‘My people aren’t given to the flights of fancy yours indulge in,’ growled Borik, looking for a moment as though he might shrug the injured wizard off to stand or fall on his own. ‘I heard tell of the light that draws fungus from flesh and iron, like dawn rains in the forest. Does that sound familiar?’

‘Blessedly, that at least seems to have ceased,’ said Romilla with a shudder of revulsion.

‘Only what it touches,’ said Eleanora, fumbling a half-built gadget out of one of her many pockets and rotating it in her hands.

‘What’s that, my dear?’ asked Romilla.

Eleanora shook her head, frowning, but Aelyn felt a surge of realisation at her words.

‘She’s right. It has stopped since we ducked into this tunnel. No more… fungi…’ she grimaced in distaste.

‘And none sprouting within the tunnel’s shadow,’ said Romilla.

‘Plenty outside though, eh?’ said Olt, gesturing to the cobbles directly outside the tunnel entrance. Wherever the pale light reached, the cobbles were slick with mucal moisture, and outcroppings of purple-capped mushrooms were pushing up between them. Nearby lay the body of a fallen feastgoer, fungi swelling up from his fine garb, sprouting out of the walking cane that had spilled from his nerveless fingers – even growing in profusion across his face and the palms of both hands.

‘So, we stay out of that light as much as we can,’ said Bartiman. ‘Fine. I’ll accept that much. Even the most far-fetched tales have a grain of truth to them. But what is this? What does it mean? And what in the name of the Land of Endings are we meant to do about it?’

Before Aelyn could answer, there came a cry from the battlements above. For a moment she feared the inner gates were about to shut. Instead, she heard the percussion of talons and wheels upon the cobbles. An instant later, a carriage was careering down the tunnel towards them from the city end, the gnarlkyd that pulled it hissing frantically. The coachman saw the Swords of Sigmar standing in his path and shouted a frantic command, drawing his team to a halt just a few feet from where Aelyn stood.

The aelf had a moment to take in the fungi sprouting from the carriage’s chassis, the scrapes and cracks on its bodywork and the look of barely-controlled terror in the coachman’s eyes. Then one of the doors opened. Two watchmen hopped down, pistols drawn and immediately levelled at the Swords. After them came Captain Morthan, who had a bloody cut down one cheek and the beginnings of a black eye.

‘Coachman, what–’ she stopped when she saw them, and her expression became stony. ‘You,’ she said. ‘Why is it that wherever I turn to find trouble in this city, there you are? What in the name of Sigmar’s hammer happened? Are the rumours true, is Selvador dead?’

‘He is,’ said Aelyn.