One grot was being towed along by a hound-like thing that strained at its leash and snuffled and snarled. It was mostly snout, Romilla saw, with beady eyes that stared malevolently ahead, a mouth stuffed full of sharp fangs, and a pair of stubby little clawed legs. Her heart beat faster as she saw the beast catch their scent, snapping its snout around suddenly, nostrils flaring. She gripped her hammer tight and placed a hand on Eleanora’s shoulder as the creature took off across the street towards them, but as its lead snapped taut its greenskin handler dragged it back with a bad-tempered yank. The grot snarled at his beast, which snapped and growled at him until a hard kick sent it scampering out in front again. Romilla relaxed slightly, and one by one the procession of grots vanished into the murk.

‘Too close,’ whispered Thackeray. ‘We’re almost there. Hurry.’ The watchman rose and set off again along the street, pistol drawn. Romilla followed.

A few minutes more brought them to an intersection. The street they were on sloped steeply uphill from here, while the road that met it crossways dropped away on both sides between the clustered roofs of houses.

‘It is located a short way up the hill on our left,’ said Eleanora. They advanced, passing dark and crumbling buildings that reminded Romilla of the flensed skulls that had dangled from the grots’ banner. This city was truly dead, she thought. The greenskins and their Bad Moon had killed it.

Ahead, they heard a ululating shriek. There was a muffled gunshot, its flare of fire barely visible further uphill. Everyone tensed.

‘How much further?’ hissed Thackeray.

Eleanora froze momentarily, eyes darting and lips moving soundlessly.

‘El, he doesn’t need it exact,’ whispered Romilla.

‘Fifteen yards, give or take a handful,’ whispered Eleanora, looking none too happy at being forced to approximate.

‘Move, uphill, fast,’ ordered Thackeray. ‘Keep low and quiet, and let’s hope this entrance of yours is there.’

They loped uphill, bent double and desperately trying to mind their footing. Romilla felt something crunch wetly under her boot, heard an insectile squeal, kept moving. A taller structure loomed suddenly on their left, a stone tower with a series of large dials on its front that reminded Romilla of clock faces. Below them was a metal door with an iron ring set into its surface.

‘That door,’ said Eleanora, pointing.

‘Rechter, get it open, the rest of you, eyes open, guns up,’ whispered Thackeray.

A burly watchman hurried forwards. He grabbed the metal ring and tried to turn it, cursing softly as his gloved hands slid on the clammy metal. Romilla brandished her hammer and put out an arm to shield Eleanora, who had drawn a pair of especially large and formidable looking pistols clearly of her own design. The other watchmen clustered close, putting their bodies between Eleanora and whatever had uttered that terrible shriek.