‘The rain can’t eat away the homes of the poor, nor the poor themselves, not all at once,’ Captain Morthan had commented when she checked in with them two days earlier. ‘But if this storm keeps up, it’ll be their dwellings that start to come apart first, their cases of rain-scalding that will fill up the charitable apothecarions and the shrines on Pole Hill.’

Hendrick supposed that the tattooists would be doing a roaring trade in faith-marks to cover scald-burns once the storm finally subsided. If it subsided.

He looked wearily around the table, noting with mild distaste that creeping mould had taken hold in the gaps between its wooden boards. The Swords of Sigmar were by far the largest single group seated in the common room and, as far as Hendrick could tell, the only out of town guests staying in the inn’s rooms.

‘Not been a good day, has it?’ he asked.

Bartiman chuckled wearily. ‘A fair assessment, sergeant,’ he said. ‘Frankly, I’m surprised we’re all still here.’

Aelyn was withdrawn; salves streaked her skin over several livid scalds, one arm and the other shoulder were encased in bandages and poultices provided by Romilla. The priest looked scarcely better, pale and exhausted as she always was after calling upon the God-King’s aid. Even Borik was quiet. He worked away with a scalthing-iron to smooth the dents out of his shoulder guard where Romilla had gripped it with her miraculously enhanced strength.

Eleanora sat as close to Romilla as she could get, her bandaged wounds hidden under a fresh tunic but clearly paining her. She seemed caught in a loop, going to pull her tools from her satchel then halting, staring at them uncertainly as though they might bite her, pulling a miserable face and counting off on her fingers, right then left, looking around to check Romilla was still there then absent-mindedly reaching for her tools again. She was favouring her left foot also, Hendrick noticed, and he had almost thought to ask her about it, but the moment had passed and now he didn’t feel like distressing the young engineer further.

Hendrick was aware that he, Bartiman and Olt looked little better. They had barely made it out of the tunnel before it fell in. Hendrick had an assortment of contusions where rocks and roots had jabbed at him. Bartiman kept coughing into a black handkerchief, and his breathing had developed a distinct wet wheeze. Olt had fared worst, being forced to dive from the tunnel mouth as it caved in. He had badly twisted one knee, and his palms and forearms were cut to shreds where shards of glass and crystal had ground into them as he sprawled onto the chamber floor.