by Warhammer
Groans and the scuff of movement reached her ears, seeming to come from all around. Metal clinked and clanged. Something heavy dragged against stone. Something else splashed noisily then stopped. She couldn’t tell whether they were real or some awful auditory hallucination; couldn’t trust her senses beneath the Bad Moon’s gaze.
Romilla held her amulet with one hand and her hammer with the other, praying under her breath and concentrating on scouring the ground for signs of a familiar face. She both longed for and dreaded the sight of Aelyn, Olt or Borik amidst the sprawled bodies, for she desperately wished to find them but feared that, as Bartiman had said, they must surely be slain.
‘What was that?’ said Eleanora suddenly, spinning and pointing her gun at the swirling fumes.
‘You’re seeing things. We’re all seeing things,’ said Romilla.
‘No, there, again!’ said Eleanora, whirling and aiming wide-eyed. Her hand strayed towards the sack of explosives she carried.
‘Eleanora–’ began Romilla, but Bartiman raised a beringed hand.
‘No, she’s right, there’s something moving,’ he said. ‘Stay close and keep a weather eye. We’re not alone.’
Romilla’s heart thudded as they paced slowly through the murk, shuffling along nearly back to back with their weapons raised. Something stirred amidst the fumes and she snatched one of the bombs from her bandolier, almost pressing the stud before she realised that it was a city watchman staggering towards them with a hand raised in supplication. The man’s other arm was missing, and fronded fungi clung to his cloak and flesh.
‘Please,’ he croaked, then he arched his back and gave a gurgling cry as a metal point burst through his chest. The man toppled, revealing a snarling grot behind him with its spear buried in his spine. Eleanora fired, the crack of her gun loud amidst the unnatural quiet of the square, and the grot was flung back into the shadows.
Fresh movement sounded around them, the splash of footfalls, the whisper of cloth. Something laughed, shrill and deranged.
‘Eyes peeled,’ hissed Bartiman, fishing in a pouch at his belt and sprinkling what looked like glittering ashes over the tip of his staff. ‘They’re surrounding us.’
Dark figures surged forward amidst the murk. Bartiman spat a string of syllables and black energy leapt from his staff to reduce half a dozen charging greenskins to withered corpses. More movement, and Eleanora lobbed a brass sphere into the smoke. There was a fierce flash and a deafening bang. A green-fleshed arm slapped into the water at Romilla’s feet, still trailing blood and smoke. She heard a wailing coming closer, a rapid slap of footfalls, and one of the infected burst from the swirling smog to her right. Romilla reacted with practised skill, side-stepping a swipe of clawed fingers and swinging her hammer into the thing’s face. Blood and teeth rained down, and the infected hit the ground. She smashed the back of its skull in to be sure.
‘No use for quiet any more,’ she said, and raised her voice to a booming shout. ‘Aelyn! Borik! Olt! Are you there?’
Groundwater rippled and leapt as something huge lumbered their way. The troggoth emerged from the smog-clouds with a roar, and Romilla realised with a lurch that it was wielding a buckled cannon barrel in both fists like a tribesman swinging a double-handed axe. The troggoth took three long strides and swung its weapon up with a growl. It jerked and staggered as Bartiman’s staff spat darkness again and blasted a blackened crater in the beast’s chest. Yet even as Romilla watched, the wound began to suck closed, the troggoth’s unnatural flesh sealing as quick as it could be harmed. It bellowed and swung, and Romilla leapt aside just in time. The cannon barrel hammered into the cobbles, raising a spray of dirty water that drenched her.
Ponderous, the troggoth raised its dripping weapon and turned, its piggy eyes squinting as its slow intellect processed the fact that she had evaded its blow. It searched the ground and found her again, raising its weapon for another swipe and roaring.
Romilla realised she still had an orb in her hand. She pushed the stud down and flung the weapon at the troggoth’s face. It flew straight into the beast’s open mouth. The troggoth gagged, its roar choked off. It raised a huge hand to its throat, blinked in surprise, then the bomb detonated. Trogflesh sprayed in all directions. Chunks of bone shrapnel whistled through the air and skipped across the soaked cobbles. Mucal slime and gore sprayed Romilla, drenching her afresh. The troggoth, now lacking its head, one arm and most of its upper torso, took a staggering step and pitched over sideways into a pile of corpses. Within seconds, insects were swarming hungrily across it.
Romilla stood, spitting foul-tasting slime. She was angry now, revolted and furious at these vile monsters that had burst up from below to befoul a city of the God-King.
‘Come on, you disgusting wretches!’ she bellowed, and as she raised her hammer it flared with the divine energies of Azyr. ‘Come and meet your righteous annihilation!’
Romilla spun as she heard footsteps splashing closer, yet this time it was several human figures that emerged from the fumes.
‘Borik!’ she gasped, feeling her heart leap at the sight of the duardin. He hastened towards her, his armour battered and scorched, a pair of bloodied watchmen flanking him.
‘Thanks be to Grungni the maker, you made it!’ he said, and Romilla saw none of the gruff cynicism Borik usually affected. He was exhausted, she could see despite his mask, dispirited and hurt.
‘Borik, where are the others?’ she asked.
‘Not here, not now,’ he hissed, beckoning them. ‘The rust-damned Moonclan are everywhere. Come on.’
Romilla followed, unanswered questions burning in her chest. Eleanora limped along behind her, with Bartiman bringing up the rear, staff in hand, scanning around him in search of threats. Water sloshed deeper underfoot as they pressed on across the square, and Romilla almost slipped as the ground sloped away.
‘Edge of the crater, watch your footing,’ said Borik over his shoulder. Romilla felt heat rolling in waves from somewhere deeper into that crater, heard the tick and crack of cooling rock.
‘The meteor?’ she asked. Borik replied with a tinny grunt.
They pressed on, scrambling over scattered wreckage and picking their way between heaps of corpses. Romilla thought that perhaps the fumes were beginning to thin a little, that visibility was improving slowly. The thought didn’t cheer her, but instead left her feeling more exposed. Any moment a horde of greenskins could pour into the square, if they weren’t already, and it could only be a matter of time before the light of the Bad Moon punched its leprous shafts through the thinning haze to twist and taint all it touched. No, she thought, they needed to be well gone and somewhere safe before that happened. If anywhere was safe in Draconium anymore.
At last they reached the far edge of the square, and there Borik led them up a heap of rubble, through a narrow gap and into the unwavering muzzles of half a dozen pistols.
‘Don’t shoot, it’s us,’ growled the duardin as he clambered down the far side of the rubble heap into the remains of the building beyond. Romilla took in the ruin of what must have been a milliner’s shop, its frontage now blocked off by the toppled remains of its upper storey. Hidden in the half-dark was a small group of city watchmen, every last one battered and bloodied. They visibly relaxed as the Swords of Sigmar skidded down the rubble heap, but not that much. Romilla had seen that expression on a lot of faces in her time. It spoke of the horrors its wearer had seen and prophesied a life never again wholly untouched by fear and sorrow. She felt for them, but her first thought was for her friends.
‘Borik, what about the others?’ she asked urgently, hurrying to catch up to the duardin as he passed through a hollow doorway.
Borik’s expression was hidden behind the face-plate of his helm, but the slump of his shoulders spoke volumes.
‘Through there,’ he said, gesturing.
Romilla hastened through the door,
Eleanora and Bartiman on her heels, trepidation filling her. It was an old stock room, she supposed, a gloomy space with wooden shelves packed with dusty hats clinging to the walls and blood staining its threadbare rug.
She saw Aelyn first. The aelf was crouched beside the bloodied figure of Captain Morthan, who lay propped against the back wall with her pistol still clutched in one hand. The captain’s skin was alabaster-pale and streaked with sweat. Her legs were hidden beneath a dirty blanket, which was stained a dreadful dark crimson.
Then Romilla saw the shapes lying along the opposite wall. Forlorn mounds laid out with as much dignity as could be mustered, each hidden beneath their torn cloaks. She saw several blue militia garments, several other black watchmen’s cloaks. For a moment she didn’t recognise the cheap and tattered covering at the end of the row, and wondered if they had dragged the body of an unfortunate civilian with them. Then she saw the tattooed arm protruding slightly from beneath the meagre shroud and felt her throat tighten as she understood.
‘I heard your shouts,’ said Aelyn simply. ‘It is good to see you alive, my friends.’
‘How?’ asked Romilla thickly, gesturing at the hidden shape of her slain comrade.
‘It was the meteor, when it hit,’ said Borik. ‘A shard of flying stone… I don’t think he felt a thing. Hope he didn’t. We’d have prayed for him but none of us ever really learned much about his gods, did we?’
‘I will offer my own prayers,’ Romilla said stiffly, and knelt beside Olt’s body.
‘There isn’t… time,’ said Helena Morthan, her voice little more than a strained croak. Romilla gave a start; in her sorrow, she had forgotten the captain’s presence.
‘I will make time,’ she replied angrily. ‘He died trying to protect your damned city.’
‘Draconium will die, too, if you people don’t act quickly!’ snarled Morthan, her fire flaring through the pain of her wounds. She broke off, coughing wetly into her fist, then stared straight at Romilla. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘A lot of people are going to die.’
‘A lot of people already have,’ replied Romilla, but she rose and crossed to the captain’s side, promising herself that she would attend to Olt’s rites before they left. Never mind that he had been a heathen – he had served the God-King all the same, and his soul deserved what protection she could offer.
‘Let me see what I can do for your wounds,’ she said, taking hold of a corner of the blanket that covered Morthan’s legs. The captain placed a blood-stained hand over hers and shook her head. A look of revulsion crossed her features.
‘Don’t. Please,’ she said. ‘I can’t look upon that again.’
‘The city is already lost,’ said Borik. ‘If it wasn’t before, it absolutely is now. Have you seen it out there? The greenskin filth have won this fight.’
‘Defeatist, for a duardin,’ said Captain Morthan bitterly.
‘Realistic,’ replied Borik. Morthan seemed to dismiss him, looking around as though in a daze until her pupils focused shakily on Aelyn. Romilla realised that the captain wasn’t just wounded; she was dying. Should probably already be dead, if the quantity of blood drenching her blanket was anything to go by.
Morthan grabbed Aelyn’s arm, and the aelf bore her touch without pulling away.
‘Take my seal. My brooch,’ coughed Morthan, pointing weakly to the ruby clasp that held her cloak in place. ‘The watch will obey whoever has that. Get it to Lieutenant Grange, if he lives. If not…’ she coughed again, this time blood spraying from her mouth. She winced, before waving a hand in a gesture that eloquently said ‘you figure it out’.
Aelyn took the proffered brooch and pocketed it.
‘You wish us to aid Grange in the evacuation?’ asked Romilla. Captain Morthan fixed her with a surprisingly fierce glare, for one so close to death’s door.
‘No!’ she hissed, her words becoming more and more laboured. ‘There are secondary armouries. Hidden safehouses. Stockpiles.’ She paused, drawing in a wrecked, rattling breath. ‘Grange has to lead the fight back.’
‘For what?’ asked Romilla, aghast. ‘Even if the city does have hidden reserves, even if by some miracle they’ve not been found and looted, what would be the point? Borik is right, the greenskins and their awful moon have killed this city in a night. All we can do now is to save as many folk as we can.’
Morthan shook her head, urgent and pained. ‘Please, there’s more to this,’ she said. ‘Must be. Your warning. The omens. Why attack here? Why not…’ she shook her head and her hand dropped from Aelyn’s arm.
Romilla leaned close, one hand wrapped around her hammer amulet as she placed a hand to Morthan’s neck and felt a fluttering pulse. Her ear was right beside Morthan’s lips as the captain whispered a last few words.
‘Been in the watch… all my life… trust my instinct… more to this than just… mindless death…’
Romilla sat back on her haunches and muttered a prayer to Sigmar for the captain’s soul, before sliding her eyes shut and brushing her sweat-plastered red hair back from her forehead.
‘What now?’ she asked, as a pair of watchmen moved to their captain’s side and laid her down beneath her cloak. Romilla felt exhausted, hollow from so much loss and terror, the fire of her earlier anger doused by the cold reality of fallen friends and failure.
‘If I might?’ said one of the watchmen. ‘We can’t stay here, it’s too close to the square. But there’s a safehouse nearby, where Gallowhill meets Marketsway. We could regroup there? Then you can decide whether you want to help us fight for this city or… not.’ Romilla heard the effort the man made to control his voice, the anger and loss lurking just beneath the surface. She knew how he felt. Still, Aelyn was their leader with Hendrick gone. Romilla looked to the aelf, who gave a fluid shrug and plucked her longbow from the pack that Romilla had shucked off on the stock room floor.
‘Lead us to this safehouse,’ she said, nodding to the watchman. ‘We will make our decisions there.’
Act 3
WITCHING HOUR
‘A crown upon the Loonking’s head,
A staff clutched in his hand
Both twisted by the fungus moon,
Both blackened like his heart.
Don’t let him see you little one,
Don’t let him hear you cry,
Or down into the darksome depths
He’ll bear you off to die.’
– Azyrheimer nursery rhyme
Chapter Twelve
AFTER
Aelyn peered through the small gap between the wooden slats that covered the window. It should have been dawn by now. Instead, the moonlit twilight persisted. The feeling was surreal and surprisingly unpleasant. The natural order of things had been wholly upended, and any sureties she still clung to she could no longer trust.
Despite a journey of less than a mile through the city streets, it had taken them several hours to reach this safehouse. It was, at least, secure when they arrived; a solidly built townhouse that hid behind a facade of boarded-up abandonment. They had got through the door thanks to the presence of the watchmen they had rescued, coupled with the authority of the late captain’s brooch of office, and had found a dozen watchmen and perhaps three times as many rescued city folk cowering in the rooms within, doing their best to stay silent as the grave.
Most of Aelyn’s companions were now snatching what sleep they could. She did not feel the need, though her wounds ached and her mind churned with nightmare images she would rather forget. She wasn’t sure she could have slept, even had she wanted to; the hours since the Bad Moon’s rise had been too profoundly disturbing.
Instead she had offered to stand guard, along with a couple of watchmen. She could protect her comrades while they rested, and at the same time get a little peace and time to herself in which to think, and to try to come to terms with all that had happened. Both things felt very important t
o her, after what had transpired.
The view through the dirty window was less restricted than she had expected. The boards had been artfully affixed to give the look of long-term abandonment while actually affording good sight-lines in the event that the building required defending. Aelyn could look up and down the street quite a way. She could see the slime-slick cobbles that were slowly disappearing beneath a swelling field of fungal blooms. She could take in the wrecked carriage that had ploughed into a shop front across the way, a half-eaten corpse still dangling from one shattered window. She could look upon the other bodies of dock workers and militiamen and traders that were scattered amidst the debris, their poses unnatural, their bodies thick with squirming insects and swaying toadstools. Blessedly, what she could not see from this angle was the monstrous moon that leered down upon the city.
She could feel it up there, though.
Still watching.
Still leering.
Still hungry.
Aelyn tensed as she heard footfalls slapping the cobbles, approaching fast from the north end of the street. A man burst into her field of view, running hard, slipping and skidding on the treacherous footing. He was dressed in colourful pantaloons that had been torn and stained, and the remains of a large wicker basket dangled from his back. Aelyn tensed as she saw him shoot a panicked look over his shoulder, then cry out as his foot struck something buried in the fungi. The man pitched forwards, landing amidst the foulness in a spray of slime. He scrabbled frantically as he tried to rise. The aelf began to reach for her bow, then stopped herself. The safety of her friends came first. She couldn’t endanger them by drawing attention.
