"Dock 13" in the Suiddock was a place where even rats walked in pairs out of fear. The fog was so thick that the oil lanterns looked like sickly eyes suspended in nothingness. Geneviève arrived punctually, Duraz's steps booming on the rotten wooden planks of the pier. Hendrik walked beside her, wrapped in an oilskin cloak, clutching a bag of documents as if it were a shield.
At the meeting point, under a shed smelling of fish and tar, they were not alone. The Directorate did not trust a single man, even if he was an armored knight. They had hired a "cleanup crew."
Geneviève dismounted, leaving Duraz tied to an iron post (the horse immediately bit the wood out of boredom). She approached the group, her hand always near the hilt of her sword. There were three of them. And they looked like the start of a bad joke.
The first to draw attention was the Dwarf. He was not a disciplined warrior like Thorgard. He was a Slayer. Naked to the waist, with muscles tattooed in blue that looked like braided steel cords, he wore his hair dyed bright orange and styled into a stiff crest. His beard, also orange, was braided. He wore no armor. He sought death, not protection. He held a double-bladed axe as big as a man on his shoulders with nonchalance. "Canned Umgi," grunted the Dwarf, spitting on the ground. "I hope you know how to move. If you get in my way while I'm looking for my doom, I'll cut you in two." His name was Korgan "Skull-Splitter". His eyes were windows into madness.
The second was an absolute contrast. A human, thin as a skeleton, covered in rags greased with whale oil. At his belt, he carried a macabre collection of snap traps, poisons, and dried tails. He was Otto, a professional Rat Catcher. Beside him growled a small, ugly dog, a terrier blind in one eye that seemed made of hate and scars. "Don't mind the dwarf, sir," said Otto with a shrill voice, petting the dog. "He wants to die. I want to be paid. My dog, 'Crumb', has sniffed out big things down there. Things worth ten crowns a head."
The third member was leaning against a crate, cleaning his nails with a stiletto. He wore gaudy silk clothes, a feathered hat, and a short cape over his left shoulder. An Estalian Diestro. A duelist. "Alonzo de Rocca," he introduced himself, making an exaggerated and ironic bow. "My blade is at the service of the city, as long as the city pays in gold and not in disease. I hope your sword is as sharp as your armor is ugly, Black Knight."
A Directorate official, a fat man sweating profusely despite the cold, stepped out of the shadows escorted by two guards. "Good, good. You are all here," he said nervously. "The task is simple. The Canal of Sighs is blocked. Something is dragging barges down. We don't want to know what it is. We want it to cease existing." He threw a small bag of coins to each as an advance. Hendrik took Geneviève's, weighing it. "Light, for sewer work."
"The rest when the job is done," squeaked the official, scurrying away before the Slayer could decide his face was a good target for the axe.
They descended into the canal through a rusted grate. The water came up to their knees. Geneviève mentally thanked the watertight seal of her dwarf boots. Korgan the Slayer went first, singing an off-key song about trolls and ale. Otto and the dog Crumb followed, sniffing the air. Alonzo walked on the raised parts of the sewer walkway, careful not to dirty his leather boots. Geneviève brought up the rear, a silent and imposing rearguard.
"Hey, Tin Can," called Korgan without turning around. "That steel smells of Dawi. Where did you steal it?"
Geneviève didn't answer immediately. Her hoarse voice rang in the tunnel like stone on stone. "Gifted. By Thrunbor of Gisoreux."
The Dwarf stopped. He turned, mad eyes shining. "Thrunbor? That clanless renegade? Bah. At least he knows how to beat iron. Maybe you won't die in the first five minutes."
Crumb, the rat catcher's dog, started growling at a pile of floating debris. "There's something," hissed Otto, loading a hand crossbow. "Something big."
The water exploded. It wasn't rats. It was River Trolls. Three enormous beasts, covered in slimy scales and algae, with claws as long as daggers and the ability to regenerate wounds. They smelled of rotten fish and vomit.
"GRIMNIR!" yelled Korgan, launching himself into a suicidal charge against the biggest Troll. His axe spun, severing an arm from the monster. But the Troll grunted, and the flesh already began to grow back, tissues sizzling and knitting together. "You need fire, stupid dwarf!" shouted Alonzo, darting forward with impressive speed, his rapier dancing like a silver needle, seeking the beast's eyes.
Otto fired a bolt, hitting a second Troll in the throat, then unleashed the dog, who, incredibly brave (or stupid), latched onto the monster's ankle.
The third Troll, ignoring the others, targeted Geneviève. It opened its mouth and vomited a jet of stomach acid. Geneviève raised her new shield. The acid hit the symbol of the Chevron and Nails, sizzling on the fresh paint but not penetrating the metal. Geneviève lowered the shield. She did not charge blindly. She saw the Troll raise its claws. She saw the opening under the scaly armpit. A single step. A single movement. Her two-handed sword, guided by surgical precision, snapped forward. She didn't aim to cut. She aimed to impale. The blade entered under the Troll's ribs, piercing the black heart and exiting the back. With a brutal twist of her wrists, Geneviève rotated the blade inside the wound, channeling a pulse of Punish Evil to burn the beast's regenerative ability with holy fire.
The Troll stiffened, opened its yellow eyes wide, and collapsed into the putrid water, stone dead.
On the other side, Korgan was literally hacking his opponent to pieces, laughing like a maniac as he was covered in bluish blood. Alonzo, seeing Geneviève's perfect strike, whistled in admiration. "Mother of God," murmured the swordsman. "That is not brute strength. That is art."
Geneviève pulled the blade from the corpse with a wet sound. She turned to the group, her expressionless visor reflecting the scant light. "One down," said the gravel voice. "I sense six more ahead."
Korgan spat out a tooth that the Troll had knocked out with a punch. He smiled, a toothless and terrifying grin. "I like you, Tin Can. I really like you! Let's go die!"
The strange company resumed advancing into the dark. A fallen noble, a crazy dwarf, a greedy rat catcher, and a knight hiding her face and her sex behind an iron mask. Marienburg had seen worse alliances, but rarely deadlier ones.