For three days, the world lost its colors. The Cursed Marshes were not simply wet; they were a hostile organism. The fog never lifted above knee height, hiding deep holes capable of swallowing a whole man and roots that looked like the fingers of drowned witches.
The journey was a logistical nightmare. The old Imperial causeway had collapsed in many places, forcing them to ford black, oily waters. Duraz, the dwarf destrier, proved invaluable. Where a normal horse would have panicked or broken a leg, Duraz advanced with the stubbornness of an armored mule, probing the ground with his front hooves before shifting his weight.
Alonzo de Rocca suffered for everyone. "These boots were calfskin from Magritta," he complained on the third day, looking at the grey mud reaching his calves. "They cost as much as a house in this damned country. And now look at them. They look like the face of that dwarf, Korgan."
Geneviève rode in front, eyes scanning the fog. "Mud washes off, Alonzo," replied her gravel voice, without turning. "Death doesn't. Save your breath for when you have to run."
Alonzo laughed, a short, nervous laugh. "Are you always this cheerful, Gilles? Or is the armor pinching you? You know, in Estalia we say a man who doesn't laugh at the sun ends up screaming at the moon."
"There is no sun here," Geneviève cut him short.
Behind them, The Silent One walked. He was the thing that unsettled Geneviève the most. He did not ride. He walked on foot, keeping pace with the horses effortlessly. And, even more absurdly, his boots did not seem to sink into the mud as much as they should. He moved with an unnatural lightness, like a water strider. He didn't speak. He didn't drink. He didn't complain about the thumb-sized insects buzzing around their heads. Every time Geneviève turned, the white porcelain mask was there, fixed on her, as if recording her every movement.
The attack came at twilight, the worst moment, when the light tricks the eyes. They were crossing a grove of dead weeping willows. From the putrid water, without warning, emerged hunched, pale forms. Crypt Ghouls. There were about twenty of them. Humans regressed to a bestial state from eating the flesh of the dead, with long claws filthy with paralyzing poison. They didn't scream; they hissed.
"Curse it!" shouted Alonzo, pulling the reins of his horse which was shying in terror. A Ghoul jumped onto the rump of the Estalian's horse, trying to bite Alonzo's neck.
Geneviève did not hesitate. She dismounted Duraz with a heavy jump, landing in the shallow water with a SPLASH that sounded like an explosion.
"To me!" she roared, banging her sword against her breastplate where the new crest shone. The metallic sound drew the pack's attention.
Five Ghouls threw themselves at her simultaneously. Geneviève didn't raise a shield she didn't have. She began to dance. Her two-handed sword became a vortex. High parry, descending cut. The first Ghoul was split in two from shoulder to hip. Rotation, pommel strike. The second received the steel of the pommel full in the face, skull caving in with a wet sound. Fluid deflection. The third tried to claw her legs, but Geneviève used the flat of the blade to deflect the claw and, using the momentum, decapitated the fourth.
It was brutal poetry. There was no anger in her movements, only terrifying efficiency.
On the other side, Alonzo fought with a completely different style. His rapier was a flash of silver. "Hah! Touched! And again!" he shouted, as he pierced throats and eyes with precise thrusts. He fought with a smile, turning fear into a spectacle. But there were too many. A Ghoul managed to grab his cloak, dragging him off his horse. "Gilles!" yelled Alonzo, falling into the mud.
Geneviève turned to run to his aid, but she was blocked by three other monsters. It was then that The Silent One moved. He didn't draw a sword. From the sleeves of his tunic slid two thin chains with lead weights at the ends. He moved like smoke. The chains snapped through the air. The weights hit the temples of the Ghouls standing over Alonzo with mathematical precision. CRACK. CRACK. Two heads caved in a second. The Silent One didn't stop. He spun, and a hidden blade in his boot snapped out, cutting the throat of the last monster with a roundhouse kick. All in absolute silence.
That night, they camped on an islet of dry rock. No one dared to truly sleep. Geneviève lit a fire using wood she had brought from Marienburg (the swamp wood was too wet), creating a small bubble of light and warmth in the infinite dark.
Alonzo was shaken. He had a scratch on his cheek and his fine clothes were ruined, but he was alive. He was drinking heavily from his wineskin. The Silent One sat on a fallen log, ten meters from the fire, motionless, mask facing the darkness.
"That... thing isn't human," whispered Alonzo, leaning toward Geneviève and nodding at the observer. "Did you see how he moves? I've duelled elves who were slower."
Geneviève was cleaning her sword with the consecrated oil. The scent of frankincense slightly covered the smell of carrion. "He is a weapon, Alonzo. Just like us. Only he doesn't have a scabbard."
Alonzo took a long swig of wine and passed it to Geneviève. She hesitated. She couldn't drink through the helm. And she didn't want to remove it in front of The Silent One. Alonzo understood. Or rather, misunderstood. "Ah, the vow. Right. Damn it, Gilles, you must be the saddest man in the Empire. No wine, no women, no face."
The Estalian looked at the fire, his usually cheerful face now melancholic. "Do you know why I'm here, Gilles? I'm the fourth son of a Count of Bilbali. My father gave me a sword, a horse, and a kick in the ass. 'Make a name for yourself,' he told me. All I've done is collect scars and debts." He laughed bitterly. "You fight like you have something to atone for. I fight because I don't know how to do anything else. Tell me... that beast you killed in the Drakwald... did you feel anything? Or was it just another day at work?"
Geneviève stopped cleaning the blade. She looked at Alonzo through the visor. Under the iron mask, her eyes were tired. She touched her heart, where the new crest shone in the firelight. "I felt the silence," she said with her hoarse voice. "When the monster falls, the world goes quiet for a second. It's the only moment I can think."
Alonzo looked at her for a long time, then nodded, serious. "The silence. Yes. It's a rare commodity." He lay down, wrapping himself in his cloak. "If we die tomorrow, Gilles... know that you are the best iron wall a man could have in front of him. Goodnight."
Geneviève stayed awake. She looked at The Silent One in the shadows. The white mask seemed to float in the dark. She knew the observer wasn't sleeping. And she knew the real test hadn't been the Ghouls. The real test would come when they found that crate. Because in that moment, sitting between a mercenary seeking glory and an assassin with no soul, Geneviève realized she was the only thing standing between the contents of that crate and the world.
She gripped the hilt of her sword. Rest, Duraz, she thought, listening to the horse's breathing. Tomorrow we reach the barge.