‘If the greenskins come for us, press down the brass stud on the top of the orb and throw it at them,’ said Eleanora. ‘It should take three seconds for the mechanism to fire.’

They picked their way through the roiling fumes. Romilla knew from prior experience that Bartiman’s powers afforded him sensory perception that went beyond the canny, especially when it came to seeking out souls either alive or dead. She didn’t waste breath asking him where they were going, she simply trusted him to lead the search.

Romilla felt nausea sweep through her at the touch of the airborne spores. She could only imagine what horrible effects they might have, and wherever she saw one settle on her skin she brushed it away before its tingling touch grew too intense. The fumes hid the face of the Bad Moon, yet she felt no relief from its malevolent regard. Her head swam, and ghoulish shapes reared up through the smoke, the screaming faces of diseased friends long dead that broke apart like phantasms whenever she looked their way.

Groans and the scuff of movement reached her ears, seeming to come from all around. Metal clinked and clanged. Something heavy dragged against stone. Something else splashed noisily then stopped. She couldn’t tell whether they were real or some awful auditory hallucination; couldn’t trust her senses beneath the Bad Moon’s gaze.

Romilla held her amulet with one hand and her hammer with the other, praying under her breath and concentrating on scouring the ground for signs of a familiar face. She both longed for and dreaded the sight of Aelyn, Olt or Borik amidst the sprawled bodies, for she desperately wished to find them but feared that, as Bartiman had said, they must surely be slain.

‘What was that?’ said Eleanora suddenly, spinning and pointing her gun at the swirling fumes.

‘You’re seeing things. We’re all seeing things,’ said Romilla.

‘No, there, again!’ said Eleanora, whirling and aiming wide-eyed. Her hand strayed towards the sack of explosives she carried.

‘Eleanora–’ began Romilla, but Bartiman raised a beringed hand.

‘No, she’s right, there’s something moving,’ he said. ‘Stay close and keep a weather eye. We’re not alone.’

Romilla’s heart thudded as they paced slowly through the murk, shuffling along nearly back to back with their weapons raised. Something stirred amidst the fumes and she snatched one of the bombs from her bandolier, almost pressing the stud before she realised that it was a city watchman staggering towards them with a hand raised in supplication. The man’s other arm was missing, and fronded fungi clung to his cloak and flesh.