She set down her end of the litter and turned, raising her makeshift metal shiv. She motioned for Eleanora to do the same. The cracking came again, echoing between the tightly packed trees. She and Eleanora exchanged a look. The forest canopy was dense here, and little enough daylight got through. If something foul had fled the city into the forest… They shuffled closer together, between Bartiman and the trees, and waited.

The branches stirred, then parted.

Romilla brandished her blade.

Then she sagged with relief as Watchman First Class Marika emerged from between the ashenpines. The watchman stared at them in frank disbelief. She lowered her pistol, then put her fingers into the corners of her mouth and whistled short and sharp.

Two more figures emerged behind her, a watchman and a militia­man. They gaped at Romilla and Eleanora, who stared back in equal shock.

‘You’re alive,’ said Marika finally. ‘Sigmar’s throne, you survived!’

‘Barely, and not all of us,’ replied Romilla. ‘And Bartiman still may not live. Please, tell me you have a camp near here. He needs a fire, broth, bandages and herbs if you have them. I–’

Marika held up a hand and smiled, the first honest smile that Romilla had seen in a long while.

‘Follow me,’ she said. ‘You helped us beat them. You banished the moon. What we have is yours.’

Marika’s companions moved to take up the litter but Romilla waved them away, and she and Eleanora hoisted their frail companion between them. They followed Marika into the underbrush, taking care not to let stray branches or thorns scratch at Bartiman’s unconscious form. The watchman and the militiaman fell in behind them, betraying themselves as city-dwellers with every crack of a broken twig that snapped beneath their feet.

Marika took a winding course, through a thicket and down into a shallow river-ditch, then back up the muddy bank and through a stand of ironoaks into the dappled sunlight beyond. It took Romilla’s eyes a moment to adjust from the shadows of the forest to the glare of daylight, but as they finally did she felt weak with relief.

A clearing stretched before them, and there they were. Hundreds of men, women and children, battered and bloodied but alive. Many nursed injuries, broken limbs, bloody gashes and the like, but they were alive. They huddled around camp fires, some beneath makeshift shelters, and men and women of the watch and the militia moved between them with food and supplies. Romilla saw a handful of priests, too, figures festooned with faith-papers and tattoos who drifted from one huddled band of survivors to the next with healing poultices and words of comfort.