Selvador’s chest was a distended dome, his throat a quivering sac within which things squirmed. Spore-thick froth drizzled down his cheeks and Romilla saw to her revulsion that questing tendrils of mycelium crawled out of his ears, his nostrils, even the corners of his eyes. The man’s gaze rolled madly towards her and she recoiled as she realised that somehow, he was still alive.

There came a grotesque ripping sound and a series of awful cracks as something forced the regent militant’s ribcage open. Blood fountained, mixed with glowing spores, and Romilla found herself backpedalling again to get clear of the lethal contagion. Unfolding itself from Selvador’s burst torso came a great mass of rubbery purple fungus, which grew and spread by the second. Thick tendrils thumped down and quested across the tabletop, pulsing and growing even as she watched. Blunt and bulbous growths swelled from within Selvador’s carcass like impossibly bloated organs that grew and grew, shedding more glowing spores as they went. In seconds, the fungal mass had obscured the regent militant’s body entirely and was spilling off the sides of the table, which groaned and then cracked under the ever-increasing weight.

Romilla looked longingly at Hendrick’s fallen form, already crawling with mycelium where the vile fungal mass was spreading over him. He was dead, she knew, and there was nothing of him left in that mortal flesh now. Nothing left to save.

With that knowledge came the thought that she must warn the others, that they must do something to stop the spread of this revolting daemonic growth. Who was to say when, or indeed if, it would stop growing?

Romilla spun on her heel and ran for the exits as behind her the pulsating fungal mass grew.

And grew.

And grew.

Aelyn cursed in frustration as she stumbled down the palace steps. Only her inhuman grace and poise prevented her from tripping and falling as panicked feastgoers barrelled into her. She had lost Eleanora when the press of the crowd drove her clean past the guard post and out of the arched main door.

People wailed in fear as they staggered out into the open space of the square before the palace. The mummers had long ended their performance, but now they sprang up from where they had been chatting and smoking jacu root, staring in frank shock at the panicked tide of people surging down the palace steps.

‘The regent’s dead!’ screamed a disconsolate voice. ‘Sigmar almighty, the regent’s dead!’

‘Plague!’ cried another.

‘Chaos, the taint of Chaos is upon us, the unbelievers defiled our city!’ came another shout. Palace guards were trying to force their way back up the steps, but against the fleeing masses it was a hopeless effort.

Aelyn caught sight of Eleanora, staggering from the leading edge of the crowd, hobbling badly. Aelyn slipped through the milling crowd, wondering if those who had just kept running had the right idea.