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Fangs of the Rustwood – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Fangs of the Rustwood

by Evan Dicken

In his time with the Order of Azyr, Kantus Valo had trekked through many perilous places – from the Bruteplains of Ghur to the feculent mires that had spread like tumours across the once beautiful forests of Ghyran. And yet, few places had been so menacing as the Rustwood.

What began as a respectable path had tapered to a tightrope of dirt. Razorweed loomed on either side of the trail, shredding cloaks and flesh at the slightest misstep. Scrubbing a hand across his sweat-streaked brow, the witch hunter gingerly stepped over a thick patch of mirrorvine, only to leap back as something fell from the branches overhead. A daggerlike leaf flashed past Kantus’ face to clatter in the brush below.

He glanced warily up at the canopy. It was late afternoon, but the tangled branches almost blotted out Chamon’s ruddy bronze sun.

‘You’re bleeding, lord.’ Bas, the commander of Kantus’ four guards, held out a bit of torn cloth, gesturing to the witch hunter’s face.

Kantus raised a hand to his cheek, and his fingers came away wet with blood. He took the proffered rag, wrinkling his nose as he dabbed at the cut.

‘By Ghal Maraz, we’ll have to hack our way through.’ Bas removed his helmet to run a hand through his sweaty hair. ‘Those vines will blunt any blade we have.’

‘Then we shall blunt them. The Order of Azyr will not be kept waiting,’ Kantus ordered. On the map, the path ran right through the Rustwood, a far quicker journey to the Order’s stronghold at Eshunna than the old Lantic road through the Iron Desert.

‘Lads won’t like that.’ The veteran sucked air through his teeth. ‘Not with night approaching.’

‘We must press on.’

‘And the prisoners, lord?’ Bas winced.

‘I shall see to the prisoners.’

Haste was not his only reason for passing through the Rustwood. As much as Bas and the other guards were discomfited by the journey, the forest’s danger hung like a noose around the necks of Kantus’ prisoners, drawing tighter with each step. Those in fear were less able to mind their tongues, more likely to let something slip.

And Kantus would be there when it did.

With a ragged salute, Bas turned away, calling for the other guards to break out axes.

The witch hunter made his way to the back of their tiny column where his three charges shuffled, chained hand and foot in a short coffle attached to the back of an ibuq. The great land lizard shuffled along with its rolling, splay-legged gait, its long rasp of a tongue flicking out to nervously test the air. The metal chest and supply packs on its back rattled around.

‘Apologies, lord.’ The guard, Yusán, tugged the ibuq’s rein as the witch hunter approached. ‘Something’s got her spooked.’

Kantus held out his hand.

‘You are needed up front.’

‘Thank you, lord.’ Yusán handed over the reins with a look of relief. ‘Don’t know how much more doomsaying I could stand.’

Kantus dismissed the guard, then turned to regard the lead prisoner.

‘You must turn back, before it is too late,’ the tall man in ragged robes wailed. Elabrin’s hair was unkempt, his once neatly combed beard now wild. Runes of negation were etched into his manacles, their soft glow casting the mage’s face in harsh relief and lending him a threadbare, nervous aspect like prey caught out upon an open plain.

‘Eyes like burning coals glitter in hungry shadow.’ Elabrin took a shaky breath. ‘We are as insects, struggling upon the surface of a still pond. Be still, be still!’

‘Enough prophecies, sorcerer. They’re what put you in chains in the first place,’ the second prisoner, Garrula Heko, growled, glaring at the back of Elabrin’s head as if she wanted to stab a knife in it. From what Kantus knew of Heko’s unsavoury reputation, she would have no qualms about killing the mage. Small and lithe as a gutter viper, with a round face and deep-set eyes, Heko cut an unassuming figure. But if Governor Bettrum’s journals could be believed, she was a purveyor of the most illicit and baneful toxins, linked to over a dozen poisonings over the past decade.

‘I am but a mouthpiece,’ Elabrin sighed, his voice taking on a weary tone.

‘It is not your prophecies that concern me.’ Kantus rested one hand on the pommel of his duelling sword. ‘But what steps you might have taken to realise them.’

‘Governor Bettrum would have brought doom to Uliashtai.’ Elabrin shifted with a clatter of chains. ‘I do not deny I prophesied this, but I did not murder him.’

‘That remains for the Order to determine.’ It was highly unorthodox, Kantus’ superiors demanding to see to the matter personally, but Governor Bettrum hailed from an old Azyrite family, one with connections that stretched throughout the Mortal Realms. And if Kantus understood anything, it was the importance of connections – favours paid and owed, the invisible currency of Azyrite society, one far more valuable than gold.

As the fifth son of a minor noble family, Kantus had joined the Order of Azyr to root out corruption and rid the realms of the heretical filth that gnawed at the roots of civilisation. If he happened to rise through the ranks of the Order in the bargain, it would only mean he was better placed to do Sigmar’s holy work.

The witch hunter regarded the three prisoners. One of them was a murderer and a heretic. If two innocents needed to suffer to find the guilty party, such was the price of justice.

‘Lord Bettrum was slain sometime in the night. His bodyguards saw no one enter or leave, there was no sign of a struggle, no forced entry and nothing out of place – this suggests sorcery.’

‘He’s got you there, mage,’ Heko drawled.

‘Or poison,’ Kantus countered. Governor Bettrum had tracked Heko for years, but had been unable to link her to a single murder. It would be quite the coup for Kantus to visit Sigmar’s justice upon such a traitor.

‘This still does not explain why you dragged me from my garrison, witch hunter.’ Captain Lim met Kantus’ gaze with unflinching calm. The third of his suspects, Lim was a broad-shouldered woman who bore her chains with the easy familiarity of someone used to bulky armour.

Kantus gave the captain a thin smile. ‘Your disagreements with the governor are well known.’

‘Hardly a condemnation.’ The captain’s lip curled, revealing several missing teeth. ‘If I wanted Bettrum dead, I would have challenged him to a duel.’

‘Like you did Captain Hardanger?’

Her jaw pulsed. ‘Hardanger was a drunk. Inebriation and high ramparts make for poor bedfellows.’

‘Be that as it may, you gained from your old captain’s death, just as you stand to gain from Lord Bettrum’s.’ Kantus cocked his head. ‘Or did I misread your petition to be named interim governor?’

‘I have fought for Uliashtai my whole life, bled for it.’ Lim stiffened. ‘I would die for my city.’

‘Kill for it, too, I presume,’ Kantus replied. ‘The captain of the city guard would be intimately familiar with the governor’s security, the layout of his chambers, patrol routes, perhaps even his nightly routine.’

The captain lapsed into cold silence.

‘Lord Bettrum’s body bore only one wound – on his stomach, just below the ribs,’ Kantus said. ‘None of his servants were aware of the injury, and yet the wound had putrefied, dark veins spreading through the governor’s body, paralysing him long before the corruption reached his heart. He died alone and in great pain, unable to even call for help. Do any of you know what might have caused such a death?’

‘They tread silken paths, delicate and deadly. Legs like knives, mouths like daggers.’ Elabrin let out a soft moan, but Kantus remained watching the other two prisoners.

Lim gave no reaction.

Heko, however, did.

It was slight – a tick at the corner of the poisoner’s mouth, a narrowing of her eyes – and yet it was the first crack in Heko’s mask. Now, Kantus only needed to widen it.

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