‘Move up! Move up!’ That was Watchman First Class Shen’s voice, raised from somewhere amidst the main advance. They had started as a small party, slinking through the carcass of their dead city, but as they had got closer to the square they had been joined by one band of watchmen or militia after another. Aelyn had recognised Watchman Kole amongst the newcomers, shooting her a nod and receiving a fierce grin in return.

The greenskins had responded swiftly to their advance, grots spilling from the shells of buildings, dropping from shattered windows and clambering up out of pits and shattered sewer gratings. Initially their attacks had been piecemeal and ill organised, easily repulsed with volleys of shots and a few well placed blows. As the defenders of Draconium advanced, however, the greenskin numbers thickened rapidly. As they passed beneath an arching stone bridge hung with dangling human corpses, bellowing troggoths had emerged from the shadows to plough into their ranks with clubs swinging.

Flapping monsters with bat-wings and gaping maws had swooped down to bite watchmen’s heads clean off. Spider-mounted greenskins had ambushed the advancing forces several times, galloping straight down sheer stone walls and scuttling along the undersides of road tunnels while emitting shrill war cries.

Still the Draconium forces had pushed on, and now they were within sight of their goal. No wonder Shen was urging the advance; at the rate they were going, Aelyn thought, they might actually succeed in driving the grots off!

Another hail of arrows fell from the rooftops to the right of the street. She popped up for a moment to see more grots scurrying along the slates to add their shots to the volleys. Black arrows fell amongst the advancing watchmen, and several crumpled.

‘We need to clear those roofs or this push will stall,’ said Aelyn. A robe-bundled figure dropped into cover beside her, and she saw Bartiman’s tired eyes glinting at her from under his cowl.

‘I think I may be able to do something about that,’ he said. ‘This will put the terrors up them.’

Bartiman produced a hideous little doll from under his robes, a fetish made from twists of cloth and splinters of bone. The thing’s dead glass eyes stared from a face made of black hair and jagged flint. It made Aelyn shudder. Bartiman gripped the fetish firmly in one fist, allowing its sharp shards to puncture his flesh until they drew blood. At the same time, he began a muttered chant that grew swiftly in volume and complexity until he was spitting twisted syllables while blood drizzled from his fist onto the cobbles. The surviving militiamen exchanged a nervous glance and edged away as far as they dared.

Then Bartiman punched his fist skywards and shouted out.

‘Nar, Alhamar, Shyisha-Nar Kon Olynder-Nar!’