"Milady Isabell, are you absolutely sure that this is the wisest course? It is not too late for us to turn around and book passage back to England…"
The tall woman pursed her lips in impatience and adjusted the lapels of her riding coat. It was a man's garb, all of her clothes were, even the heeled, steel-covered boots. All of her clothing was slightly tattered and travel stained, but was of extremely expense cut and material.
"Silence, Victor," she commanded in her more imperious tone. She glanced back at the old man riding on the cart behind her. From atop her horse, she looked down at the wizened servant. "I have heard your arguments before, and I weary of them. This creature, this Azure Nightmare, will be the final step in my journey for the Ultimate Weapon. If, in the course of my travels, I must expose myself to some risk…" The woman paused, and smiled wickedly. "Well, it is no different than anything else I have done, is it?"
Victor Wight was an old man, a confidante and loyal servant who as a boy had waited tables on the Lady Valentine's grandfather. He had already seen two generations of Valentines destroy themselves searching for this damned legend, and it seemed that nothing he could do or say would prevent the last scion of a once-proud house from doing the same. All he would be able to do would be to serve with honor, loyalty, and discretion, as befitted an Englishman. "No different, milady."
"Quite correct. Now, still your idle concerns and tend to my equipment. Ohstreinsburg Castle lies ahead, and we will enter into the camp of the Nightmare in a matter of minutes.
As the odd pair crested the hill, the old man shivered to behold the valley below. Tents, stables, depots and armories sprawled out before them, seeming to stretch for miles. Victor could see thousands of ruffians, but worse were the monsters and beasts that intermingled with them, creating an ever-changing tapestry of prospective violence. He busied himself by inspecting the contents of his cart, ensuring that all of Lady Valentine's portable lab was secured and that her alchemical equipment was in place. He also surreptitiously checked that the black powder rifle and the brace of pistols he had packed were loaded and ready to fire – it was all well for Miss Isabella to be confident, but the extra assurance couldn't hurt.
"You men will escort me to your leader," she commanded. The five berserkers who had been standing guard at the edge of the camp stared at her, utterly dumbstruck. It would take some kind of idiot noblewoman to simply ride carelessly up to a group of armed mercenaries, completely alone (the old man sitting nervously on the cart didn't count) and unprotected, and offer herself up for capture and ransom… or worse.
Taking their disbelieving silence as incomprehension, she repeated the command in French, again in German, and a third time in Spanish, growing more frustrated with each repetition. She was dredging the limits of her education to try to formulate the statement in Italian when the group's apparent leader pulled a small black stone from his pocket and raised it over his head.
It was a good trick, and it normally have worked, but Victor and Isabella were alchemists, and recognized the thunderstone for what it was; when the barbarian struck it to the ground, they were ready. The explosion of light and sound caused Lady Isabella's horse to rear, but instead of being thrown, the warrior woman simply rolled from the saddle and landed adroitly on the muddy ground. Her sword, a short-bladed steel weapon with an ornate hilt, was out in one smooth movement.
The band of ruffians was taken aback – instead of the frightened and dazed woman they were expecting, the were facing a sword-bearing foe, and one indeed who was significantly taller than the tallest of them. Furthermore, the old man on the cart didn't seem so insignificant now that he had a arquebus trained their leader with an unwavering hand.
"Leave him, Victor," the woman said casually. "He is mine." She held her blade in a seemingly negligent way, and smiled scornfully at her opponent. "If he ever musters the nerve to draw steel and face me, of course."
Enraged, the brigand drew his own sword, a short, jagged weapon with a cruel edge. With a roar, he feinted low and brought his sword up in a high slash, intent on carving a lesson into the arrogant bitch's face.
Except that the feint didn't fool her, and steel crashed on steel for a brief second – then she stepped inside his guard and her riposte flicked out, opening two shallow, painful slashes, one on each shoulder.
Now in pain, the mercenary lunged closer, hoping to overpower her with his strength. Without hesitation, the aristocrat smashed in the torso with the butt of her weapon, right beneath the breastbone. As the man buckled, gasping, Isabella brought the sword around in an arc, striking her foe where the neck met the shoulder, slicing through the collarbone and into his chest. He died with a choked sigh.
The other four warriors gaped, then roared as one and readied their own weapons, circling her. She narrowed her eyes at the pack of them menacingly. "You wish for more?" she hissed. "Very well."
No one watching knew quite what she did, but there was a subtle shift in her grip, perhaps a button pressed or a tiny twist, but suddenly her sword broke apart into pieces. Instead of a sold blade, it was thin sheets of razor-sharp metal connected by a wire thread, like a bladed whip. With a metallic crash, she lashed the weapon around herself, daring her opponents to approach.
With the suddenness of a breaking dam, all four attacked at once, and the air was alive with gleaming metal. The noblewoman twisted and danced, ducking the probing tip of a spear while the "whip" lashed one opponent, and an armored boot knocked another into the dirt with a roundhouse kick.
The first attacker reeled back, clutching the bloody ruins of his face, and the man who had been kicked scrambled to his feet with real fear in his eyes. This woman wasn't just good – she was impossibly good – the man had seen the Nightmare's elite berserkers and lizardmen in battle, and she was just as skilled, if not better. Still slightly stunned from the kick, he stayed a little ways back as his companions pressed their attack.
The spearman was staying a ways back, holding his weapon in both hands and stabbing and slashing at the air, trying to keep the newcomer on the defensive. The final attacker was trying to get inside the whirlwind of blades around her in order to bring his knives into play.
It was only a matter of time, however – the spearman stumbled and found himself with the wire whip encircling his chest. He screamed in agony when the noblewoman reclaimed her weapon, the steel fragments tearing his chest and stomach apart. The knife wielder though to take advantage of her distraction and leapt at her back, only to find himself smashed to the ground by another kick. An armored boot pressed down on his throat as he thrashed and struggled feebly, and the last vision he saw on this earth was the woman's face, beautiful and cruel and dirty, as she smirked viciously down at him and the blackness closed in.
She looked at the final brigand to face her, and she draped the bloodstained whip about her shoulders. "Shall we continue?" she purred seductively.
The warrior looked at her, and at the bodies on the ground, two dead and two bleeding out their last, and he sheathed his sword. Kneeling in the dust at the woman's feet, he spoke in thickly accented English. "I will lead you to the Lord Azure."
"Mnn…" she whispered in his ear, "I thought you might say that. Now, stand and show me the way."
Her face and clothes were stained with dust and flecks of blood, and Victor looked with distaste at the woman his charming little girl had become. When had the blond girl, so serious, so compassionate, become this merciless killer, this manipulating sorceress? He cursed the bitch Fate, and the madness that seemed to grip his patron's family more strongly with each generation. He cursed most of all the thrice-damned "ultimate weapon" that drove them all to ruin.
The Countess Valentine remained oblivious to her servant's moods as she painstaking reattached the individual shards of blade back together. Once the blade was complete, she locked it back into the hilt of the weapon, and checked that the mechanical apparatus that kept it secure was back in place. After a few practice swings to ensure that it was still in perfect operation, she grinned and wiped the blood away from her eyes with a ruined velvet sleeve.
A crowd of ruffians had gathered to watch the fight, but it parted soundlessly for the blood-flecked woman, and for her guard and servant.