‘Your fervour does you credit, my friends, just as your faith and prayers bolstered my own and gave this city the strength it needed, when it needed it most. A toast, then, to all of you, and to Sigmar almighty, for without your strength and his guidance this humble old priest could never have sent the heretics out into the night to perish!’

Selvador motioned for one of his priests to bring forth another tun, and swiftly decant a measure of wine into a simple silver cup. This, the regent militant raised. The great and the good of Draconium echoed his gesture and, as he drank, so did they. To his irritation, Hendrick noticed Borik did too, in defiance of his orders.

Selvador set down his cup upon the edge of his pulpit and smiled around the room.

‘And now, my friends, to make…’

He stopped with a slight frown, and Hendrick found himself tensing.

‘And now…’ the regent militant tried again, stopping and swallowing hard. His mouth turned down in consternation. A murmur rippled around the hall. Hendrick felt the dread that had been gnawing at his guts surge up like bile into his throat as Selvador leaned heavily on the edge of his pulpit and thumped himself in the chest.

Poison? thought Hendrick. Or was it something in the food, or in the wine? He was half way to his feet, ready to rush to the regent mili­tant’s aid when the old man gave a convulsive cough, and his eyes widened as a great cloud of glowing purple motes billowed from his mouth and drifted down upon the feasters below.

Then, bedlam.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

MOONRISE

Hendrick felt a surreal sense of horrified fascination as the glimmering purple cloud hung in the air. It coiled languidly, then began to drift downwards. By the time those feastgoers nearest the pulpit broke their paralysis, the motes were settling on them like snow.

Selvador shuddered and gave another convulsive cough. Another cloud billowed from his lips, and this time Hendrick saw the glisten of blood mixed in with what he realised with a lurch must be spores.

‘Someone fetch a healer! Attend the regent militant, damn it!’ shouted Hendrick, his sergeant’s bark shattering the silence like a hammer-blow. Selvador Mathenio Aranesis clutched his throat, staggered forwards and pitched over the low railing of his pulpit. His body fell with a crash onto a banqueting table ten feet below, splattering feastgoers with mashed vegetable and splatters of cooling sauce. Madness erupted as guests across the hall pushed themselves to their feet, some trying to make for the regent militant to offer aid, others turning for the exits, many of them drunk and all of them quickly entangling one another in a heaving mass of panicked bodies, toppled chairs and spilled wine.