Now came the sound of slapping footfalls and sharp, gurgling breaths. A weird giggle skirled through the mists, getting closer by the second.

‘Rechter…’ urged Thackeray, as loudly as he dared.

‘I know, I know, I’m–’

Watchman Rechter never finished his sentence. One of the spore-sickened fell from above, dropping through the murk to land on him like some huge and horrible spider. Rechter was smashed flat with a cry and the crack of breaking bone. Three more infected burst from the mists as he fell, sprinting flat out down the hill. One had once been a portly noblewoman, whose tattered finery trailed behind her like a comet-trail and whose rouge had mixed with bloody froth on her cheeks. Another was a militiaman whose left arm was nothing more than a bloody stump.

The third was Taverton Grange.

The sight of their former commanding officer charging at them out of the mists was just enough to cause the watchmen to hesitate for a lethal split second. Yellow-eyed and screaming like a gheist, Grange launched himself through the air and hit a watchman with crunching force. The two of them bounced and rolled down the hill and out of sight.

The noblewoman ducked under a panicked halberd-jab and hit another watchman in a tackle around their midriff. The watchman was slammed onto his back, his head cracking painfully from the cobbles. The infected reared up, her throat bulged obscenely, and she vomited a stream of frothing filth into his open mouth and eyes.

The one-armed attacker Romilla intercepted with a thunderous hammer-blow to the face. His legs shot out in front of him and he crashed down amidst the fungi, thrashing out his death throes.

‘Rechter! Rechter, get that door open! Oh, damnation,’ spat Thackeray as Rechter and his attacker rose from the floor. Both of them gibbered, twitched and spat foam. Thackeray raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out through the murk and watchman Rechter was thrown back against the metal door with a clang. He slid to the floor, smearing gore down the door as he went. Eleanora’s pistols barked, their muzzle flares magnesium white in the gloom, and the other infected simply came apart in a welter of blood.

‘Sigmar’s hammer, El, those are fearsome!’