‘Enough, shut yer mouths,’ spat the grot king, its words thick and snarling but comprehensible. Borik felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck as the figure stalked closer and peered regally down at him. A cruel smile played at the corners of the grot’s wide mouth.

‘Oo are you then?’ asked the grot. ‘Talk, stunty, wot’s yer name?’

Borik tried to speak around whatever was gagging him. He could produce only a groan. The grot king scowled, pantomiming noticing Borik’s gag for the first time.

‘Oh speak up, zog’s sakes! And don’t talk wiv yer mouth full! Don’t yooz know yer addressin’ Skragrott da Loonking? You ain’t worthy, ya little scrutter. Someone get dis leg bone out of his gob, it’s makin’ me hungry!’

The grots cackled at their master’s jest, and the one with the alembics on his back hastened forwards. Borik heard more spider silk tear, and then blessedly the awful tasting object was ripped from his mouth. He spat bile as he saw the rotting bone now clutched in the grot’s hand.

‘Come on then, oo are ya?’ asked Skragrott, leaning closer. ‘And why woz you trying to sneak out of my city?’

‘Borik… Borik Jorgensson,’ he croaked. ‘I was leaving because… the place has… gone downhill of late.’

Skragrott blinked, then his face split in a broad leer.

‘Oh, Bad Moon’s blessings ladz, we’ve got one wot finks he’s funny.’ The grin turned hard and mean, and Skragrott brandished his skull-topped staff under Borik’s nose. The duardin stiffened as the skull’s jaw twitched, and a murmur of jumbled voices spilled from it.

‘Listen to me, stunty. You don’t want to be funny. You don’t want to be clever. All yooz want to be is helpful, and maybe you get out of this alive. Now you don’t look like dem uvver gits that fink they can stop us from taking wot’s rightfully ours. You ain’t a black-robe or a spear-boy. I should know the difference, we’ve snatched enough of ’em these last days. Nah, you’re something else and I want to know what. And I’m Skragrott da Loonking, so I always get what I want.’

‘I don’t care… if you’re the king of that rust-taken moon up there…’ panted Borik, his mouth bone dry and still full of that foul taste. ‘You’re a filthy grot and I’ll not tell you anything. Not that I’ve got anything to tell.’

Skragrott’s smile widened, showing an alarming array of fangs.

‘You best hope dat’s not true, stunty,’ he said. ‘I can drive ya mad. I can turn you into whatever ’orrible thing I please. Know why? Coz I ain’t da king of da Bad Moon. No, I’m its emissary!’ He shouted the last word, brandishing his staffs and eliciting a worshipful cry from the assembled grots.