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Chapter 29 - The Call of the West

The clash was not a battle; it was a unilateral massacre. Valentin de l'Ombre was not fighting; he was playing. His black blade moved faster than the human eye could follow, a ribbon of darkness seeking the joints of the dwarf armor.

Geneviève used every ounce of her experience. Her two-handed sword became an impassable wall, deflecting thrusts that would have pierced the heart of a common man. She used the flat, the guard, even the pommel to disrupt the vampire's inhuman rhythm. But Valentin was ancient. He had killed Grail Knights and Chaos Champions. "You are slow, tin can," laughed the vampire, vanishing into mist to reappear behind her.

A kick powered by necromantic strength hit Geneviève in the back. Thrunbor's armor held, but the impact was like being hit by a battering ram. Geneviève flew across the hold, smashing into the remains of the barricade. She felt two ribs break with a dry snap. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

She tried to get up, but Valentin was already there. With a casual movement, the vampire drove his sword into the floor, pinning Geneviève's leg (or rather, the greave) to the wood. Then he grabbed her by the gorget, lifting her with one hand as if she weighed nothing. He brought his pale face close to Geneviève's visor. "You painted a heart on your chest," whispered Valentin, red eyes shining with sadism. "How thoughtful. You showed me where to dig."

Alonzo de Rocca lay unconscious nearby, struck in the head by the vampire's hilt in the first seconds of the fight. Geneviève was alone. Her vision was blurring. The vampire raised his free hand, fingernails transformed into steel claws, ready to tear off the breastplate.

No one had paid attention to the Captain of the barge. He was a broken man, a coward who had wept in a corner while the monsters spoke. But seeing that black knight—the only one who had tried to save them instead of threatening them—being slaughtered lit a spark of mad desperation in the sailor.

The Captain grabbed a broken leg of an oak stool, splintered and sharp as a stake. While Valentin was focused on Geneviève's neck, the sailor launched himself with a choked scream. "HANDS OFF MY SHIP!"

The wooden stake hit Valentin in the back, just below the left shoulder blade. The Captain put all his weight into the blow. The wood penetrated the silk, the dead skin, and lodged in the monster's black, atrophied heart.

Valentin stiffened. A scream that was not human, but a whistle of high-pressure steam, escaped his mouth. He released his grip on Geneviève, bringing his hands to his chest, paralyzed by the mystical shock that wood inflicts on the undead. "Worm..." hissed the vampire, trying to turn, but his movements had become jerky and wooden.

Geneviève fell to the floor, gasping. She saw the vampire staggering, the stake protruding from his back. She saw the Captain backing away in terror. There was no time for pain. Geneviève grabbed her sword. She did not stand up completely; she didn't have the strength. She got on her knees. She channeled all the power she had left. It wasn't just muscle strength. Thrunbor's blade became incandescent, white as a star.

"For Bretonnia," croaked the gravel voice.

She rotated her torso. A horizontal slash, perfect, absolute. The blade passed through Valentin de l'Ombre's neck without meeting resistance. The vampire's head, still wearing an expression of disbelief on its perfect face, flew off, rolling into the circle of salt. The body remained standing for a second, then collapsed into a pile of dust and empty clothes.

Geneviève remained on her knees for a long minute, listening to the furious beating of her heart and the wheezing breath of the Captain. "You killed him..." stammered the sailor. "By Sigmar, you killed him."

Geneviève dragged herself toward the pile of clothes. She rummaged through the black velvet tunic that now lay deflated. She found a heavy leather pouch. Inside were the five hundred gold crowns promised (plus an extra in gems the vampire carried). And there was a rolled parchment. The Imperial safe passage. Signed by Van Haagen and countersigned, ironically, with a magical seal guaranteeing its authenticity everywhere.

Alonzo came to at that moment, rubbing his temple. He saw the dust. He saw the head rolled away. "Mother of God, Gilles," he murmured, looking at Geneviève with reverent awe. "You decapitated a Night Lord."

They emerged at dawn. The swamp fog seemed less oppressive now that the apex predator was dead. Did they burn the barge? No. Geneviève knew fire wouldn't be enough for the Mordheim crate.

"Alonzo," said Geneviève, as they mounted their horses on the bank. Her voice was tired, but firm. She tossed him half the bag of gold and the gems. "Go to the nearest Temple of Sigmar. Bring the Witch Hunters here. Tell them there is a lead-sealed Mordheim crate. Do not touch it. Do not let anyone touch it."

Alonzo took the gold, but looked confused. "And you? With this safe passage and the other half of the gold, we can go to Nuln, to Altdorf! We'll be rich, Gilles! We are the team that killed the Canal Vampire!"

Geneviève looked at the safe passage in her hands. Then she looked West. Toward the mountains. Toward home. Meeting Valentin had made her realize a terrible thing: if a vampire from Mousillon could weave plots in Marienburg, it meant the cancer in her homeland was growing. She had left Bretonnia to save herself. But now she had Dwarf armor, Kensai technique, and Paladin power. She was no longer a victim. She was the cure.

"I am not coming to Nuln," said Geneviève, tying the safe passage to her belt. "I am going back."

"Back? To Bretonnia?" Alonzo widened his eyes. "Why? They treat knights errant like dogs there, and peasants like cattle!"

"Because someone has to remind them that even cattle have teeth," replied Geneviève. She patted Duraz's neck. "Goodbye, Alonzo. Tell the story however you like. But never say you saw me bleed."

Geneviève spurred Duraz, and he took off at a gallop, kicking up clods of mud, heading toward the sunset, toward the Grey Mountains and the land of Dukes.

Alonzo de Rocca watched her until she became a black dot on the horizon. "I won't say you bled, my friend," whispered the swordsman, smiling sadly. "I will say you were the god of death in an iron suit."

And so, while Geneviève rode toward her destiny, unaware of everything, in the taverns of Marienburg the legend of the Knight of the Iron Heart began to circulate. The one who does not speak, does not eat, and does not show his face. The one who killed an Ogre with a single sword and decapitated the Silent Vampire. A legend that would precede her return home.

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