‘Not yet though,’ said Skragrott, straightening up. ‘For now, let’s see how you enjoy a bit of the Bad Moon’s generosity.’ So saying, the grot swung his other staff around so the glowing fungus at its tip was pointed straight at Borik. The duardin squirmed, unable to stop himself, desperate for that horrible object not to touch him. He was powerless to stop it, though. Skragrott tapped it once against Borik’s chest: just a gentle nudge, accompanied by a string of glottal sounds deep in the grot’s throat.

Then he stepped away with a wicked grin and swept from the chamber. The other grots hurried after their king, while the ­troggoth stomped across the chamber and settled heavily in one corner. It locked its dull gaze on Borik and then became still as stone.

Borik barely gave the monster a thought. His heart was racing painfully and there was a tight pain in his chest that he knew was nothing to do with panic. He felt awful pinching sensations deep inside his torso, and groaned at the sensation of something squirming deep inside him.

What in Grungni’s name should he do? Borik tried to restrain his panic. Was he about to burst open from within like the regent militant? He prayed to all the gods of Order that it wasn’t so. He might not always have been his best self, but he didn’t deserve so horrible a fate as that. The minutes dragged out, Borik waiting with horrified fear as the pinching, twitching feelings inside his chest continued. He felt his breathing getting ragged, and coughed hard, his chest convulsing as though something inside was tearing. His eyes widened as he saw glowing motes dancing on the air in front of his face. Had he coughed those up? What was going on inside his body? Borik’s skin crawled and his thoughts spun. Revulsion made his skin tingle. The grot had put something inside him. He couldn’t flee, couldn’t try to tear it out, couldn’t even move. He could only feel that awful squirming going on and on, only endure the tightness and convulsions of his chest, only give occasional wet coughs when he couldn’t control his hitching chest any longer, then moan in horror at the sight of the glowing spores that drifted lazily from his mouth to settle upon his body.

They tingled where they landed, and his flesh crawled anew at the thought of whatever horrors their touch might bring. At last his shortness of breath and the awful dizziness of Borik’s concussion conspired to plunge him back into a black well of unconsciousness. The duardin welcomed the feeling.