They reached the end of the street, and at last Fountains Square opened out before them. Aelyn felt a sudden surge of hope. Around the square’s edge, greenskins and soldiery were locked in violent conflict. Further back, arranging themselves with swift and professional determination around the fountain itself, she saw hundreds of militia. Watchmen were gathering there too, and mobs of what looked like citizens clutching makeshift weapons, old blades, broken bottles; anything they could find. Aelyn saw priests, too, clad in similar garb to that worn by Romilla, their flesh scarified and tattooed, their expressions fierce. The Etched, she assumed. Cannons were wheeled into place by sweating crewmen. The banners of Draconium hung lank and fungus-spotted beneath the Bad Moon’s light, but they were raised nonetheless, and a substantial army was gathering beneath them.

Aelyn saw a figure she assumed must be Arch-Lector Kayl, astride a snorting demi-drake that wore hammer-inscribed barding of rich gold. The man was straight-backed and imposing. His beard was neatly forked and a halo of saintly power played about his head. A cloak of spun gold flowed behind him as he stood in his stirrups and bellowed commands at his swiftly mustering soldiers.

‘Quickly now, we must join them,’ said Morthan, and set off across the square at a run. The ragtag group followed, weaving around a mob of greenskins and discharging pistols into them, dodging their return spear-thrusts. Aelyn spun around an assailant and rammed a blade into the grot’s eye, ripping it away bloody before running on. The ranks of soldiery were less than a hundred yards away now, closer by the footfall. Here was a chance to fight back. Here was a chance to survive, to take revenge for Hendrick’s death.

The pressure wave hit like an avalanche.

Aelyn felt herself leave the ground, felt everything tumble madly around her. The floor hit her cheek like a punch. She blinked stars from her eyes, tasted blood and felt the tug of a loose tooth. Aelyn scrambled to her feet and saw the proud muster in disarray. Men and women were picking themselves up, dazed and bleeding. Cannons had been hurled onto their sides and one crewman was screaming shrilly where his legs had been pinned beneath a fallen field-gun. Around the square, several buildings had collapsed in avalanches of rubble, burying city folk and greenskins alike, and the square’s ornamental trees now leaned at crazed angles, their roots jutting up from the ruptured soil of their beds.

‘Are those stars?’ asked a watchman as she staggered upright beside Aelyn.

‘Stormcasts! It’s the Stormcasts!’ cried another, pointing up at the glowing points of light that stood out stark against the Bad Moon’s visage. They were bright, glimmering sparks that grew larger by the second. Drawing closer, Aelyn thought. Could they be Stormcasts, riding the God-King’s lightning down into Draconium to deliver vengeance and retribution?