The water had receded, leaving behind a plain of dark mud, dying fish, and scattered bones. But what would have been a quagmire for an infantryman was, for the heavy cavalry of Bretonnia, a red carpet laid out on the road to war.
When Duke Tancred reached the destroyed dam, he found Geneviève sitting on a collapsed block of stone. She was no longer panting. She was motionless, with Vesper's Light resting on her knees. Around her, the air seemed to vibrate.
Tancred dismounted, his fine leather boots sinking into the slime without him caring. "Sir Gilles," said the Duke, looking at the destruction that a single "man" (and three hundred brave souls) had caused. "You have opened the gates of Hell for us."
Geneviève looked up. Through the slit of her visor, her grey eyes were not tired. They were... different. The superhuman effort of destroying the gear, the channeling required to shatter the magical cast iron, had broken the last seal inside her. She felt everything. She felt Tancred's heartbeat five meters away. She felt the infinitesimal vibration of the steel molecules in her sword. She no longer needed to "prepare" a strike. She was the strike. Her blade was now infused with such power that it could cut not only flesh and steel, but magic itself.
"The door is open, Duke," replied Geneviève. Her gravel voice was calm, terribly calm. "But the master of the house is waiting for us."
The Marquis of Bastonne arrived at a gallop, his horse covered in blue and gold barding. He looked at the remains of the skeletal garrison swept away. He looked at the emptied lake. Then he looked at Geneviève. There was no longer mockery in his gaze. There was awe, the kind one feels before a natural catastrophe. "You were right, Knight," admitted the Marquis, lowering his lance in salute. "The ground is solid. My cavalry can charge. I owe you an apology... and an ale."
Geneviève stood up. The movement was so fluid it seemed gravity had ceased to act on her. "Save the ale for later, Marquis. And keep your lance straight. What is down there won't die of fright."
The allied army, three thousand lances and five thousand infantry strong, advanced past the dam, entering the vast plain surrounding the city of Mousillon proper. And there, the world ended.
Before them, deployed in defense of the black and decaying walls of the Cursed City, was the Army of Darkness. These were not the patrols they had faced on the Toad's Path. It was the army of a King. Mallobaude the Serpent had emptied every crypt, every barrow, every mass grave from here to L'Anguille.
Geneviève, riding once again in the front line beside Tancred, observed the enemy formation with her new enhanced sight. She saw infinite regiments of skeletons disappearing into the fog. She saw Vargheists (bestial winged vampires) perched on ruins like living gargoyles, ready to swoop from the sky. She saw constructs of bone and flesh, Varghulfs, growling while held back by chains. And in the center, under a black banner depicting a golden but skeletal dragon, was the Black Guard. Hundreds of Blood Knights.
But what froze the blood in the veins of the Bretonnian soldiers were not the monsters. It was the silence. Ten thousand enemies, and not a breath. Not a cough. Not a neigh. Only the wind whistling through empty ribs.
A solitary figure rode out from the enemy ranks, mounted on a Nightmare (an undead horse with flaming hooves). He wore full black armor, baroque and terrible, and wielded a sword pulsing with corrupt light. He had no helm. His face was pale, beautiful, and cruel, framed by hair black as a raven's wing.
Mallobaude. The bastard son. The pretender to the throne.
He stopped halfway between the two armies. He smiled. And his smile was visible to all, like a wound in the sky.
"Welcome home, cousins!" shouted Mallobaude. His voice was not human; it was the sound of a hundred graves opening. "Have you come to bow to the true King? Or have you come to join my eternal army?"
Tancred of Quenelles drew his sword, the Blade of Couronne. "We have come to clean up the mud, traitor!"
On the other side, the Marquis of Bastonne lowered his visor. Sir Baldrick spat out his last piece of tobacco. Tristan kissed his medallion of the Lady.
Geneviève said nothing. She felt the Ki flowing through her body like a flooding river. Her Gromril armor no longer weighed anything. The sword Vesper's Light burned with impatience. She knew this battle would not be decided by tactics. It would be decided when she crossed blades with Mallobaude.
The wind ceased. The banners drooped. For an infinite second, the world held its breath. Two oceans of metal—one alive and colorful, the other dead and rusty—were about to collide.
Then, Geneviève did something no one expected. She gave a sharp tap of her heels to Duraz. The dwarf horse took one step forward.
Clang.
A single step. A metallic sound in the absolute silence. It was the challenge.
Mallobaude stopped smiling. He raised his black sword toward the sky.
"KILL THEM ALL."
And thunder exploded.