For Geneviève, the battle was not a sequence of confused events. It was a geometry of blood. Thanks to her honed senses, time flowed slower for her. She saw the trajectory of a black arrow an instant before it left the bow. She saw the tension in the rotten muscles of a Varghulf before it leaped. She was a dancer in a world of clumsy statues.
Vesper's Light was no longer a sword; it was an extension of her will. Every slash was an arc of white fire purifying the putrid air. Geneviève spun. Snick. Three skeleton heads flew off simultaneously. Thrust. The point of the sword pierced the cuirass of a Wight, causing its necromantic essence to explode in a cloud of freezing dust.
She was the incarnation of victory. But everywhere she looked, she saw defeat.
Geneviève stopped for an instant, panting not from muscular fatigue, but from spiritual horror. She was an island of light in a darkening sea. To her left, she saw a regiment of Aquitaine infantry being overwhelmed by a wave of Ghouls. She saw spears snap, men scream as they were dragged into the mud. To her right, she saw Sir Baldrick the One-Eyed. The old veteran was fighting like a lion, but he was surrounded. A mace blow had dented his helm, and blood was running down his neck.
Geneviève made to dash to his aid, but a wall of skeletal knights barred her path. She destroyed them in three seconds of surgical fury, but those three seconds were fatal. When she looked again, Baldrick was gone. There was only a pile of inert meat being trampled.
"No..." whispered Geneviève inside her helm.
And then she saw the worst thing. The fallen did not stay fallen. A knight of Bastonne, dead minutes before, was rising. His eyes were glassy, emptied of soul, and he turned to drive his sword into the back of his still-living comrade. Mallobaude was not just consuming his troops; he was using theirs. It was an infinite cycle. The more Geneviève killed, the more corpses she provided the enemy to reanimate.
Geneviève closed her physical eyes for a fraction of a second and opened her spiritual ones. The battlefield transformed. She no longer saw mud and iron. She saw a web of violet and black energy. Thousands of thin threads extended from the bodies of the undead, like puppet strings. All these threads converged on a single point. A black dot, dense as a hole in reality, pulsing at the center of the enemy formation.
Mallobaude.
The "King" was not fighting. He sat on his Nightmare, motionless, his black sword raised like an antenna. He was drinking death. He was conducting the orchestra. As long as he breathed (or simulated doing so), the army would never stop. Geneviève could kill a thousand skeletons, and he would raise two thousand.
"It is useless to cut the fingers," growled Geneviève, opening her eyes with terrifying clarity. "I must cut the head."
Geneviève tightened her legs around Duraz's flanks. The dwarf horse was covered in superficial wounds, his white barding now black with coagulated blood, but he felt his mistress's intention. There was no need for spurs. There was only an understanding of iron.
Geneviève did not call her men. There was no one who could follow her where she was going. She aimed for the center of the enemy army.
"DURAZ! FORWARD!"
It was like launching a cannonball into a forest of glass. Geneviève abandoned all defense. She activated Punish Evil at maximum power, consuming every reserve of divine grace she had. Her Gromril armor began to glow with a blinding golden light. She became a comet.
She crashed into Mallobaude's personal guard: the Blood Knights. Ancient vampires, perfect warriors in red armor. One of them stepped in front of her, trying to decapitate Duraz with a greatsword. Geneviève did not slow down. Vesper's Light passed through the vampire's guard, through his magical armor, through his immortal body. She cut him in half from shoulder to hip without losing speed.
A second vampire tried to grab her. Geneviève severed his arm with a backhand and smashed his skull with the holy pommel as she rode past.
She was carving a furrow into the heart of the enemy army. Behind her, the Bretonnians saw the light. "LOOK!" yelled Tristan, pointing to the golden trail. "SIR GILLES IS AIMING FOR THE KING!" The mad act rekindled hope. Duke Tancred, seeing the opportunity, rallied the last reserves. "FOLLOW THAT LIGHT! FOR QUENELLES!"
But Geneviève did not hear the shouts behind her. She heard only the dark heartbeat ahead. Fifty meters. Twenty meters. Ten meters.
The threads of destiny tightened. Mallobaude lowered his sword. His red eyes met the dark slit of Geneviève's helm. He did not look worried. He looked... delighted.
"Finally," whispered the Black Knight, his voice reaching Geneviève despite the chaos of battle. "A worthy tribute."
Geneviève made Duraz jump over a barricade of bones. She was in the air. Time stopped. She, sword raised in a final slash. He, a smile on his pale lips and black blade ready to receive the blow.
Geneviève roared, a sound that had nothing human in it, a cry of pure will defying death itself.
"MALLOBAUDE!"
The impact was about to shake the foundations of the world.