Tancred's army moved like a steel serpent along the slopes of the Grey Mountains. It was not the entire host of Quenelles, but an elite vanguard: a hundred Knights of the Quest, two hundred mounted sergeants, and a company of select archers. Geneviève rode at the Duke's right, but her mind was elsewhere. Her new tournament armor, while beautiful, had proven rigid during the melee. And the tournament sword, though balanced, had no "soul."
"Let us make a detour," said Geneviève, pointing to a side path climbing toward the snowy peaks above Gisoreux.
Duke Tancred arched a grey eyebrow. "We are in a hurry, Sir Gilles. The mountains are treacherous."
"I know a smith up there," replied Geneviève. "If we must enter hell, Duke, I want to do it dressed in iron, not tin."
When they arrived at Thrunbor's isolated hut, the old dwarf was outside chopping wood. When he saw "Sir Gilles" dismount, the dwarf spat on the ground, but his eyes shone. Geneviève removed her helm (only in front of him and the Duke, who by now had intuited the complex nature of his champion).
Thrunbor looked at the shiny, expensive "Milanese" armor Geneviève had bought in Couronne. "What is that garbage?" growled the dwarf, rapping his knuckles on the breastplate. "Looks like tin foil for elves. They scammed you, girl."
"I needed it for the tournament," defended Geneviève. "But now I need something for war. And I need a sword that won't break against a dragon's hide."
Thrunbor grunted, a sound that for a dwarf equaled a beaming smile. "I set aside some Gromril (Star Metal). I thought I'd use it for my coffin, but... I suppose seeing you kill vampires is a better use."
They stayed there for two days. The army camped in the valley, while Geneviève, Tancred, and Thrunbor worked in the forge. Duke Tancred, despite being one of the most powerful nobles in the kingdom, removed his ermine cloak and operated the bellows for the smith. "A good king serves those who serve him," said the Duke, earning the dwarf's eternal respect.
The result was a masterpiece.
The Armor: Thrunbor forged a Full Plate of matte black Gromril. It was not decorated with useless curls. It was essential, angled to deflect blows, and half the weight of normal steel but three times as resistant. On the chest, Thrunbor personally engraved, and filled with liquid silver, Geneviève's crest: the Chevron and the Three Nails. "This won't dent, girl," said the dwarf. "Unless a giant sits on you."
But the true work of art was the weapon. Geneviève had asked for a longsword, a Bastard Sword she could use with one or two hands with Kensai speed. Thrunbor used a core of dwarf steel folded five hundred times. But the peculiarity was in the hilt. Geneviève pulled out a stone she had kept from her first journey: a fragment of white crystal found in a Chapel of the Lady destroyed by Skaven years before. A stone pulsing with a faint holy light. Thrunbor set the stone in the sword's pommel, surrounding it with runes of Anathema.
When Geneviève gripped it, the stone reacted to her Paladin faith. The blade emitted a harmonic hum. "Vesper's Light," said Geneviève, feeling the weapon become part of her arm. The holy stone had a unique property: it converted spiritual power into radiant heat. Against living beings, it was a normal sword; against Undead and Demons, the blade would burn like the noonday sun.
They resumed the journey south, better armed and with high morale. During the long rides, Geneviève began to get to know the men she would have to command. They were no longer nameless faces under helms.
Sir Baldrick the One-Eyed: He was Tancred's second-in-command. A fifty-year-old man who had lost an eye to Goblins. He was cynical, hard, and trusted no one. "You fight strangely, Sir Gilles," he told her one evening around the fire. "You don't use a shield. You don't pray before eating. But the Duke trusts you. So I will cover your back. But if you lead us into a trap, I will kill you myself." Geneviève appreciated the honesty. "If I lead us into a trap, Baldrick, I will already be dead before you can draw your sword."
Father Jerome: A Grail Priest following the army. A thin man, with the feverish eyes of one who has seen too many miracles. He looked at her with reverent suspicion. He felt the holy aura Geneviève emanated, but didn't understand why she didn't have the chalice painted on her shield. "The Lady works in mysterious ways," he whispered to her one day. "You are a vessel, Sir Gilles. But be careful. Vessels too full tend to break."
Sir Tristan de Quenelles: But the most complex relationship was with Tristan, the Duke's nineteen-year-old nephew. Tristan was everything Geneviève was not: noble by blood, raised in silk, naive, convinced that war was an epic poem. He rode always near her, bombarding her with questions. "What was it like killing the vampire? Did he scream? Did you say a heroic line before the final blow?"
Geneviève turned to the boy, the black visor expressionless. "He smelled of rotten meat, Tristan. He didn't scream, he hissed. And I said nothing, because I was too busy trying not to vomit from the pain in my ribs." The boy's smile faded. "War is not a song," continued Geneviève, softer. "It is mud, blood, and trying to keep your guts inside your belly. If you want to survive Mousillon, forget the songs. Learn to watch where you put your feet."
Tristan nodded, intimidated but fascinated. He saw in "Sir Gilles" a dark mentor, an older brother who spoke the truths his uncle the Duke, too protective, hid from him.
One evening, in the command tent, Tancred poured wine for Geneviève. They were alone with the closest advisors. "My nephew admires you," said the Duke. "You are teaching him fear. That is good. A knight without fear is a dead knight." Tancred looked at the new sword, Vesper's Light, resting on the table. "Gilles... when we reach Quenelles, we will have to join forces with the other border barons. Many of them are corrupt or frightened. I will need you to be not only my champion, but my voice. Your... presence at court shook spirits."
"I will do what is needed," replied Geneviève.
"I know you will. But tell me..." Tancred hesitated, then looked her straight in the eyes. "Why are you returning? You won your freedom. You could have gone anywhere. Why return to the land of the dead?"
Geneviève touched the crest on her chest, the iron over the heart. "Because iron is tempered in fire, Your Grace. And my fire is in Mousillon. As long as that city burns with black magic, I can never be truly free."
Tancred nodded, raising his goblet. "Then let us toast to the fire. And hope we don't all get burned."
Outside, the mountain wind howled, bringing with it the smell of snow and, farther away, much farther south, the sickly-sweet smell of decay that awaited them. Geneviève gripped the hilt of her new sword. The holy stone emitted a warm pulse, like a heartbeat. They were ready.