The buzz of the crowd died down when King Louen Leoncoeur raised his right hand. Geneviève was kneeling in the mud of the lists, sword sheathed, breathing returning to regular thanks to her control. She felt the eyes of ten thousand people on her. But above all, she felt the gaze of the King. Louen was not just a monarch; he was a warrior blessed by the Lady. His eyes shone with an inner light that could see past lies.
"Rise, Sir Gilles," ordered the King. His voice was firm, resonant. "You fought with the fury of an orc and the discipline of a swordmaster. The victory is yours. The King's Grace is yours. Ask."
A page approached with a silver tray containing a bulging bag of gold and a golden laurel wreath. Geneviève stood up. Her dented armor creaked. She ignored the tray. She took a step forward, violating the protocol that dictated a safe distance. The Grail Guards put their hands on their weapons, but the King signaled to let it be.
"I ask for no gold, Majesty," said Geneviève. Her gravel voice, amplified by the helm and the absolute silence, reached every noble in the stands. "And I ask for no lands. I ask for your ears."
A scandalized murmur ran through the Dukes. Refusing gold was madness. Refusing land was heresy.
"Speak," said Louen, intrigued.
Geneviève pointed south. "The south is dying, Majesty. While we play at war here, with blunted lances and courteous rules, in Marienburg vampires walk in the sunlight. In the Cursed Marshes, the graves are opening." She paused, letting the words weigh heavy. "I ask that the Council of Dukes be convened tonight. Not to celebrate the winner, but to prepare for war. I ask that you listen to what I saw in Mousillon and beyond."
"Insolence!" The Duke of Parravon, father of the knight Geneviève had unhorsed in the first bout, stood up, red in the face. "This... nameless vagabond dares give orders to the Crown? Dares ruin the King's feast with peasant tales of the walking dead? He is clearly a mercenary looking for an easy contract!"
Other nobles nodded. Admitting that Mousillon was a threat meant admitting that Bretonnia was not perfect. They preferred ignorance.
Geneviève did not flinch. She unhooked from her belt the Imperial safe passage signed by Valentin de l'Ombre and another object she had kept hidden: the signet ring of the vampire, torn from the finger of the corpse. A ring of black iron with the symbol of the Blood Dragon. She threw them at the King's feet. The clink of metal rang dryly.
"That is the seal of Valentin de l'Ombre," said Geneviève, cold as ice. "A Knight of Mousillon whom I decapitated three days ago. He carried that safe passage to enter your lands. If you think I am a mercenary, Duke of Parravon, come down here and pick up that ring. But be careful: it still burns like hell."
King Louen looked at the ring. His sacred aura reacted violently, a shiver of disgust that crossed the stage. No further proof was needed. That object was anathema.
The King raised his gaze to Geneviève. "You have brought proof of evil into my heart, Sir Gilles. And you have won the right to be heard." He turned to the court, his face hardened. "The banquet is cancelled. Tonight the Council of War convenes in the Hall of Tapestries. Sir Gilles will sit at my right."
The hall was lit by hundreds of candles. On the walls, ancient tapestries showed the deeds of Gilles le Breton, the founder. Around the oval table sat the twelve Dukes of Bretonnia. Powerful, proud men, many of whom hated Geneviève for humiliating their champions. But there was one ally. Duke Tancred of Quenelles watched her with a half-smile. He, who had spent his life hunting undead at La Maisontaal Abbey, knew a hunter when he saw one.
Geneviève, still in armor (she had refused to remove it, claiming her "vow" prevented her from showing her face until the threat was unveiled), told everything. She did not speak of her origin. She spoke of the mission. She spoke of the barge. Of the Mordheim crate. Of the Ogre. Of the Vampire manipulating Imperial merchants to fund an army. Her hoarse voice, devoid of rhetorical frills, was hypnotic.
"They are hoarding Warpstone," she concluded. "They don't just want to raid villages. They are building something. A ritual. And the center of it all is Mousillon."
"Mousillon is a swamp," intervened the Duke of L'Anguille, skeptical. "There is nothing there but ruins and sick peasants."
"There is the Black Knight," said Tancred, interrupting him. "My spies confirm Sir Gilles' words. A figure has united the ghoul bands. He calls himself Mallobaude. If he truly has access to Mordheim Warpstone... he could resurrect the entire dead population of the city."
A chilling silence fell on the room. Mallobaude. The King's bastard son. A dark legend no one wanted to name.
King Louen massaged his temples. The feast had become a nightmare. "I cannot move the entire royal army based on the words of a knight errant and a ring," said the King, pragmatic. "The Orcs press to the east. If I move troops south, the Empire will be vulnerable."
Geneviève felt frustration rising. Bureaucracy. Even here.
But Tancred stood up. "I will go," said the Duke of Quenelles. "My duchy borders Mousillon. It is my duty to protect the borders. But I cannot do it alone." He turned to Geneviève. "Sir Gilles. You have proven you can kill these things. And you have proven you do not fear politics." Tancred placed a hand on the table. "I offer you command of my vanguard. You will ride with my Knights of the Quest. We will go to Quenelles, gather forces, and enter Mousillon to burn this infection before it becomes a plague."
Geneviève looked at the Duke. It was the opportunity she was looking for. An army. True allies. But it also meant entering the heart of danger, no longer as a lone wolf, but as a commander.
"I accept, Your Grace," said Geneviève. "But on one condition."
"Which is?"
"No mercy," replied Geneviève. "If we find corrupt nobles collaborating with them... they die along with the monsters."
The Dukes murmured, scandalized by such brutality. But Tancred laughed, a dry, approving laugh. "That is exactly what I hoped you would say. Tomorrow we leave for Quenelles."
The meeting adjourned. As Geneviève exited the hall, King Louen stopped her with a gesture. The others left, leaving them alone with the Grail Guards. The King approached. He was tall, imposing, but his eyes were tired.
"Sir Gilles," he said in a low voice.
"Majesty?"
"I have known many men who have taken vows of silence or chastity," said the King, staring at the iron visor. "But I have never known a man who fights with the style of elven dancers and the strength of a dwarf."
Geneviève stiffened. Does he know?
The King smiled slightly, enigmatic. "I do not care what you hide under that helm, knight. Whether you are a man, a woman, or a spirit of vengeance. Bretonnia needs steel, not gender. Serve Duke Tancred well. And if you survive Mousillon... return to me. I might have a place for you in my Personal Guard."
Geneviève bowed deeply, her heart beating wildly. "I will serve, Majesty."
She went out into the cool night of Couronne. She had won. She had an army. She had the King's blessing (more or less). But as she looked at the moon, Geneviève knew the hard part began now. Returning south was not just a military campaign. It was a homecoming. And in Mousillon, "home" meant an open grave.
She headed to the stables, where Duraz awaited her. "Get ready, old friend," she whispered, stroking the horse's muzzle. "We are going ghost hunting. And this time, we are bringing plenty of company."