Hendrick spun to see that while everyone had been staring fixedly at the exchange between the watch captain and the cult leader, a gilt-chased coach had rumbled down Herald’s Street and come to a stop on the edge of the square. His eyes widened as he realised that, alighting from the carriage beneath the cover of a metal scald-shade held up by a pair of liveried servants, was the regent militant of Draconium. It was Selvador who had spoken, and who now approached across the cobbles, flanked by his aelven guards.

‘The arch pretender!’ screeched Krysthenna, levelling a rain-dripping finger at Selvador as he came closer. ‘The liesmith, the deceiver, the gilded tongue whose poisoned words have led this city’s foolish faithful astray and would see them burn in the fires of damnation!’

‘All of these are names that I could ascribe to you, Krysthenna,’ replied Selvador in the commanding voice of a battlefield general. ‘But that is not why I have come. I have prayed long and hard for guidance from Sigmar, for a sign as to why these terrible omens and dark days have plagued our city. Now I know. It was not our paucity of faith, not some failing of the good people of Draconium. No, it was the poison that drips from your lips, serpent temptress, that has brought the wrath of Sigmar down upon our proud city. I grant you this boon for which you so stridently pray. I grant it though surely it will be your damnation, for you lead your foolish flock unprepared out into the wastelands and you shall not be given succour here again. Take your false faith and get hence from my city, and in going take with you the curse that has benighted all of our days!’

At the regent militant’s order, the south gates of Draconium ­rumbled open. Uttering strident prayers and rapturous exclamations, Krysthenna and her flock flowed through the arched tunnel, beneath the murder holes and the iron spikes of the raised portcullis, and out again into the rain-soaked night.

The regent militant took the steps up to the gatehouse ramparts, his retinue moving awkwardly with him up the cramped stair. Captain Morthan followed close on his heels and Hendrick, never one to wait for permission, led the Swords of Sigmar in her wake.

‘My lord, is this wise?’ asked Morthan as they reached the top of the wall. Iron braziers burned along its length, and in their flickering light Hendrick could see the Chosen spilling from the outer gate in a jubilant mob. There was still one barge left on the river, he saw, its captain particularly tenacious or desperate; the bewildered bargemen lined the rail of their craft and stared groggily at the jubilant flock whose cries had woken them.