For all that the monsters were terrifying, it was only when the last figure emerged from the pit that Orlen’s fractured mind finally snapped with terror. It wasn’t large, this last being, barely bigger than the black-robes that had preceded it, but a bow wave of malice swelled before it and filled the alley until it felt as though the crumbling buildings to either side must surely collapse. The creature rose regally from the pit, its green-skinned scalp topped with a pale crown of glowing fungal growths whose mycelium dug deep into the creature’s skull. Its red eyes crackled with power, lurid green sparks that danced in the air one moment and dripped like slime the next. One taloned hand clutched a short rod topped with a human skull, whose jaw-bone twitched and whose worn teeth chattered together. In the other, the creature gripped a long staff of gnarled wood from the top of which grew a pallid fungal moon as large as his head.

It was from this awful fetish that the wave of oppressive menace spilled, and as the figure raised its face and arms towards the leering moon in the skies above and screamed out in triumph, Orlen’s basest instincts drove him from his hiding place in a scuffle of rags and splintered wood.

He ran as fast as he could along the alley, weaving frantically through the mass of surprised creatures, darting madly past the few jagged blades that flashed out to slice his skin and tear his ragged clothing. A stomping foot almost mashed Orlen into paste and then he was free, pelting down the street to he knew not where, eyes bulging out of his skull and heart hammering madly. Gales of malicious merriment and jeering shouts followed him into the night.

He knew only one thing. He had to get away from the creature with the moon-topped staff, the being that almost seemed the embodiment of the evil moon above, crammed into a living form and walking the city streets. He had to get away from its malevolent gaze, and its chilling peals of insane laughter.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

SHOCKWAVES

Romilla straightened up, Aelyn’s quiver of arrows, third knife-belt, backup aelven longbow and a satchel of wickedly crafted snares clutched in her arms.

‘Do you have everything yet?’ she asked Eleanora, who had hurriedly but precisely laid out her stash of munitions on top of her bed and had been counting them methodically into a large backpack. As the engineer turned to reply, she let out a hiss of pain and stumbled against the bed. She took a limping step and sat down hard amidst the last few scattered devices, her face drawn.

‘Sigmar’s grace, what is the matter?’ asked Romilla. ‘Eleanora, is it your foot again? Will you let me look at it, please?’