On the day of departure, the wind on the peaks of the Pale Sisters blew hard enough to flay a man. But Geneviève felt no cold. She stood before the Great Gates of Karak-Azgaraz, the immense bronze doors carved with history that separated the safe warmth of the underground from the cruel world of the surface.
She wore her armor, now polished and repaired, with a new addition: a cloak of mountain goat wool, thick and dyed a deep grey, fastened to her pauldrons with gold buckles shaped like anvils. It was the honorary cloak of the Dwarf Rangers, those who walk "above."
Thorgard Stonehammer was there, along with a delegation of Ironbreakers. There were no fanfares. Dwarves do not like long goodbyes; they consider them a waste of time that could be used for drinking or working.
"We Dawi do not ride," Thorgard began, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "Beasts are unstable, they stink, and they don't understand orders. We prefer our feet or gyrocopters." He signaled to two guards who were struggling to hold the reins of an animal snorting steam into the freezing air.
Geneviève's eyes widened. It was an Imperial Heavy Destrier, a mountain of muscles black as coal, standing as tall at the withers as a man. But what made it unique was not its size, but what it wore. The smiths of Karak-Azgaraz had created a full set of barding for him. Not the usual chainmail or boiled leather used by human knights. It was a masterpiece of articulated engineering: plates of tempered steel covering the animal's neck, chest, and flanks, hinged to slide fluidly with the musculature of the running horse. On its head, the beast wore a steel champron with a blunt central horn, making him look like an armored, brutal unicorn.
"We bought him from an Empire merchant years ago to haul heavy loads, but he's too mean for the yoke," explained Thorgard, giving a slap (which rang out like a hammer blow) on the animal's armored flank. "He almost bit my cousin's finger off. He seemed suitable for you."
Geneviève approached. The horse rolled its eye, showing the white, and tried to bite her. She did not flinch. With her new strength and the confidence of a Paladin, she grabbed the bridle and breathed into his nostrils, staring into his eyes with her iron will. We are the same, she thought. Two things made for war that do not know how to be at peace.
The animal calmed down, snorting.
"What is his name?" asked Geneviève.
"We called him 'Bastard'," grunted Thorgard. "But I imagine you want a nobler name. The armor is engraved with the rune Duraz. It means Stone."
"Duraz," Geneviève repeated, stroking the cold metal neck. "I like it."
Geneviève mounted. The combined weight of her armor and the horse's barding would have crushed a normal beast, but Duraz did not even buckle. If anything, he seemed more stable, like a mobile fortress.
Thorgard approached the stirrup. For the first time, he seemed small compared to her. He pulled an object from his pouch. It was a small silver hammer, the size of a thumb, hanging on an iron chain. "You are not a Dawi, Geneviève. And you never will be. You are too tall and you live too short a life," said the dwarf, his voice grating. "But you bled for the Hold. You saved our children from the poison. This is a pass. If you ever return to these mountains, or meet merchants of my clan, show it. You will never pay for ale or lodging, as long as the name Stonehammer has honor."
Geneviève took the amulet and tied it around her neck, feeling the cold metal against her skin under the armor. "I will not forget this, Thorgard. And I will not forget that you treated me like a soldier, not like..."
"Like a woman?" he interrupted her, grinning. "Bah. I've seen dwarf women crack rocks with their heads. Gender is for elves who have time to waste. What matters is how hard you hit."
The Captain took a step back and raised his fist. "Go, Rinn-Gromthi. And try not to get killed by something stupid like a goblin. It would be embarrassing for us."
Geneviève lowered her visor. The world became a narrow slit again. She spurred the horse. Duraz surged forward, not with the light gallop of Bretonnian horses, but with the rumble of an avalanche. Shod hooves cracked the ice, the plates of the barding clinking with a deep, menacing sound.
As she descended the switchbacks, leaving behind the bronze doors that closed with a final thud, Geneviève felt the wind change. It no longer smelled of rock and mushrooms. It smelled of pines, wet earth, and distant woodsmoke. It smelled of the Empire.
She had left Bretonnia as a fugitive. She had left the Dwarves as a secret hero. Now she rode northeast, toward the lands of Sigmar, where cities were as big as nations and war was an industry. She had no precise plan, but she had a map found on the body of a dead messenger months before. A map that spoke of a darkness gathering in The Wasteland, near Marienburg. And Geneviève had discovered that her light shone best where the darkness was thickest.
Sir Gilles the Mute was back on the road. But this time, the road trembled at his passing.