At last they reached the far edge of the square, and there Borik led them up a heap of rubble, through a narrow gap and into the unwavering muzzles of half a dozen pistols.

‘Don’t shoot, it’s us,’ growled the duardin as he clambered down the far side of the rubble heap into the remains of the building beyond. Romilla took in the ruin of what must have been a milliner’s shop, its frontage now blocked off by the toppled remains of its upper storey. Hidden in the half-dark was a small group of city watchmen, every last one battered and bloodied. They visibly relaxed as the Swords of Sigmar skidded down the rubble heap, but not that much. Romilla had seen that expression on a lot of faces in her time. It spoke of the horrors its wearer had seen and prophesied a life never again wholly untouched by fear and sorrow. She felt for them, but her first thought was for her friends.

‘Borik, what about the others?’ she asked urgently, hurrying to catch up to the duardin as he passed through a hollow doorway.

Borik’s expression was hidden behind the face-plate of his helm, but the slump of his shoulders spoke volumes.

‘Through there,’ he said, gesturing.

Romilla hastened through the door, Eleanora and Bartiman on her heels, trepidation filling her. It was an old stock room, she supposed, a gloomy space with wooden shelves packed with dusty hats clinging to the walls and blood staining its threadbare rug.

She saw Aelyn first. The aelf was crouched beside the bloodied figure of Captain Morthan, who lay propped against the back wall with her pistol still clutched in one hand. The captain’s skin was alabaster-pale and streaked with sweat. Her legs were hidden beneath a dirty blanket, which was stained a dreadful dark crimson.

Then Romilla saw the shapes lying along the opposite wall. Forlorn mounds laid out with as much dignity as could be mustered, each hidden beneath their torn cloaks. She saw several blue militia garments, several other black watchmen’s cloaks. For a moment she didn’t recognise the cheap and tattered covering at the end of the row, and wondered if they had dragged the body of an unfortunate civilian with them. Then she saw the tattooed arm protruding slightly from beneath the meagre shroud and felt her throat tighten as she understood.

‘I heard your shouts,’ said Aelyn simply. ‘It is good to see you alive, my friends.’

‘How?’ asked Romilla thickly, gesturing at the hidden shape of her slain comrade.

‘It was the meteor, when it hit,’ said Borik. ‘A shard of flying stone… I don’t think he felt a thing. Hope he didn’t. We’d have prayed for him but none of us ever really learned much about his gods, did we?’

‘I will offer my own prayers,’ Romilla said stiffly, and knelt beside Olt’s body.