The sky above Mousillon did not darken because of clouds; it darkened because of the impact. When Geneviève's Vesper's Light, charged with the full weight of her faith and speed, met Mallobaude's black blade, the sound was not metallic. It was the sound of a funeral bell as big as a mountain cracking.
The shockwave was visible. A circle of dust and compressed magic exploded from the point of contact, sweeping away skeletons and men within a twenty-meter radius. Duraz, the mighty dwarf horse, and Mallobaude's Nightmare, a beast of flayed flesh and hellfire, clashed chest to chest. The undead mount bit Duraz's shoulder, but broke its teeth on the Gromril barding. Duraz responded with a brutal headbutt, goring the Nightmare with his spiked front plate.
The inertia was too much. Both riders were unhorsed. Geneviève landed with a perfect roll, feet sinking into the mud but body in absolute balance. Mallobaude landed on his feet, stiff and graceful as a cat, his black cloak not even ruffled.
Around them, the pitched battle became background noise. An eye of the storm had formed. A space both sacred and profane where only two wills existed.
"Interesting," said Mallobaude. His voice was not winded. "Your sword burns. It hurts my eyes."
He snapped. He didn't run. He vanished and reappeared. It was the speed of the Vampires of the Blood Dragon bloodline. Superhuman, blurred.
Geneviève did not use her eyes. She felt the displacement of air to her left. She raised her sword in a blind vertical parry. CLANG.
Mallobaude's black blade stopped an inch from her neck, blocked by Vesper's Light. The sparks that flew from the contact were not yellow; they were black and white, and they sizzled like acid in the mud.
"You are fast for a mortal," hissed the Vampire, pressing down with a force that would crush a boulder. Geneviève felt the muscles in her arms scream, the armor groan under the pressure. She didn't answer. She rotated her wrists. She slid her blade along the opponent's, aiming for Mallobaude's fingers. The Vampire pulled his hand back an instant before losing his digits, laughing. "Good! Very good! Finally, someone who knows the Art!"
Mallobaude began a sequence of attacks that seemed like a hailstorm. He struck from every angle: high, low, feint, thrust. His sword left trails of darkness suspended in the air, confusing the eye. Geneviève entered the state of Empty Mind. She didn't think "parry." Her body parried on its own. Vesper's Light became a fan of holy steel. She blocked a slash to the head. She dodged a cut to the legs with a millimeter-precise jump. She deflected a thrust to the heart with the flat of the blade.
Every time the swords touched, the holy stone in Geneviève's pommel pulsed, sending shocks of pain through Mallobaude's corrupt weapon. The Vampire hissed, the skin of his hands smoking, but he did not let go.
"Who are you?" roared Mallobaude, frustrated that his prey was still whole after ten seconds. "No Knight of the Quest fights like this! Are you an Elf? A Demon?"
Geneviève saw an opening. Mallobaude had raised his arm too high for a power strike. Geneviève didn't strike with the sword. She took a step forward, entering the enemy's guard, and struck with the open palm of her left hand, straight onto the vampire's armored chest. She channeled an explosion of spiritual energy through the black metal of the enemy armor. Ki Push.
BOOM.
Mallobaude was hurled back five meters. He landed on his back, sliding in the mud. For the first time, his arrogant expression vanished, replaced by pure shock. He coughed, a dry spasm. That blow had interrupted the flow of black magic animating his dead organs.
Geneviève didn't wait. She launched herself forward to finish him on the ground. She brought the sword down for the execution. But Mallobaude was no novice. He roared, and his shadow came to life. Tentacles of solid darkness exploded from the ground, wrapping around Geneviève's legs and blocking her sword in mid-air.
The Vampire rose, levitating a few inches off the ground. His eyes turned completely red. His armor began to ooze blood.
"You dared touch me," whispered Mallobaude. His voice was now double, overlaid with a bestial growl. "You dared strike the King."
He abandoned fencing. He used blood magic. With a gesture of his hand, the mud around Geneviève boiled and turned into spears of hardened earth that tried to impale her. Geneviève spun like a top, cutting the earthen spears with her magic sword, rock fragments bouncing off her Gromril.
But Mallobaude was already on her. This time he didn't use the sword. He grabbed Geneviève by the throat with his bare hand. The strength was inconceivable. Superior to that of the Ogre. Superior to that of a Troll. Geneviève felt the dwarf steel gorget bend. She felt the air cut off. Mallobaude lifted her off the ground as if she were a rag doll.
"I see your heart beating, little knight," said the Vampire, bringing his monstrous face close to Geneviève's visor. "I feel it hammering against your fragile ribs. You are alive. You are warm. You are... delicious."
Geneviève kicked, but the grip was steel. Her sword was pinned by the vampire's arm. Her vision blurred. The red lights of Mallobaude's eyes filled her entire horizon.
"Now," smiled the Serpent, showing fangs as long as daggers. "Let's open this tin can and see what's inside."
His free hand, claws unsheathed, moved toward Geneviève's helm, ready to rip it off along with her head. Geneviève was suspended in the void, choking, with death a millimeter from her face. But her right hand still gripped the hilt.