‘Oh no,’ breathed Aelyn as the chorus of insanity intensified. She heard pistol shots. Blades clashed. Screams of pain rang out. At last the searing light died, cut off as though a curtain had dropped. Aelyn peered over the rubble to see the army of Draconium tearing itself apart. Men and women throttled one another or hacked at their former comrades with looks of animal ferocity on their faces. Some tore off their hoods and cloaks and raised their arms wide, weeping and laughing as fungi burst out all over their bodies. A watchman dug his dagger into his own flesh, wailing in panic as he rooted bloodily for something that was not there. Aelyn’s throat tightened as Watchman Kole stumbled past, weeping tears of gore where she had clawed her eyes from her skull, whispering over and over again about a gift from on high, a gift from on high.

Then came the sounds of gongs hammering and clanging, and a ragged battle-cry rose from hundreds of grot throats. Those around the idol surged forwards, spears levelled. Arrows rose from amongst their mass and rained indiscriminately down into the brawling Draconium soldiery. Fanatics burst from amongst their ranks, frothing madly as they whirled their huge wrecking balls into the humans. Blood sprayed.

Aelyn looked back to see more grots closing in across the square from all sides. In the pallid moonlight, gathered in such numbers, they resembled a mass of moving shadow dotted with hundreds of red eyes, wicked fangs and sharp blades. Troggoths waded amongst them, booming roars echoing skywards. Squig riders bounded over the grots’ heads in a swarm, every wild leap carrying them closer.

Terror gripped Aelyn as she watched the horde close in.

‘What do we do?’ asked Bartiman, slumped weakly against the rubble with his staff across his lap. Aelyn looked down at the frail old human and shook her head numbly.

This wasn’t some brave last stand. It was a massacre, and they had walked right into it.

There was nothing they could do.

They were going to die.

Romilla squeezed herself from the tunnel and fell to the stone floor. She was sweating and scraped, her skin scalded in several places. She gave a dry cough, wincing at the pain in her injured side and gouged face.

‘I would give my hammer for a glass of water,’ she croaked. Thackeray placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head in warning, raising a finger to his lips. Eleanora was crouched nearby, pistols in hand and eyes wide.

Natural light filtered from somewhere above, illuminating a wide square chamber with a low ceiling and metal steps leading up and out of sight. The pipes they had followed ran along the chamber’s ceiling before vanishing up through the stonework, rattling and hissing louder than ever.