Hendrick applied himself to a haunch of runti, piling up roasted tubers, some kind of tough brown stalks with a spicy aroma, and a generous helping of khenouine gravy on his plate, then digging in. He attempted to look the part of the simple mercenary, eating better people’s food with great gusto. In truth, he was watching the hall, observing the feastgoers, cataloguing exits and escape routes, possible hazards and potential blind spots.

Yet the feast progressed and nothing untoward happened, beyond a relatively poor turn from a group of local musicians who looked frankly terrified to be playing to such a grand assemblage. Servants moved amongst the tables, replacing the empty carafes with small gold and black serving tuns fitted with gilded spigots. The meat course was replaced by a fresh selection of fish, fowl and dairy. People chattered animatedly, got steadily more inebriated, loudly thanked Sigmar for their city’s deliverance – as though daring any to challenge the assertion.

The best part of an hour had passed when at last Selvador Mathenio Aranesis himself graced the hall with his bombastic presence. He strode in amongst much fanfare, clad in his full sigmarite finery and flanked as ever by his aelven bodyguards. Priests followed him, bearing lit censers that gave off sweet-smelling lilac fumes. Selvador climbed a short flight of steps to a pulpit that overlooked the feasting hall and absorbed his guests’ applause and cries of thanks with a warm and humble smile.

After the tumult had gone on long enough for Hendrick to find it uncomfortable, the regent militant raised his hands for quiet. It fell slowly, the more drunk and raucous having to be quieted by their fellow guests. Hendrick’s heart thudded, and his eyes roamed the crowd, the shadows, the exits for any sign of a threat. He saw again his brother’s firelit features, twisted and tormented, and felt a dreadful foreboding settle upon him. A glance at Aelyn showed she felt it too. He longed for the comforting weight of Reckoner strapped to his back.

‘My friends, my friends, we are here this night to give thanks, but not to me,’ said Selvador, his smile widening until his wrinkles almost hid his eyes. His baritone voice rolled through the hall with the consummate skill of a born rhetorician. ‘We are here to give thanks to Sigmar, who in his wisdom and his mercy saw fit to test our faith and to reward our wisdom! Praise Sigmar, God-King of all the Mortal Realms!’

‘Praise Sigmar!’ cried the assembled masses, and it was several moments before the beaming regent militant could once again restore quiet. He laughed with what sounded to be genuine delight.