‘…then likely so do our friends,’ he finished. ‘Damn. Well, come on then. Let’s see if we can stop this turning into a disaster.’

They were near the tail end of the force now, most of Draconium’s soldiery having swept past them, caught up in the fervour of the charge. Aelyn saw the two cannons being wheeled hurriedly into place, their crews scrambling to load shot and sighting their barrels on the distant idol. She heard the danger before she saw it. A shudder through the ground, a susurrus of rasping cloth and the pound of heavy footfalls.

A gunner turning to grab a powder barrel from the cobbles looked up, and his eyes widened. The man screamed in the instant before a huge club whistled down and crushed him, his field gun and another of its crew. Aelyn spun, and saw a huge troggoth emerge from the shadows of one of the ruined buildings that edged the square. The thing wore a crude helm, and its eyes swivelled to stare at her with dumb hatred. She saw more of the massive beasts, emerging into the moonlight to the flanks and rear of the charging Draconium forces. Around their feet came hordes of Moonclan grots and arachnid ­riders. A vast horde spilled from the ruins, a force that outnumbered those defending the shrine ten to one.

‘Ambush!’ yelled Aelyn, but in their battle-fervour none of the warriors of Draconium heard her.

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

DESPERATION

Aelyn was not given to panic. She had long held a reputation amongst the Swords of Sigmar for her glacial calm in even the direst of situations. Now, though, she felt panic threaten.

She was loping across the square as quickly as she could without leaving Bartiman behind, but the old wizard moved frustratingly slowly. She had no idea how old Bartiman Kotrin actually was, struggling as she did to gauge human ages at the best of times, but she didn’t doubt that his sorcerous abilities had lengthened his lifespan substantially beyond that which was natural. Until Draconium, those same abilities had also lent him an unnatural vitality that belied his aged appearance. Now, though, Bartiman’s wounds, his illness and exhaustion had combined to reduce him to an ill-tempered hobble barely faster than a walk. His staff thunked against the cobbles with every step, and he kept up a wheezing diatribe of profanity as he lurched along in her wake.

‘Hurry, Bartiman!’ she urged.