax, the ground was powdered ash and scorched gravel under their feet. Aldric pointed at the steps on the other side of the courtyard. “Push!” He shouted. “Push! Push!”

The Seventh Seal surged up the stairwell; elven bodies lay here and there in heaps, their robes scorched in some places. Curiously, they carried no weapons and some of them were completely unarmored.

“Is this Daveth’s work?” Malacath asked, as they moved on through.

“Looting isn’t against the rules in the Seventh Seal.” Aldric replied, gesturing for the files to rush across the room in columns.

Malacath grimaced at that. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” He complained as Aldric and Malacath rushed with the troops towards the shattered doorway on the other side.

“You’re not required to do it.” Aldric replied, struggling to breathe live-giving air into his lungs through the mask that everyone wore.

The next room was an ornate throne room, and there they found Daveth fighting with a demon that was three times his height.

Daveth blazed with fire, shirtless. The black markings that had covered his arms now covered not just his arms but his chest and back in strange geometric zigzags and whorls. Every blow he struck sent fiery streamers up the arms of the bullheaded demon, every cut sent splashes of blood in gaudy arcs.

“Riflemen!” Aldric yelled by reflex, and those with guns lined up and hammered out a paean of murder.

“Gunners, focus on the head!” Aldric yelled. “Cavalry, rush its feet! Mages, throw everything you’ve got at it!”

Daveth leaped an impossible height into the air and drove the spear into the demon’s throat. An explosion of fire and flesh blasted out of the thing’s back and a waterfall of blood gushed from the hole.

The Demon grabbed Daveth in its meaty hand and hurled the giant to the obsidian floor so hard he bounced.

The cavalry rushed the demon’s legs and hamstrung it neatly, bringing the monstrosity to its knees.

Aldric shouted orders, his hands waving through signs for the files to surge inwards, and like ants assaulting a beetle several times its size, they tore it apart.

Aldric, meanwhile, approached a mad-eyed elf that bobbed and cackled with lunatic glee on his throne.

“Your nightmare ends now.” He spat, drawing his saber.

“Fool!” Malachi Sunstorm spat, most of his teeth gone. “You think this ends with my death? Kill me and you strand yourselves here!”

Aldric chuckled. “Who said we’d kill you here?”

King Sunstorm’s eyes grew wide and he gripped the arms of his obsidian throne tightly, blood spilling from his fingers.

“You can’t! I don’t allow it! I refuse! You can’t make me do anything! I am king, human, and I am sick to death of your kind telling my kind what to do!”

“Too bad.” Aldric replied, slugging the old elf across the jaw with the basket of his saber, savagely, bitterly, relishing the crack of the old man’s jaw.

“Seventh Seal!” Aldric called, jerkling down one of the king’s banners from the wall of the throne room and spooling it up in his hands. A victory was a victory.

“Let’s go home.”