‘Up you come, you filthy old conjurer,’ said Borik, grabbing Bartiman by his uninjured shoulder and hauling him unceremoniously to his feet. ‘Let’s hope they don’t spread this thing with their bite, eh?’

Bartiman’s mind had been swimming with pain, but that thought sent icewater down his back and brought everything back into sharp focus.

‘Horrible… thought…’ he grunted, fumbling with his good hand for a leather pouch at his belt. Managing to open the drawstring as Borik shielded him from the crowd with his body, Bartiman extracted a generous pinch of black salts and, after a deep breath, ground them into his wound. He swore effusively as the grave-salts went to work, black ash puffing from his wound as it dried out and sealed shut. He would need proper healing, Romilla’s healing – and soon, if he wanted to keep using that arm properly – but at least he wouldn’t bleed to death.

Bartiman had lived a long time, far longer than any of his comrades, except perhaps Aelyn, he suspected, and he had learned an interesting thing over that great span of time.

The longer one lived, the more concerned with going on living one became, and Bartiman Kotrin was keen to avoid the underworlds of Shyish for a long while yet.

Romilla backed away until she hit the feasting table behind her. She shook her head in mute denial as Hendrick doubled over and retched violently. The club dropped from his twitching fingers and a wordless snarl bubbled between his foam-flecked lips.

‘Hendrick. No, please. This can’t be happening. Sigmar, please preserve us, this can’t be happening.’

Hendrick’s head snapped round at her words, and she felt a lead weight settle in her chest at the sight of the redblooms clouding his eyes, the purple veins worming their way through his flesh. Hendrick retched ropey strings of slime and let out a low growl.

He took a step towards her, another, his fingers flexing into claws, his limbs shaking.

‘Hendrick,’ she tried one last time, knowing it was hopeless but praying for a miracle. Romilla grasped her talisman and prayed with all her might for Sigmar to intercede, to save her friend, her comrade of many years. To lose Varlen then Hendrick like this in so short a time, it was just too cruel.

‘Sigmar, preserve your servant, I beg of you!’ she cried, but no golden light flared, no warm rush of divinity spread through her like the rays of dawn. There was only her friend, his face twisted into a monstrous mask, frothing poison spilling from his gaping jaws, his heavy muscles flexing as he lurched towards her.