The impact between Geneviève and the Mutated Rat Ogre was not a duel; it was a train collision. The beast, a mountain of swollen muscle and patchy fur, standing a good three meters tall, swung an arm as thick as a tree trunk. Geneviève did not try to block it—she would have been crushed like a tin can. Instead, she dropped into a slide through the toxic mud.
The monster's fist passed over her head, displacing the air with the force of a hurricane, shattering a stone stalagmite that exploded into a thousand shards. Geneviève, sliding between the colossus's legs, used the momentum. She planted her heels in the slime, braking sharply, and unleashed an upward slash aiming for the beast's groin.
Thrunbor's perfect sword bit into the flesh. The Rat Ogre roared, a gurgling, high-pitched sound that vibrated Geneviève's teeth. But red blood did not flow from the wound. Instead, a high-pressure jet of corrosive pus and black bile sprayed out. The liquid hit Geneviève full on. It sizzled on the armor, melting the black paint, pitting the steel. Any other warrior would have screamed, blind and agonizing as the acid penetrated the joints. Geneviève felt the heat, felt the burning on the exposed skin of her neck, but Divine Health was an absolute wall. Her body rejected the biological damage. Her skin reddened but did not melt; her lungs did not collapse.
She stood up, dripping with smoking poison, a black demon refusing to die. The Plague Priest, from the islet, widened his milky eyes. "Why do you not die, iron-thing?!" he shrieked, waving his censer.
The Rat Ogre, mad with pain, no longer used its fists. It threw itself upon her with dead weight. Geneviève tried to dodge, but the mud betrayed her boots. She slipped. The beast's clawed hand closed around her torso. It was like being crushed by a hydraulic press. The side plates of the new armor groaned, bending inward. Geneviève felt her ribs, barely healed from the fall into the river, creak dangerously. The air was squeezed out of her lungs.
The beast lifted her off the ground, bringing her to its slavering snout to bite off her head. Geneviève had her arms pinned to her sides by the grip. She could not use her sword. She was suspended in the void, staring into the rotten maw of the monster. She could smell death. She could see worms crawling between the creature's gums.
At the back of the cavern, a metallic sound boomed: CLANG.
Thorgard and the Ironbreakers had reached the levers. The great bronze bulkheads were coming down, closing off the water inflow. The mission was accomplished. But Thorgard turned, seeing the human girl crushed in the giant's hand. "NO!" yelled the dwarf, trying to run to her aid, but he was too far away.
Geneviève, her vision blurring from lack of oxygen, realized she had only one second. She could not strike with the blade. But she had a free hand. Or almost. She managed to free her right arm from the grip, moving it a few inches. She did not aim for the eyes. She aimed for the monster's chest, where a pulsating glass tube pumped green serum directly into the beast's heart.
Geneviève closed her metal-gauntleted fist. She did not pray for salvation. She prayed for destruction. "Burn," she whispered.
She activated Punish Evil. Everything she had left for that day. Her fist lit up, becoming a white star trapped in the gauntlet. She struck the glass tube. The impact shattered the conduit and discharged the divine energy directly into the monster's circulatory system. The reaction was catastrophic. Sacred energy collided with liquid warpstone.
The Rat Ogre stiffened. Blinding light poured from its eyes, its mouth, its wounds. Its veins lit up under its skin like green and white lightning fighting for dominance. The beast opened its hand in a final spasm. Geneviève fell into the mud.
An instant later, the Rat Ogre's chest exploded from the inside. Flesh, gears, and bone rained down on the toxic lake. The colossus staggered, took an uncertain step, and collapsed forward like a felled tower, disappearing beneath the boiling surface of the cistern.
Silence fell on the cavern, broken only by the hiss of steam and the distant thud of the closed bulkheads. The Plague Priest, seeing his creation destroyed by a single human, squeaked in terror and dove into a drainage tunnel, vanishing into the darkness. The remaining Skaven fled with him.
Geneviève lay face down in the slime. She did not move. Thorgard ran toward her, his heavy boots splashing in the shallow water. "Geneviève!" he barked, forgetting to call her Gilles. He reached her and turned her onto her back. The armor was a disaster. The acid had eaten the visor, which hung crookedly. The breastplate was bent inward in the shape of the monster's fingers.
Thorgard tore off the ruined helm. Geneviève's face was pale, covered in filth and blood dripping from her nose. Her eyes were closed. The dwarf placed an ear (or rather, his bearded cheek) on the cuirass, searching for a heartbeat.
A dry, metallic cough. Geneviève opened her eyes. They were gray, tired, but alive. She looked at the dwarf looming over her with an expression of pure panic. "Is it... closed?" she croaked. "The bulkhead... is it closed?"
Thorgard looked at her in disbelief, then burst into a nervous, almost hysterical laugh. "Yes, by the beard of my ancestors, it is closed! Damn stubborn Umgi! You just blew up a giant and you're worried about the plumbing?"
Geneviève tried to smile, but everything hurt. Thorgard grabbed her hand and pulled her up to a sitting position. The Ironbreakers had gathered around them. Veteran warriors who had fought dragons and trolls. They looked at that petite human girl, with short hair and destroyed armor, with a respect that bordered on reverence.
One of them, the oldest, banged his fist on his own armored chest. Clang. The others imitated him. Clang. Clang. Clang.
It was the Iron Salute. An honor reserved for Kings and Heroes of the clan.
Thorgard helped Geneviève stand. She swayed, leaning heavily on his gromril-clad shoulder. "Let's go home, girl," said the Captain, with a gruff gentleness. "I'm buying you a beer. And I swear by Grungni that if anyone dares say you don't have a beard, I'll cut their legs off."
As they ascended toward the surface, leaving hell behind them, Geneviève felt that, for the first time since she had left her burning village, she was no longer alone. She had found brothers. They were short, smelled of ale, and spoke a language of stone, but they were brothers.
And as the chain lift rose toward the light, Geneviève wondered how long this moment of peace would last before the world asked her to bleed again.