“Higher ground! We’ll gain the advantage!” someone shouted.

The Shrouded Knights had ceased their shrieking... how long ago was that? It was a terrifying thing to see, a horrifying thing to hear. A bolt of emerald green would whipcrack into the the sky like a lightning bolt, and the Knight would be transfixed with that light, that energy, that power for a brief second, and then out would come that terrible forge hammer while that shrill scream echoed and reverberated across the battlefield. First one, then ten, and then all of the Shrouded Knights, shrieking like witches put to the torch, a shriek that scraped at your soul, dragged claws across the heart that beat in your chest and left you gasping, out would come that hammer and they would go to work, pounding their way through whatever obstacle happened to be in their way in a ferocious, berserker rage.

*****

Someone had loaded the cannon they’d had to abandon earlier; the crack of cannonfire blasted across the battlefield and for a moment- for a moment- Aldric felt the bright spirit of hope fill his chest, and then he saw the position overrun with men the size of Daveth, wearing heavy plate, effortlessly carrying massive swords nearly as long as he was tall, carrying them single-handedly. Some of them raised their hands and blast after blast of fist-sized chunks of ice shotgunned from their grips. Whoever manned that cannon was surely dead.

Aldric ducked a blow meant for his head and jammed his cavalry saber between the man’s heavy breastplate and into his gut. He twisted the blade and yanked it out. The giant roared from the depths of his helmet and the clawed tips of his gauntlet raked down Aldric’s face. More wounds for Nicola, if she was even alive.

He didn’t even have a chance to catch his breath; another giant was there, screaming, roaring, raising a blade to split him in two.

A sword lopped off the giant’s arm; a heavy blade punched through the giant’s chest. Aldric couldn’t see anymore. He raised his sword, and something crashed into the side of his head and all went black.

Ah, so it’s the Void for me after all.

*****

Malacath thought he was a soldier. Thought of himself as a soldier. Therannia changed all of that. No, before that, it was the Seventh Seal that changed all of that. Their army was a savage, brutal thing. They didn’t fight with elegance, they didn’t fight with proper rules, considerations and etiquette.

In Therannia, a battle was very orderly, very elegant. There was an air of mutual respect between commanders and an unspoken code of conduct.

No, when the Seventh Seal stepped onto the battlefield, they brought war with them. There was no consideration. There was no mercy. There was no dignity.

They would march onto a battlefield, bringing death with them, closing ranks as one of them fell, faces filled with grim determination.

Aldric and Daveth glanced at each other and shrugged when Malacath brought this to their attention.

“You’ve never really fought in a war, have you?” Daveth asked gently. “A real one, that is.”

That burned in Malacath’s chest like a bitter fire. That condescension. A giant lumbering idiot of a human condescending to him!

But the relentless march on the Obsidian Palace. Aldric and Daveth calling orders. File Leaders changing formations in heartbeats. Moments of savagery, moments of heroism.

In the human lands of Montesilvano they moved as a unit, killed as a unit, and trampled the dead underfoot indifferently as a unit, and then marched on the nobleman’s house, kicking down their gates, and slaughtered them all to a man. Men, women, children. Their heads were planted on the finials of their own gates, and the Seventh Seal marched on.

When bandits appeared, they didn’t hesitate; they unsheathed their axes and carved a boody path through them.

Malacath thought of himself a soldier. He thought he knew battle. But he had no idea what a war was truly like.

*****

“The Lady Sybella’s compliments, sir!” A young Nauders man presented himself at the command tent.

“Let him in, Morden.” Aldric called.

The man entered the tent and briskly rubbed his hands in the cold. “Wow! It really is the Land of Eternal Night, isn’t it!”

“You have a message, right?” Aldric asked tiredly.

“The supplies are delayed, right?” Daveth asked, and the man blanched. “Well, that is to say...” he nodded. “There are some problems getting the wagons through the pass, you see.”

“Daveth, show this man the bombards, then show him the oxcarts we used to move the bombards through the pass, call him a liar, slap him in the face for lying to us, shove a spear up his ass, put him on his horse, point the horse in the general direction of Timwaite Pass and send his lying corpse back to the Lady Sybella with our compliments.” Aldric ordered.

The man gaped and took a step back and felt hot steel kiss the back of his leather jerkin. Morden grinned villainously at him. “Where do you think you’re going?” He asked curiously.

“By the dead gods I kinda wish Dorothea was here to see this.” Daveth said, puffing on his pipe. “I told her that this exact thing would happen. I didn’t expect that Sybella would have the balls to actually send someone though.”

He looked at the kid. “How old are you, boy?”

“Are... are you really going to ... shove a spear up...” the young man stammered.

“You’re not listening, boy. How old are you?”

“S-s-s-sixteen.” He stammered.

“A lifetime.” Daveth replied, his voice smooth and cold like an ice slick. “Now let’s go have a look at those bombards, right?”

Daveth returned with Alysia practically riding on his heels. He rounded on her and gently touched her nose with a fingertip. “Command staff only, remember?”

She gave him a frustrated look, but stalked off.

“It’s done?” Aldric asked, and Daveth shrugged. “One horse that we could have used as food when shit got desperate sent towards the Duchy of Nauders.”

Malacath grimaced. “You remind me yet again that there is no dignity in war.”

Aldric shook his head. “Nope. None.” He replied.

“Now that the trap’s sprung, what next?” Daveth asked. “No point in holding the ruins. Do we try the bombards against Timwaite?”

Aldric let out a bitter laugh. “The fuck do you think?” He unrolled the map they’d drawn as they’d made their way to the fort. The mapmaker had even helpfully drawn in the layers of craters they’d passed.

“It’s a longer route, and it’ll stretch us thin, but it is the most efficient route back to the pass. Think about how much time we wasted in our “straight line” approach on the ruins? This’ll cut time on our way back, and give us flanking advantage when we kick off the bombards.” He pulled out a second map that covered the northward side of Timwaite Pass. “I want the mages alongside the bombards so we can deploy them immediately. Move the ground and drop them in place.” He marked several X’s on the map and drew straight lines towards the fortresses. “We’ve only got blast shot because we thought we were going to be fighting men, not fortresses. It’s my hope that you can give the shot a little extra oomph when we make our stand.”

Malacath nodded. “I’ll have a talk with the mages and see if we can whip something up.”

Aldric nodded back. “The way back home will be a different road than the one we took to get here, and we’ll be stretched thin- maybe even single columns. Keep your heads on a swivel; shit will get real, real fast.”

Daveth and Malacath nodded; they’d heard the speech before.

*****

“You have been quiet of late.” Lynnabel said, as she carefully brushed her Lord Captain’s hair.

“Have I?” He asked rhetorically.

“Don’t dodge the question.” She insisted, and jabbed him sharply in the back with a finger. He winced.

He was silent for a bit. “You know what the rest of us know. We’re walking in the footsteps of another army. There’s only one army that stalks these lands: the Northern Avalanche.” He finally admitted.

“You are worried.” It was not a question.

“We’ve gone into the worst places imaginable.” He finally admitted. “The Argent Highlands. The deserts of Ankar-Set. Black Spire.” He was quiet for a while. “The Crystal Keep of Therannia.”

“I did not like that one.” She murmured. He nodded. “No one did.”

“There was no honor in what we did.” She stated.

He nodded again. “No. No honor.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “Sometimes I try to tell myself that it was a mercy. Justice, to be sure. Honor... I don’t think so.”

She gently stroked Aldric’s neck and cheek comfortingly with her hand as she stood behind his seated figure.

“And you fear the Northern Avalanche.”

“I’d be a fool not to. They’re masters of war, and have won every campaign they’ve waged for at least the last three hundred years. The only thing that keeps them from slaughtering us is their constant infighting.”

“You have found the path to victory for us before, Lord Captain.” She murmured, resuming her brushing.

“I’m afraid.” He admitted. “I feel like we are riding to an inevitable doom.”

“If I am by your side, you will not fall.” She assured him. He shrugged helplessly.

“There is no shame in admitting which of the two of us are stronger, my love.” She murmured.

He turned to face her. “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me anything other than ‘Lord Captain’, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?” She smiled down at him tenderly. “Perhaps I am finally understanding what you mean to me.”

“I have a name, you know.” he stated flatly. “You could call me by my name when we’re together like this.”

She took his head in her hands and turned it away from her. “I cannot brush your hair like that.”

He chuckled dryly.

“Are you afraid for me?” She asked.

“This is one of those dangerous questions that no matter how I answer you’ll get mad.” He replied sagely, and reached for his pipe by reflex. She refused his advances unless he bathed, brushed his teeth, and left the pipe in his tent. He dropped his hands. “I’m not completely stupid.”

“Answer.” She commanded. He chuckled.

“I am. You are far stronger than me, you have many amazing abilities that can... trivialize a lot of what we encounter... but I am afraid. I don’t doubt your skill at all. I’m just stupidly afraid of you getting hurt.”

She smiled happily, knowing full well he couldn’t see it. She took a breath.

“I know you. You’re angry. I’ve insulted your honor and your capabilities as a warrior, I know.” He said, and she smirked a little.

“If you know, why do you say such things?” She asked, her voice low.

“Because if I can’t be honest with you, then I can’t be honest at all.”

“Are you going to say something stupid like, “When the time comes, I don’t want you to fight.”?” She asked, brushing his hair slowly.

“Didn’t I just say that I’m not completely stupid?” He asked irritably. “When the time comes, I expect you and your sister to be giving your all. This fight will take absolutely everything we have to win.”

“Come to bed.” She urged, setting her brush to the side. “We need our rest.”

*****

There was a sense of urgent, frantic desperation to Alysia’s lovemaking, Daveth mused. She clung to him, digging her nails like claws into his back, pressing her face into the scar she’d left in her shoulder.

When they were finished, she refused to move, wrapping her arms and legs around him as tightly as possible. He wasn’t sure, because he couldn’t see her face, but he suspected she was quietly crying against him and even though it was obvious she was doing so, she’d angrily deny it and then leave.

He didn’t really want her to leave; tonight was colder than previous. He’d appreciate her warmth. The Wolf Sisters had a higher body temperature than normal people.

“You heard from the scouts.” Daveth guessed.

“I did.”

“You’re worried.” He guessed.

“You’re wrong, Daveth. I’m eager to test myself against them.” She retorted.

“Really?” He asked.

She nodded against his chest. “I have fought against you for years. I look forward to unleashing my full fury against them.”

“And after the Northern Avalanche, Nauders.” He muttered. She nodded against his chest. “They’ve set themselves against you. I will turn my sword as you direct.”

“What... when will you leave, like Aurene?” He asked. She pushed herself up with her arms and snarled at him in the black. “You think I would leave? I will stay with you even if-” She cut herself off.

“Even if... what?” Daveth asked.

She climbed out of bed, and Daveth scrambled to grab the blankets; the cold really was piercing.

Shye struggled into her leathers and hastily strapped on her armor and glared at him angrily, furiously. Her eyes glowed silver in the black.

“Some things should not be said, Lord Commander.” She spat icily. “I have scout duty with my sister, Lord Commander.” She spat again. “Sleep well, Lord Commander.” She stomped out of his tent, letting in another blast of icy air- it seemed to be snowing again- but at least had the consideration of tying the tent flap.

“Fuck.” Daveth griped and lay back in his bed.

*****

The wind was intense; the snowfall was completely horizontal and whirled about her as she circled the camp. There wasn’t much to break the wind; a few stunted and leafless trees. There were many strange smells, but the whole of the Northern Wastes was filled with strange smells.

Every land had its smells. Every land she had traveled to had its own unique blend of earthy scents of life and growing things and people, even Bel-Arib and the desert- she had seen the spiderlike beastfolk, she had seen the tiny swarms of raptors. There was the scent of life in the desert.

The only land that did not smell of life was what the humans called- well, they called it many things. Arborea. The Forbidden Wastes. The Land of Eternal Night. That certainly was a good one. The sun’s light never reached this place.

There was a certain... sterility to the land, a feeling of alien-ness, as if the land itself did not belong... and a wholehearted rejection of life itself.

Lynnabel continued her scouting route. Humans believed that if they circled the camp, they would be free of danger. The elf had it right- you had to range ahead, range wide, and sweep for other hidden dangers. It was a shame that the elf died, but Lynnabel was happy for her sister.

An errant blast of freezing wind brought her the scent of said sister, so Lynnabel stopped and waited, knowing full well that Alysia would come to her. There was nothing that either of them did that neither of them did not know. They bathed together, slept together, ate together, plotted together, laughed and cried together. Alysia was the other half of Lynnabel; Lynnabel was the other half of Alysia. If Alysia was bold, then Lynnabel was cautious. Lynnabel could soothe Alysia’s tears; likewise Alysia could provoke Lynnabel’s laughter.

“How was your watch?” Lynnabel asked her sister as she approached.

“It was quiet. I scouted a little further ahead of the camp and caught two rabbits.” Alysia offered with a grin.

Lynnabel was happy for the rabbit, but couldn’t Alysia have washed the smell of Daveth off of her before it was time to scout? Lynnabel sighed inwardly. If Alysia intended to make up for all the years that she wasn’t with Daveth, then so be it.

“A feast indeed.” Lynnabel replied. “Should I look forward to it, or will you be sharing it with him?”

Alysia frowned, and Lynnabel smiled. She wouldn’t admit it, but she thought the little line between Alysia’s brows when she was being stubborn to be cute.

“I think-” Alysia began, but suddenly the snow erupted in front of them and Lynnabel heard the deadly whistle of a blade. Desperately, she leapt back with all the strength in her legs. She flew backwards, hit the ground, and rolled and came up in a ready stance, her heavy sword out and ready in an eyeblink.

The man was huge. Her Lord Captain overtopped her by a head, this man was of a height with Lord Commander Daveth; at least seven feet tall.

She surged forward and met his sword with her own. His strength was titanic. She’d fought Daveth constantly, every day she had been in the Seventh Seal. She was ready.

She settled her feet and redirected his swings with parries. Her own strikes landed on armor as hard and implacable as stone. The man broke his stance to stamp one of his feet down, and suddenly her footing was uncertain.

She slipped and fell. He towered over her, and raised his sword for the killing blow. Suddenly her sister smashed into him from the side. He staggered slightly, and Lynnabel rolled to the side. She couldn’t seem to maintain her footing, however, so she scrambled away as quickly as she could, taloned gauntlets digging into the slick ice.

A bolt of pain lanced through her leg as he drove his immense sword through her thigh. She screamed in pain as the blade tore through her armor, through her leg, breaking the bone, and then out the other side.

Alysia attacked, driving her swordpoint into the vulnerable gap between breastplate and armpit. The man howled, the sound muffled in his helmet. He went down on one knee, and Alysia stepped up onto the man’s calf to brace herself and shoved the blade deeper, piercing his heart.

He toppled over, and suddenly Alysia could stand upright without slipping all over the place. She approached her sister, and knew what she had to do.

“This will hurt, sister.” Alysia called, and Lynnabel nodded.

“I understand. Do it.”

Alysia gripped the sword and pulled; blood poured from Lynnabel’s leg in a gaudy splash. Alysia clamped her hand down over the top wound, and Lynnabel squeezed her hand down to her leg and sealed it on that side.

Alysia carefully unlatched the thigh-greave and pulled it away, and the both of them lay in the snow, hands clamped tightly over the wound.

“You probably will need to sleep, Lynnabel.” Alysia said.

Lynnabel groaned. “We can’t sleep in this snow, sister. We’ll freeze to death. Bind my leg... I’m afraid you’ll have to carry me back to camp.”

Alysia nodded, and after Lynnabel secured her hands over her leg, she released her own grip, and retrieved her pack. She pulled out several rolls of herb-soaked bandages and bound Lynnabel’s leg. Alysia warped the rents in Lynnabel’s greave back in on themselves, and reattached it to hold the bandages in place, picked up Lynnabel, and began the trek back to the camp.

“I wanted to be by his side for the fight.” Lynnabel mumbled against Alysia’s back.

“You won’t be able to do that, sister.” Alysia replied.

“I know, and it vexes me.” She replied.

“Of course it does. Go to sleep.” Alysia commanded, and Lynnabel closed her eyes and allowed herself to slip into the near-comatose state that would allow her body’s regenerative powers to work at their most effective level.

*****

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. The Northern Avalanche kept to no formation, but as they marched on the Seventh Seal they rapped out a beat on their heavy steel breastplates with their gauntleted fists.

Someone shouted; a spell went off, a brilliant globe of light that crawled into the sky, trailing sparkles of light, and then the war began.

The mages, who had gotten used to camping near the bombards, lifted the massive cannon with spells of levitation and then planted it in the earth, pointing it at the advancing march of the Northern Avalanche.

When a bombard was fired, everyone knew. The ground quaked, ears screamed in protest, chests struggled for air that suddenly wasn’t there... and the earth-shattering roar as the massive cannon spat hellfire and murder was impossible to ignore.

The blast washed over the Northern Avalanche in a cone of fire and death, ten thousand softball-sized stone balls shattering into deadly splinters that shredded through thick steel breastplates, tore off helms, blew off limbs, shattered swords. The heat from the blast was furious, flash-boiling everything that stood in front of the bombard and extending outwards for twelve hundred feet.

The bombards had been prepared with spells to lance out from extremely long range to hit the stone fortresses that lined Timwaite Pass.

The flames that baked off the streak of death revealed thousands more of the Northern Avalanche, closing ranks, pounding their chests in that relentless rhythm that promised inevitable death.

The air was filled with calls; more balls of light were launched into the air. The first line that hit the heavily armored half-giants was the scouts. They wore the lightest armor, they carried the small rifles Daveth had stolen from the duergar under the mountain from the Shaper’s island. The bullets clattered and sparks flecked off breastplates and helms. A few shots struck the as-yet unseen faces of the enemy and they staggered, but for every one that fell there were thousands.

The riflemen infantry were scrambling to get their kit together; the men that were on shift were on the other side of the camp.

Then the Northern Avalanche responded with their own magic.

There weren’t many reliable reports about what lay beyond the Timwaite Pass. Nauders kept a hard eye on the pass and kept things from coming through, but had rarely ventured beyond the southern end of the pass itself.

There were, however, countless reports of the baffling magic that the Northern Avalanche used. Magic users couldn’t sense it being cast. Those that felt the touch of it were revolted, nauseated, and felt as if they had been dipped in filth.

The people that could have told them what it was were over three hundred years dead- the remnant’s of a dead god’s gift to her most ardent followers.

Five thousand disparate troops that called themselves the Seventh Seal scrambled for orders, scrambled for weapons, scrambled for armor, scrambled to fall in and engage the warriors of the Northern Avalanche. File leaders shouted out formation calls even as they were cut down.

For a moment it seemed like they would be overrun, but Daveth shouted out orders, his voice cracking out across the crater. The line wavered, but held as more and more men reinforced.

The Shrine Maidens took to the edge of the berms they created every night before they went to sleep every night; a hail of arrows launched through the air. The men in charge of the scorpions racked ammunition and called out for fire lanes.

The Avalanche was as relentless as their namesake, but the Seventh Seal, the Crimson Sabers, the Outcasts, the Mazarine Battalion, each of the mercenary companies that had sworn themselves to the Seventh Seal, the Yamato Shrine Maidens that had come because Daveth had somehow mysteriously left a letter on the Shrine Priestess’ desk without her knowledge asking for help- each of them knew war. They knew how to hold the line.

Daveth called out formation changes to open fire lanes so the scorpions could fire.

Thirty scorpions fired; Not only did thirty avalanche die, but each bolt was tipped with vials of alchemist’s fire. The conflagration spread with each wave as the four-pound cannons thundered out their blasts of grapeshot.

Mages called out their own formations. Lightning prankishly leapt from one armored body to another in devastating ruthlessness. Long jets of syrupy fire splashed molten across rows after rows of breastplates.

The line wavered, the line held, the men and women of the Seventh Seal stood, the Northern Avalanche advanced.

*****

Aldric woke as Nicola wound a bandage around his head.

“Thought I was dead.”

“Nearly was.” She replied.

“How... how bad is it?” He asked.

“Most of the mages are dead.” She rolled her eyes and then added, “Again.”

“Fuck you and fuck the mages. How goes it?”

“Badly. We’re getting massacred. Daveth is dragging it out. Keeps leading everyone- and the Avalanche- to some high point or another so we get a bit of an advantage, but they’re bleeding us bad. Last report the Shrine Maidens were...”

She shook her head and then eyed him. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit, but I’ll manage. Why?”

Nicola clamped her lips shut tight. “He’s ordered the Tross to run for the pass.”

He nodded. “And?”

“The wounded are with them. You could survive, maybe.”

He felt the blood wash from his face. “The Seal... The Seal is...”

“The Seal is still cutting into the Avalanche. The Tross is making for the pass. You want to come along, you can. You’re a good captain, you’ve done right by me.”

“I just- I just have to let the Seventh Seal die.” He whispered.

He pushed himself to his feet. The world spun and slurred around him in a bleary smear.

“Any shot of magical healing?” He asked, and she shook her head and wiggled her fingers.

“I burned myself out putting your skull back together.”

His heart thundered in his chest. The bandages around his scalp were heavy and wet.

“I’ll make my stand with the Seal. Get the Tross out of here.”

Nicola nodded.

He struggled to pull his saber from his scabbard. His hand trembled and shook. He felt thirty years older than he should. He stumbled off the wagon and realized that he didn’t even realize that he’d been on a wagon in the first place.

He looked around himself. Timwaite Pass seemed so close. He could see it from here. His hand shook, and his sword dropped from nerveless fingers.

“Fuck the sword.” He drew his gun, cunningly tucked in the sleeve of his longcoat. It was ancient, a relic, cleaned and polished daily. He turned his back on the pass. His men were on the lip of a crater, shooting, slashing, cutting, dying.

Daveth, the berserker, lit up the field with a furious radiant crimson that slithered among his foes even as he tore them apart. Hundreds died in his glorious, unrepentantly savage and relentless rage.

But for every dozen that he slaughtered, more rushed in to fill the gaps.

Daveth’s rage was a sight to behold, but for all his fury, he was only slowing their advance while the tattered, bloody remnants of the Seventh Seal scrambled up the crater’s incline to give a meager advantage for the next wave.

Aldric stumbled toward them. Somehow, he found the strength to run.

An idiot thought wandered through his pounding skull.

Daveth, fresh faced, a boy of fourteen. “Why the name ‘Seventh Seal’? Did something happen to the other six?”

Invariably the new blood always asked the question, and Aldric always clapped them in the stocks for a week. That was enough to get them to stop asking. Sometimes they were persistent, like Jonan. Those got latrine duty.

A mountain of a man in heavy plate presented his back to him. An unbelievably easy target. Aldric shoved his gun into the gap between the man’s helmet and his breastplate and pulled the trigger.

The Avalanche man fell. The world swam and blood ran down Aldric’s face.

A gigantic man turned to face Aldric; Aldric favored him with a bloody grin and shot him in the face.

That was it; his gun was spent. He reached for his sword, forgetting that he’d dropped it. A giant loomed over him, he laughed and spat blood in their face.

How could he tell anyone he’d chosen the name because it sounded cool?