The descent down the ramp was an avalanche of iron and hate. Thorgard and the Ironbreakers formed the wedge, gromril shields locked so tight they seemed like a single moving wall. At the tip of the spear, there was no dwarf, but Geneviève. Her black armor was the only dark spot in that sea of glittering metal and blue runes.
The impact with the Skaven line was devastating. The Clanrats in the front line, armed with rusty spears, shattered against the charging mass of dwarves like waves against a cliff. Bones snapped, rotten wooden shields splintered. Geneviève did not strike at random. The discipline acquired in the Granite Gym guided her every movement. Parry, step, thrust. Pommel to the snout, cut to the throat, shove. She wasted not an ounce of energy. Where before she used desperate fury, now she used the geometry of death. Her heavy sword seemed weightless, an extension of her arm tracing lethal arcs, carving a path through the carnage.
Above the screams and the clangor, the Screaming Bell continued to ring. BONG. BONG. BONG. Every toll was a physical blow. Geneviève felt her teeth vibrating in her gums. She saw veteran dwarves, who had withstood everything, clutch their hands to their helms, bleeding from their ears, eyes wide with the magical terror the bell radiated. The structure of the cavern began to groan. Stalactites as big as houses detached from the vault, plummeting onto the crowd below, crushing rats and dwarves indiscriminately.
"It's bringing down the mountain!" yelled Thorgard, his hoarse voice choked by the din. A shot from a Jezzail (Skaven sniper rifle) hit him in the shoulder, sending sparks flying from his runic armor. The Captain staggered, but did not fall.
Geneviève looked ahead. They were still a hundred meters from the Bell. A sea of fur divided them from the objective. And a Grey Seer, a horned Skaven sorcerer, stood atop the infernal machine, laughing maniacally as he summoned green lightning that incinerated the ranks of the dwarves.
A miracle was needed. Or an act of madness. Geneviève closed her eyes for a second, isolating herself in her sanctuary of metal. She felt the reserve of divine power in her blood. It was full. She whispered a prayer, not to ask for help, but to ask her body not to explode.
"Divine Favor." A golden light wrapped her sword and gauntlets. It was not the cold white light of rage; it was a warm, solid, heavy light. Her physical strength and supernatural precision fused.
"OPEN THE BREACH!" ordered Geneviève, her voice amplified by magic. Thorgard understood. "Shield wall! Open V-formation!" The Ironbreakers separated violently, creating a momentary corridor. Geneviève sprinted.
She did not run on the floor. She ran over the enemies. She jumped onto the shield of a kneeling dwarf, using it as a springboard. She landed on the shoulders of a Rat Ogre trying to grab her. With an armored roll, she slid down the monster's back, severing the tendons of its legs as she passed. She was a holy projectile aimed straight at the heart of the infection.
The Grey Seer saw her. "Kill-kill the metal-thing!" he shrieked, pointing a clawed finger. A bolt of Warp lightning crackled through the air, an arc of sickly green energy directed at Geneviève's chest.
Geneviève could not dodge it. She raised her sword. The blade, blessed by faith and dwarf steel, intercepted the lightning. The impact was blinding. Magical energy sizzled along the sword, trying to cook Geneviève's hands inside her gauntlets. She gritted her teeth, smelling ozone and her own scorching skin. Hold. With a scream of effort, she deflected the lightning downward, grounding it. The rock floor exploded.
Using the smoke of the explosion, Geneviève emerged at the foot of the Bell's platform. The machine was pulled by a horde of slave rats and defended by elite Stormvermin with halberds.
Geneviève did not fight them. She activated her ultimate ability for that moment. She raised her free left hand, palm open toward the dark creatures. Turn Undead / Banish Evil. A shockwave of pure divine authority exploded from her. For cowardly creatures like Skaven, that light was not just pain; it was the absolute certainty of defeat. Primal terror assailed them. The Stormvermin, the elite of the army, threw down their weapons and covered their eyes, squealing, trying to escape the light that burned their retinas accustomed to the dark.
Geneviève was alone before the Bell. The Grey Seer, terrified, was preparing another spell, but he was too slow. Geneviève did not aim at the sorcerer. She aimed at the chain holding the Bell's clapper. Or rather, she aimed at the Bell itself, made of corrupted bronze and Warpstone.
She gripped the sword with both hands. She charged every gram of strength, every lesson from Thorgard, every prayer from the Damsel.
"SILENCE!"
The blade came down. It struck the rim of the Bell as it swung toward her. The sound that followed was not a toll. It was the shriek of the universe tearing apart. Geneviève's sword, the indestructible masterpiece of two races, bit into the magical bronze. Divine light penetrated the crack. The Bell exploded.
Not into pieces of metal, but into a sonic shockwave. The Grey Seer was vaporized by the explosion of his own machine. The platform disintegrated. Geneviève was hurled backward like a rag doll, flying ten meters before smashing against a rock wall.
She fell to the ground, stunned, blood running from her nose and ears. The world was spinning. But there was one wonderful thing: silence. No more tolling. No more madness.
The Skaven, seeing their idol destroyed and their prophet dead, broke immediately. Rat courage is tied to success; in the face of failure, they become a stampede waiting to be trampled.
"KHAZUKAN!" thundered the dwarves, charging the fleeing enemies, turning the battle into a massacre.
Geneviève tried to get up, but her legs did not respond. She slid into a sitting position against the rock, sword still clutched in her hand, the blade smoking but intact. Thorgard arrived shortly after. He was limping, his armor dented and covered in black blood, but he was alive. He stopped in front of her. He looked at the smoking remains of the Bell. He looked at the half-dead human girl who had brought it down.
The Captain took off his helm. He knelt, not to help her, but to look her in the eyes on the same level. "You broke the bell," he said, panting.
Geneviève lifted her visor with a trembling hand. She smiled, a smile stained with blood and soot. "It was too loud. I couldn't think."
Thorgard burst out laughing, a deep laugh that turned into a painful cough. "Aye. Too loud." The dwarf put a hand on her shoulder. "Today you saved the hold, Geneviève. Not as a guest. Not as an ally." He struck his chest. "As a Stonehammer. When we go back up, I will have your name carved into the Book of Grudges... in the column of those who have been avenged."
It was the supreme honor. To be written into the history of the Dawi. Geneviève closed her eyes, letting the adrenaline fade, replaced by pain and a deep peace. She had found a family in the stone. But she knew, as the darkness of exhaustion welcomed her, that soon she would have to leave them. The north was still calling. And now that the Bell was silent, she could hear that call again.