‘There,’ said one of the watchmen, pointing. A thin silver line descended from the shadowed eaves below a jutting roof. It slid down through the air, directly above the grots looting the blacksmith’s. As Romilla watched, the line dangled down behind one of the greenskins and settled with a glint upon the hilt of a dagger thrust into his waistband. The next moment the dagger was rising skywards, caught neatly in a silken noose and reeled in like a crab on a line. The grot, who was hunched over a barrel and rooting about inside, didn’t notice a thing.

The dagger vanished into the shadows, and again there was a pause. A second floor window creaked part way open above the blacksmith’s, and the dagger flew out of it in a low, tight arc. The blade thumped neatly between the shoulder blades of one of the grots who was ransacking the fishmonger’s, causing him to arch and shriek in pain.

Immediately, the grot’s fellow looters spun and began to scream and jabber at the mob in the blacksmith’s. Those grots turned in confusion, which rapidly became outraged anger. The group in the fishmonger’s grabbed their weapons and stormed across the street, pointing menacingly at the other mob and spitting threats.

Seeing the developing fun, the smaller bunch of grots picking over the smashed glass forgot their glinting prizes and hurried over to watch. Inevitably, one of them was struck by a flying brick lobbed by one of the blacksmith mob, and with a chorus of angry screeches the third mob of grots piled into the developing brawl in the blacksmith’s. Blood sprayed as daggers were drawn and used. One greenskin snatched up a heavy iron mace from a weapon rack and laid into his fellows with it. Meanwhile, at the other end of the street, the troggoths continued their meal, wholly oblivious to the developing carnage.

From the second floor window, Romilla saw a brief flash, moonlight reflecting on glass.

‘The signal,’ she said. ‘Move, now, before they settle their fight.’

They ran quickly, doubled over in the hopes of avoiding notice. Romilla’s heart pounded in her chest at the thought that any second one of the brawling grots might look round and see them. She tried to ignore the awful sense of the Bad Moon peering down at them, and did her best to avoid treading in puddles of congealed slime or on especially slippery-looking fungi.

She offered silent thanks to Aelyn and Sigmar both as she ducked through the smashed-in door of the fishmonger’s. The place was a ruin, mangled produce smearing floor and walls, bugs crawling over everything. Romilla ignored it all and made for the shadowy doorway behind the counter.