It had been several weeks since they’d planted in front of Tannit.

Seralla was studying with Nicola. She studied magic with the woman every day.

It turned out that while she was barely literate in Anglish- and her grasp of the written word was shaky at best- she had zero understanding of the tradespeak of the Merchant Cities, which was a mix of bastardized Nauders and Anglish common, so Nicola by virtue of being the only other person that Seralla knew intimately enough to ask, was schooling her on the tomes she’d been able to buy from the Tower of Secrets.

“So that’s it.” Nicola demonstrated what they’d just read, and a swirl of green sparks spiraled above her palm for a second. “It’s meant to be used in a cultivated field, so the effect would be larger, but you get the idea, right?”

The elf nodded. “Nicola?”

The Taller woman eyed the elf. The woman was ostensibly older than Nicola herself, nearly twice her age, but she was a flighty sort of thing, more likely to cringe than show teeth. That sort of thing upset Nicola, because her own mother was a fierce woman, bold and quick to give anyone the lash of her tongue- including her father.

Seralla, who was as old as Nicola’s mother, was meek and sort of trembly.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like the elf, it was just... she couldn’t understand what sort of circumstances could birth someone who frightened so easily. At everything.

“What is it, Seralla?” Nicola answered. She’d learned to moderate her voice around the woman. She was used to dealing with soldiers, used to arguing, used to shouting if necessary to get her point across, but all of that- none of that was good for Seralla, who would just go to pieces like a pile of straw in a stiff breeze.

“Why are your eyes so hard?”

She had no idea what the elf meant. Unless...

She got up and moved a few things around the medical tent, then stepped outside and brought in a few crates.

“I’m going to call someone in here and have them fix the place up. You just sit there and do nothing.” Nicola explained. Seralla nodded.

Nicola stepped out of the tent. “Hey Morden! Get your ass over here a sec!”

“What is it, Nicola?” A voice called back to the chocolate-skinned woman.

“You got a pair of arms I can borrow for half a minute? The dickholes from the Tross that set up my tent made a little mess of things. Seriously though, it’s just two crates.”

Morden’s reply was reasonable. “I don’t mind. You’ve patched me up enough times to deserve a pair of arms.”

Morden entered the tent and Seralla stiffened. The man radiated menace and violence like a thick cloud. He had greasy black hair, an oily beard, a sinister grin- and his eyes were cold and hard. Looking into his eyes was like staring into the Void of Oblivion itself. Seralla’s throat closed up and all the muscles in her body clenched up as she struggled to breathe. Adrenaline dumped into her bloodstream and she wanted to scream. If death had a face, surely this was what it would look like.

Morden obligingly moved the crates back out of the tent and placed them outside as Nicola directed.

Nicola entered the tent and caught sight of Seralla’s face.

“That bad, huh?” Nicola offered. She raked her hair back with her fingers and gave the elf a lopsided smile that never quite reached her eyes.

“You know, Morden looks like a proper villain out of a storybook, but he’s really quite harmless.” Nicola tried to reassure the elven woman.

Seralla shook her head in denial. The man was death incarnate.

“Hmm.” Nicola muttered. “I’ve heard of cases like this. Altus- my old master- told me of special abilities like this. The thing is, if you had those abilities, you shouldn’t be able to cast traditional magic.” She muttered, pacing around the room.

“Ah. Maybe it’s because of that.” She muttered cryptically. “That left its scars on all of us, after all. I don’t think...” She trailed off, but then shook her head briskly, as if to clear it. “Next phase of the experiment. Lay down in that bed there. Don’t need you freaking out like last time.”

Seralla obliged the stone-faced woman and lay down on the simple cot. In truth, it felt better to lay down; she finally felt like she was able to breathe.

Nicola went over to one of the other cots and stamped down on one of the wooden rails, causing it to snap like kindling.

Nicola cursed and muttered something about a giant bastard making her life more difficult than necessary.

Nicola stepped out of the tent again. “Gerald! Hey Gerald!”

Seralla could hear someone trotting over; the creak of leather. Likely a man, and human too.

“...Nicola, right? You’re a healer?” He asked curiously.

“Right. I’m the one that’ll put your guts back inside you when they get blown out your asshole. Also, if you happen to have picked up any of the usual dockside itches, I can cure those too, so don’t be shy if you start getting rashes or warts in places you’d rather not talk about.”

He chuckled. “That’s actually why I try to avoid those places.”

“You shave your head?” She asked.

“Yeah. when you’re on the front lines, it keeps the other guy from grabbing a handful, right?”

“A shame. I like having a good head of hair to grab onto when I’m fighting.” She replied suggestively.

“I- uh.. Wow. So... did you need something?”

“Yeah. Some donkey-brain left my crates of potions outside the medical tent, where anyone could help themselves. Also, that giant bastard broke one of my cots. You mind breaking it down for firewood? I’ll go ask the quartermaster for a replacement later. He knows why.”

The man moved around to where Morden had moved the crates. “Both of these?” He asked helpfully.

“If you don’t mind. Just bring them in and set them by the desk. One is bandages and some of the tools I need when I do surgery, the others are potions, salves and the like. It’s good to have them on hand when the wounded come in.”

Gerald brought them in, and Seralla immediately squinched her eyes shut. His voice had sounded jovial, casual, and helpful, but his eyes were cold and hard. He moved like a mountain cat stalking its prey, with murderous grace and deadly intent.

He casually set the crates down by Nicola’s desk, and then glanced around the tent curiously. His eyes passed over Seralla curiously, causing her to flinch.

Nicola entered the tent, absently slapping dust from her robes.

“Hey, what’s the matter with her?”

“She’s a civilian. She got caught in the middle of a fight and took a hex meant for someone else. She’s constantly terrified out of her mind. I’m working to break it, but it’ll take some time.”

“Huh.” He muttered, and then shrugged. “You said something about a cot?”

“You know the giant bastard?” Nicola asked curiously.

He chuckled, and Seralla shivered. It was like hearing a snake chuckle, all slithery and malignant.

“Daveth? He’s famous. He killed four warbands of the Carrion Crows single-handedly.” he murmured with a touch of reverence and awe in his voice. “Over two hundred men! Can you imagine?”

Nicola’s voice was dry. “I don’t have to imagine. I was the one that patched him up when it was over.”

Gerald’s eyes widened, and he regarded her with an appreciative look that was both respectful and a little starstruck.

“You see the splotch on the wall of the towers of Tannit?”

Gerald shook his head. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Go outside, look at the closest tower facing this side of the river. Look for a darker patch- about sixty feet from the top of the parapet- and then come back here.”

Gerald obliged; stepping out of the tent. Seralla could hear him walking away.

“So?” Nicola asked curiously.

“He’s the same as the others.” Seralla replied quietly.

“Lay back down; Gerald’s coming back.” Nicola instructed.

Gerald came back as Nicola said he would.

“I spotted what you mentioned, but I have no idea why it’s important.”

Nicola barked a laugh like a handful of rocks clattering against each other.

“Daveth threw one of the Carrion Crows so hard ... that’s where he landed.”

Gerald gasped, and then suddenly his face relaxed and he grinned. “I get it. I get it. It’s a story you tell the new recruits to put fear in them. Nobody could do that.”

Nicola laughed again. It really was an unbelievable story. Aldric had to pay a hefty fine to Tannit as a result of Daveth’s berserker rage, though.

“You saw right through me. Anyway, Daveth broke the cot the last time he was in here. If you don’t mind, would you haul it over to the quartermaster for firewood? I’ll talk to the man later about getting a replacement.”

Gerald eyed the broken cot and shrugged. “Not a problem. If you like, I can ask the quartermaster for you.” His voice dropped. “You know, just in case you need the cot real quick-like.”

She laughed. “I have a bedroll for that. And grow your hair out.”

He chuckled again. “I can’t grow it that fast.”

Her voice dropped. “I have a spell that will. I’m also good at making other things grow fast, too.”

“Oh boy.” He chuckled, and leaned forward.

“No, no, no. I’ve got a patient here. My tent, later.”

He coughed a few times. “Right, right. I, uh, lost track of myself there for a moment.” He muttered, and then looked up.

“But later, then?”

She nodded.

He left grinning from ear to ear, but as far as Seralla could tell, the smile never quite reached his eyes.

Nicola smiled, perhaps thinking about her night’s adventures, but turned to Seralla, who was sitting up in the cot. Even though Nicola’s smile was a little warm and looked somewhat anticipatory, her eyes were as cold as a frozen stone.

“Same with him?” She asked Seralla, who nodded.

“You’ve never seen this before?” Nicola prompted.

Seralla shook her head vigorously.

Nicola raised an eyebrow at this. “I think I get it, but I’ll ask to be sure: You’ve never been around an army before?”

“Well, there’s the militia, and the Forest Wardens, of course-”

Olivia waved her hand, cutting the elf woman off in mid-sentence. “Militia are useless. I bet you probably knew them too, right? Neighbors, friends of the family? Everyone doing their turn to make sure the local drunk doesn’t throw up in the mayor’s flowerbed, that sort of thing?”

Seralla blinked. Nicola’s description of the militia was spot-on, as if she’d lived in Apopka herself, but... her casual contempt for them was... indescribable. They were... nothing... to her.

“Well, sort of... yeah.” She replied.

“I’m betting that not a single one of them have had to kill someone else, right? To draw the line and stand on it and say ‘no further’?”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Well, they hunt...” Seralla offered, but she knew that wasn’t what Nicola meant.

Nicola let out a sigh. “Seralla, the rumor is that we’re going to be heading up north to do a spot of killing.” She offered in a low, gentle voice. “Even if we weren’t heading north... we’re mercenaries.” She pressed her lips together. There was no way to put a kind spin on things; Seralla had to know what she was getting into before she found herself in it up to her tits.”Mercenaries are soldiers. We’re killers. For money.” She paused a little, to give Seralla a moment to take that in. “I’m happy to teach you what magic I can. I’ll give you my books- I don’t need them anymore. I think ... someone like you, someone that doesn’t know war, I think you should quietly head home when we march.”

Seralla pressed her lips together. “I ... think I’ll talk to Daveth.” She mumbled in a rush as she hurried out of Nicola’s tent.

*****

The Quartermaster was a hard-eyed, grizzled old man with watery blue eyes and a savage V-shaped scar on his cheek, but he directed her to the food stores and told her which needed to be frozen, and which needed to be chilled. Her daily practice with Nicola had paid off. She was beginning to think she might be able to come up with a magical stone of some kind that would either chill or freeze things, depending on usage.

She never would have thought herself capable of such things in the past, but they came so much easier to her now. Maybe she was getting stronger, like Nicola? If she kept at it, like Nicola, would she eventually be as strong as her one day?

Some soldiers nearby were talking in their coarse, brutish voices. She’d always made it a point to avoid listening to them before, but...

“Nauders, huh. I hear they’re a tough nut to crack.”

“Idiot. We’re not going to crack Nauders. I heard it from our file leader herself- we’re marching to protect Nauders.”

“Protect them from what?”

“The Anglish, maybe? I’ve heard that’s why we’ve got so many new recruits. The Empire is showing its teeth.”

“I heard that Nauders is ruled by albino witches.”

“I heard your mom fucked for free.”

“Fuck you, man, it’s what I heard.”

“All right, if it’s what you’ve heard, then what’s an albino?”

“I- I- i-” He spluttered. “I don’t fuckin’ know! It’s just what I heard! Stop giving me shit about it!”

The voices laughed as they moved off into the darkness of night.

Seralla knew where Daveth’s tent was. She’d visited him every night. They’d make love, he’d listen to her day, and they’d fall asleep together. Some evenings, she was able to leave the Tross early enough to bring him food.

He was likely asleep at this hour, but she’d share his bed with him, at least.

She unlatched his tent flap and stepped inside, and a savage wave of indiscriminate malevolence buffeted her as if she’d stood in a gale. It was hot and furious and froze her heart in her chest and the marrow in her bones. Her eyes met his, and she realized for the first time she’d never really looked into his eyes, really looked, in the weeks she’d known him.

Whatever dormant lethality simmered in the hearts of the soldiers that terrified her, it boiled like a tempestuous cauldron in him... and his eyes, his eyes were so bleak and dead it was like staring into the eyes of a corpse that had been laid in his grave.

“Oh. Seralla.” He mumbled, and stuffed a sword under his pillow.

Had he been- Had she been sleeping with that thing inches from her face all this time?

She shakily disrobed and climbed into his bedroll. He mumbled something in a language she wasn’t familiar with and was asleep in seconds. She didn’t think she could sleep with a sword so close to her face, but at some point, she drifted off.

A woman with cold, imperiously regal beauty and strange clothes strode up and down a long wooden table. Her ears were long and pointed, but not like an elf. Sprouting from her temples and arcing straight back along her skull were two curving antlers with sharpened points. Her temples were painted with some glittery green stuff that ran in straight lines down to the sides of her cheekbones.

“Tristan.” She called, and her mouth was full of fangs.

A gigantic man nearly twice the woman’s height appeared. His skin was brilliantly red and scrawled with black lines; his face was obscured in shadow.

The imperious woman closed her eyes and lowered her head briefly, minutely, respectfully, to the giant.

“I know you mourn her loss. We all do. She was-”

“She was all the light in the world.” The man growled.

The woman nodded. “That she was, and more.” she offered in a gentle voice.

“You don’t understand.” The giant sneered disdainfully. Contemptuously.

“...no. No, I suppose I don’t.” She decided. “But these fools think their crime won’t go unrewarded. I need the Marauder to teach them the Justice of the Dragon... and the true meaning of fear.”

The giant chuckled darkly. “They do not have a prayer.”

Suddenly, the dream shifted, and a naked elven girl lay in the dirt next to a fallen log, gripping her bone-white hair with both hands as streams and ribbons of flame poured out of her. She opened her eyes and saw, really saw Seralla. She spat a baffled curse and screamed as more and more fire seemed to pour from out of her. “What sort of nightmare is this? Zaniyah, help me!”

A woman- no, a girl in strange dress brought a sword up in an obviously formal posture as she took her stance. “I will overcome!” She growled, and launched herself towards Seralla, blade unerringly aiming for her heart.

Seralla opened her eyes and struggled to catch her breath. She reached back for Daveth, but the bed was empty behind her.

She dressed quickly and stepped out of the tent, averting her gaze to the inevitable wave of knowing chuckles that would usually greet her emergence.

Instead, a soldier in red-stained leather approached her.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good. I don’t mean to be disrespectful or anything, but we’re on the move, so we need to break down the tent.”

His eyes were as cold as the rest of them. She finally understood it, in her heart. They were killers. They were dreaded, merciless killers that were dancing around in the skins of people, laughing and joking as they waited for another chance to work their craft.

*****

Aldric waved Daveth over, and the giant obliged him, urging his massive horse over to Aldric’s smaller bay.

“Got a word.” The captain called. “Someone in the Tross wants to talk to you. Ride back there and have it, but make it quick.”

Daveth packed his tobacco into his new pipe with a thumb while urging his mount to slow down with his feet. He lit his pipe as the ranks of soldiers passed him, many of the Crimson Sabers still in their old gear.

When had the Seventh Seal been filled with so many strangers?

As he passed by, Alysia glared at him with boiling hate. When he’d went on leave it seemed as if she’d been wanting to go with him, but ever since he’d come back it was clear she wanted nothing to do with him. Lynnabel merely glanced at him and shook her head as if in disappointment.

What was that supposed to mean?

He first swung by the lead wagon of the Tross, but the grizzled man shook his head and jerked his thumb back towards the wagons that trailed after.

Gradually, Daveth fell further and further back until he rode with the little house-on-wheels wagons that were used by the prostitutes. Two elf women waved at him cheerily. He rode over toward them, feeling some species of exhaustion and dread settle over him.

It wasn’t often, but conflicts among the camp followers that couldn’t be handled by the quartermaster could in theory be brought to either Aldric or himself.

He drew up alongside the wagon as he puffed on his pipe. He doubted he’d find more tobacco when they hit Landeck.

“Hiii~” One of the elven women greeted him. What was her name again? Eileen?

“Eilua, you shouldn’t act so familiar.” The other elven woman admonished her companion.

“Eilua and... “ Daveth trailed off.

“Maifel.” The other offered.

“Sure.” Daveth agreed indifferently. “What do you want?”

Eilua smiled warmly. “We’re cold. Can you warm us up?”

Daveth sighed and gigged his horse to speed up.

“Waitwaitwait!” Maifel called. “Eilua’s ... got a sense of humor in all the wrong places.” she offered apologetically.

Daveth gestured with his pipe and repeated himself. “What do you want?”

“We think you’ve made a mistake.” Eilua began, and glanced at Maifel, who shrugged and nodded.

“A mistake.” He stated. They nodded.

“I make a lot of them. Which one is it?” He asked.

“We were wondering if you knew what you were getting into with Seralla.” Maifel asked.

“I don’t think he does.”

“Well, neither do I, that’s why we called him down here.” They bantered back and forth.

“You gonna tell me?” He asked.

Eilua’s mouth twisted, and Maifel looked at her, and let out a sigh.

“What do you know about elves?” Eilua asked, and Daveth shrugged in response.

“There’s basically two types of elves.” Mafiel started.

“Maifel, that’s wrong. There’s lots of different types of elves.” Eilua countered.

“Yes, there’s lots of different types of elves, but he needs to know about those types.”

“Yes, yes. Those types.” They bantered again, and then looked to him expectantly.

He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He puffed on his pipe again.

“He doesn’t know.”

“Of course he doesn’t know. He just said so, right?”

“I thought he might, because he was with Audra for so long, he might’ve figured it out.”

Their banter was becoming increasingly tiresome and he let out a sigh in the hopes they’d get to the point.

“Ah. You pissed him off.” One of them noticed. He’d forgotten who was who already.

“Okay, Commander, listen up. This is an ancient elven secret we’re telling you.”

The other one immediately disappeared inside and he could hear peals of laughter coming from inside the wagon.

Eventually she returned, and slapped the other elf on the back of her head.

“Don’t waste the Commander’s time.”

“He needs to know, doesn’t he?”

“He does need to know, but seriously? ‘Ancient elven secrets’? Please. Don’t waste his time.”

Daveth rubbed his face. “Please don’t waste my time.” He begged tiredly.

“There’s basically two types of elves. The wandering kind, and the nesting kind.”

Daveth frowned at them. That didn’t make any sense at all, though he did seem to recall Audra saying that her wanderlust had driven her from her village and to seek out the Seventh Seal.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” He replied.

“It doesn’t, does it?” One replied tiredly.

“It completely doesn’t.”

“But it’s true, right?”

“Maybe. Some want to wander, and some don’t.”

“Which is why we brought you here.” one of the elves pointed at Daveth.

“I sincerely hope there’s going to be a point sometime soon?” He begged.

“Wandering elves like me, can’t stay still. We like to travel around. What’s the next city like? What’s over that mountain?”

“You do seem to wander from bed to bed.”

“I see you on your back as much as me.”

The other elf sighed and rolled her eyes. “Nesting elves don’t like to travel as much as the wandering kind. We’ll travel if we have to, but really, when you think about it, One place is good as any other, right? Might as well settle down.”

Daveth bore this all stoically and hoped that they’d get to the point. He also wondered if they were having fun at his expense. None of this made any sense to him.

“Seralla’s definitely a nesting-type.” The elf that claimed to be a ‘nesting’ elf declared.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked.

“It means, she’s not looking to stay with the Seventh Seal, surrounded by soldiers. She wants a nest. She wants a home.” The nesting elf declared. “And if you think about it, what does a nest need? What does a home need?”

“Warmth.”

“Food.”

“A bed.”

“A man.”

“Children.”

The two elves bantered back and forth, and then they both looked at Daveth significantly with near-identical arched eyebrows.

“You’re saying she wants a home... with me.” Daveth stated. The two elven whores nodded in sync.

“You said you’re a nesting elf. What’re you doing here?” Daveth rebutted.

The girl laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? The Seventh Seal is my nest. I have a warm bed, plenty of company, and like I said, one place looks the same as any, right?” She stopped, and shrugged. “Well, it’s what I’d like to say, but there’s this little farm near Begierde that I’ve had my eye on for a while... I just need the money.”

The other elf rolled her eyes at this. “A farm.” she muttered disdainfully. “The point is, we didn’t think you knew about that. She definitely wants to find a place to settle down. The fact that she’s a mage doesn’t seem to mean much to her. She knows herbs, right? She definitely wants to settle down in a town with a house and a big strong man and raise lots of kids.”

The other elf nodded. “You need to think about either retiring... or breaking her heart. She joined up for you, you know.”

“Fuck.” Daveth complained, and rubbed his face with his hand.

“Told you he wouldn’t like it.”

“He had to be told though, right?”

“You two done gossiping?” Daveth asked, and stuck his pipe back between his teeth.

They nodded in concert again.

“Thanks for the tip.” He replied, and ticked a little salute with his finger and rode back to the front of the column.

Aldric shot him a glance as he took his place.

“Well? What was it? A dispute?”

Daveth shook his head. “Elves.”

Aldric and Malacath gave him puzzled looks, but he waved them off.

*****

The massive bulk of the Seventh Seal lurched north with hungry eyes and thirsty steel towards Nauders. A man- or woman- on horseback could ride from Tannit to Landeck in a matter of a week, but the army took a month and a half.

She was brought before the Captain when she was found sicking up her breakfast on the side of the road. He passed her two small pouches bulging with coins.

“A pregnant woman doesn’t belong on the battlefield.” He stated flatly. There was a certain melancholic kindness to his voice. “The horse is yours.” He slid a smaller, third pouch of coins across the table to her. “That’s from Nicola.” He snorted. “As if she thought I wouldn’t give you enough coin to see you home.”

He gestured at the tent flap. “Good luck.”

She made it back to Apopka without trouble, and even though she was pregnant with another man’s child, she managed to land a husband who was kind and gentle.

Twenty-two years later, at the wedding of her restless half-elven son, Seralla wondered for the first time what had become of the Seventh Seal, and Daveth, the man who had saved her from a meaningless death at the hands of a dozen Landeck toughs.

When she parted from the Seventh Seal and started making her way back to Apopka, she’d hoped that he would have come with her, but she never saw him, or the Seventh Seal, again.