Morthan shook her head, urgent and pained. ‘Please, there’s more to this,’ she said. ‘Must be. Your warning. The omens. Why attack here? Why not…’ she shook her head and her hand dropped from Aelyn’s arm.

Romilla leaned close, one hand wrapped around her hammer amulet as she placed a hand to Morthan’s neck and felt a fluttering pulse. Her ear was right beside Morthan’s lips as the captain whispered a last few words.

‘Been in the watch… all my life… trust my instinct… more to this than just… mindless death…’

Romilla sat back on her haunches and muttered a prayer to Sigmar for the captain’s soul, before sliding her eyes shut and brushing her sweat-plastered red hair back from her forehead.

‘What now?’ she asked, as a pair of watchmen moved to their captain’s side and laid her down beneath her cloak. Romilla felt exhausted, hollow from so much loss and terror, the fire of her ­earlier anger doused by the cold reality of fallen friends and failure.

‘If I might?’ said one of the watchmen. ‘We can’t stay here, it’s too close to the square. But there’s a safehouse nearby, where Gallowhill meets Marketsway. We could regroup there? Then you can decide whether you want to help us fight for this city or… not.’ Romilla heard the effort the man made to control his voice, the anger and loss lurking just beneath the surface. She knew how he felt. Still, Aelyn was their leader with Hendrick gone. Romilla looked to the aelf, who gave a fluid shrug and plucked her longbow from the pack that Romilla had shucked off on the stock room floor.

‘Lead us to this safehouse,’ she said, nodding to the watchman. ‘We will make our decisions there.’

Act 3

Act 3

WITCHING HOUR

‘A crown upon the Loonking’s head,
A staff clutched in his hand
Both twisted by the fungus moon,
Both blackened like his heart.
Don’t let him see you little one,
Don’t let him hear you cry,
Or down into the darksome depths
He’ll bear you off to die.’

– Azyrheimer nursery rhyme

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

AFTER

Aelyn peered through the small gap between the wooden slats that covered the window. It should have been dawn by now. Instead, the moonlit twilight persisted. The feeling was surreal and surprisingly unpleasant. The natural order of things had been wholly upended, and any sureties she still clung to she could no longer trust.