Bartiman was interrupted by the door of the Drake’s Crown banging open amidst a flurry of wind and rainwater. A watchman burst in and made straight for their table, throwing back her hood as she came closer.

‘Oh, what now?’ muttered Hendrick.

‘You are the Swords of Sigmar, yes?’ The watchman looked them over with a critical eye, dragging her fingers through her short dark hair to rid it of rainwater and then swiftly shaking the droplets from her hands.

‘We have that dubious honour,’ replied Bartiman.

‘Captain Morthan requests your presence at the south gate at once. She said to come prepared,’ said the watchman.

‘Why, what’s happened?’ asked Hendrick. He set aside his ale and reached for Reckoner, ignoring the surge of weariness that made the hammer feel twice its normal weight.

‘There’s a disturbance – just hurry up,’ said the watchman. Her message delivered, she raised her hood and vanished back into the rain-slick darkness.

‘Is this… it… do you think?’ asked Romilla, unhooking her hammer from her belt. Her comrades followed suit, gripping their weapons in ready hands.

‘One way to find out,’ said Hendrick, the alcohol fug clearing at the threat of danger. He found himself hoping that this was, indeed, ‘it’. Anything was better than this awful waiting.

When they reached the south gate, bundled up in rain cloaks and huddled under scald-shades, the Swords of Sigmar found a strange situation developing. Beneath the lights of the spark-lanterns, hundreds of people had gathered in the square behind the gate. They wore all manner of garb, and carried backpacks, walking staffs, satchels, water bottles, all the paraphernalia of a group about to embark upon a long march. They looked odd, though Hendrick couldn’t quite place why.

None were armed that he could see, yet they had been surrounded by a ring of angry looking watchmen with pistols and halberds levelled. The watchmen had their lanterns glaring into the faces of the corralled gathering, trapping them in a bright corona of light. Strangely, though, the trapped mob were doing little to shield their eyes, squinting into the light with a sort of grim determination. They made equally little show of concern about the bows pointed at them from the south gate ramparts, the militia-militant adding their own menace to proceedings.

‘Young and old,’ said Aelyn as the Swords approached the rear of the watch cordon. ‘Rich and poor, all manner of folk. And they’re not wearing anything to protect against the scald.’

Hendrick realised with a start that she was right. That was why they looked so strange; it was days since he had seen anyone outdoors not swathed in protection against the rain. Now he winced at the thought that these fools were standing out beneath the downpour utterly unprotected.

‘Sigmar’s hammer, they’ll be lucky to have skin or hair by morning!’ he exclaimed.