Taking a breath, she forced herself to look through the telescope again. Perhaps they were just carving idols? Greenskins did that, she knew, and if they worshipped the Bad Moon in whatever crude fashion then it made sense they would etch its likeness into things. Yet something made her stare harder, some instinct or inspiration that she could not quite place.

And then she saw it.

Aelyn straightened up from the telescope, her heart thumping sickeningly in her throat. She swallowed, turned to Thackeray and Kole who were watching her with alarm.

‘What in the realms did you see?’ asked Thackeray.

‘There is a tunnel beneath the idol,’ she said, forcing her voice to stay level. ‘They are bringing them up from below. Dozens and dozens of them, and stacking them beside the waterway.’

‘What? What are they bringing up?’ demanded Kole.

‘Barrels,’ said Aelyn. ‘Black and gold barrels. Barrels like the one your regent militant drank from before his horrific demise.’

‘They’ll empty them into the waters,’ breathed Thackeray, growing visibly pale as the implications sank in. ‘The villages to the south. Sigmar’s blood, Hammerhal…’

‘We have to stop this,’ said Aelyn. ‘We have to stop this right now.’

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

ESCAPE

Darkness.

A foul stench.

Throbbing pain that pulsed behind his eyes and ran in electric jolts down his neck.

Borik opened his eyes and quickly blinked them shut again. He had had a brief and bleary glimpse of something pressed close against his face, something fibrous and foul-smelling that he realised encased his entire head. He dragged in a breath, nostrils flaring as he fought back panic. He felt as though he was suffocating. There was something cold and wet jammed in his mouth that he couldn’t spit out. It tasted utterly foul, and he gagged deep in his throat as he fought not to vomit.

He wasn’t thinking straight, couldn’t orient himself. He thought perhaps his aching body was in a sitting position, but when he tried to move he found that his wrists and ankles were locked tightly in place. Borik’s breath came in short, fast gasps as he fought against the pain and the urge to frantically thrash his way to freedom.

Remember the code, he told himself. Remember the code. A Kharadron doesn’t shame himself with humanish displays of fear. A Kharadron stays firm and true as the winds that bear him to his aethergold prize. Amidst the storm, a Kharadron is the riveted iron, unbending and impervious.