The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Throw down your weapons!’

  ‘On your knees! Get down on your knees!’

  ‘Throw down your weapons!’

  The soldiers’ peremptory commands were barely audible above the general commotion. Their spears were still pointing at the assassin. He seemed to accept the situation, looking in turn at the face of each man threatening him. His closed lips did not tremble, in fact he was terribly calm. Why? Why was he behaving this way? Any other assassin would have committed his crime as stealthily as possible, using the crowd’s movements to make good his escape.

  Only when a soldier dared to move forward did he finally react, seizing the man’s spear with a firm hand and giving it a sharp tug to bring it towards him. His hapless victim was unable to parry the dagger thrust into his chain mail with enough force to perforate the metal mesh before digging into the soldier’s abdomen.

  This was a message. A warning. A threat directed at all of the councillors. As he climbed into his coach, Azdeki turned back to watch the scene. The circle of soldiers around the assassin tightened. At its centre, two daggers slashed the air and the clatter of blades and armour filled the square. And then, before the astonished eyes of the old general standing a few yards away, the killer emerged from the ring. A dagger in each hand, he shoved two soldiers aside and nimbly bounded out into the square.

  It was him . . . Reyes’ protector, his loyal assassin . . . the Hand of the Emperor . . . Why? How? Dun-Cadal was borne away on a floodtide of emotions and questions. But there were no answers, no comforting explanations. He had to know for sure . . . He had to stop that man! He ran, following in the wake of the guards. Onlookers dispersed ahead of the fugitive, yelling in alarm. No man dared to stand in his path. But another squad of soldiers deployed in a street that ran into the square, positioned to intercept the criminal and looking confident. There was no possible escape, the old man kept repeating that to himself.

  The assassin didn’t even slow at the sight of the wall of spears blocking the street. He dodged right with a twist of his hips, sprang on top of a barrel at the bottom of a rusty drainpipe and took a flying leap towards the flower-laden balcony of a house across the way. The stunned soldiers halted in their tracks. Behind them, Dun-Cadal spotted an alley to his left and ran into it, coughing from his exertions. It had been a long time since he run this hard, but he paid little heed to his laboured breathing or to his still-pounding head. Looking up, he saw the assassin’s silhouette. He was climbing a rooftop with ease.

  ‘Stop him! Stop him!’

  ‘He went that way!’

  ‘We can’t lose him!’

  An alley, a street, and then another . . . Several times, Dun-Cadal almost collided with startled passers-by. As he ran, he tracked the assassin, jumping from roof to roof. His shoulder slammed into a woman carrying a basket of laundry. Grimacing, he struggled to keep his balance, ignoring the woman’s insults, and resumed his chase. After five minutes, however, a sharp stitch in his side forced him to come to a halt. His hand pressed over his heart he leaned against a wall, listening to the guards’ distant shouts. Breathing heavily, his face and lungs on fire, he drew in air deeply as he gathered his wits. The days when he had fled over rooftops, taken bold leaps, employed the animus, were long gone. He had been one of the greatest knights. And now?

  He was nothing but a crazy old fool, lost in Masalia, waiting and hoping for a violent death to find him in some dive in the city’s slums. But it wasn’t death that had found him, no. It was a young red-head, and she’d brought his entire past with her . . . Closing his eyes, he heard a voice, a murmur from the past . . .

  ‘I’m ready . . .’

  His knees folded and he slid down the wall, his face covered in sweat . . .

  ‘I’m ready!’

  ‘No. I won’t change my mind, Frog.’

  The lad’s words, so long ago, just before their destinies became linked. With unexpected aplomb, he had told Dun-Cadal he was ready to leave the Saltmarsh, to cross the rebels’ lines, to fight and to kill other men. Heedless that it was an entirely different matter to their training with sticks, Frog had believed he was ready to commit irrevocable deeds. Because a life once taken could never be returned . . .

  ‘Yesterday you said I’d made enormous progress!!!’

  ‘For an armless man, learning to lift a sword with his feet constitutes enormous progress,’ Dun-Cadal replied with a sly grin. ‘That doesn’t mean he’s capable of defeating an army.’

  With the help of his makeshift crutch, he hobbled back to the leaning cart. In the two months he had been here, this was the first day he had managed to remain standing for more than two hours without suffering for it.

  ‘You’re . . . stupid,’ spat Frog, balling his fists with a fierce scowl.

  Weary, the general slowly sat down on a crate and propped his crutch against the worm-eaten cart. The sun was setting in the distance, bathing the tall Saltmarsh grasses in a blood-red glow. He had become accustomed to the young boy’s insolence and was almost amused by it. He even put up with being called Wader. No one had dared give him a nickname before and his acceptance of one now wasn’t because he was separated from his army. The lad had come to represent a part of himself that might survive his own death; his knowledge, and . . . No, even more than that. Frog had become the son he had dreamt of so often and been unable to offer Mildrel. As he watched Frog, standing a few feet away from the campfire, his fists pressed hard against his thighs in a pose of sullen anger, he felt no regret about agreeing to teach him the art of war. The lad handled himself well and, more importantly, a raging desire to learn burned within him, to the point of consuming him. Dun-Cadal had felt the same when he was younger, but never to this extreme. The fire had to be dampened from time to time; Frog still had many things to learn. Among them, patience.

  ‘Stupid for wanting to keep you alive? Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘You don’t understand anything . . .’ the boy sighed before sitting down.

  ‘I understand that you’re in a hurry to leave here. Me too! You’ve been feeding us on whatever you can pilfer from Aëd’s Watch. And it’s crap . . . although it’s a bit tastier than those frogs you hunt out here . . . Speaking of which,’ he pointed at the boy, screwing up his face in disgust, ‘your hive frogs, they sit heavily on my stomach. Try to find something else.’

  ‘That’s exactly my point! It’s time to go!’ Frog protested, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Not yet. You’re not ready and neither am I,’ said Dun-Cadal, lowering his finger to indicate his outstretched leg.

  It seemed sturdier now, enough that he had decided to remove the splint, but he had to build up the muscles before he could attempt anything at all. He would need another month before chancing a frantic escape across the enemy lines. He’d already reconciled himself to the idea, having no other real choice. And the one factor that had convinced him this plan was the lesser evil was Frog’s determination. He had started to train the lad without much conviction until he noticed that, after nightfall when he believed his teacher was asleep, Frog continued his exercises. He saw the boy’s silhouette brandishing the wooden stick that served as his training sword, and later, as the days and nights passed, using the knight’s own sword. Frog only permitted himself a few hours of sleep but he never complained. He kept his efforts secret, but every night he practised his moves.

  ‘Tomorrow . . . tomorrow, we’ll try a different lesson,’ said Dun-Cadal.

  He picked up the flask lying at his feet and opened it slowly. Frog went to sit down under the far corner of the cart, swearing to himself.

  ‘You know how to parry and you’ve learned some offensive thrusts. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to attack someone from behind.’

  ‘Attack someone from behind?’ Frog asked in surprise as he drew up his legs. It was his favourite position, masking his lower face behind his knees, just as Dun-Cadal had seen him sitting the first time.

  ‘There’s no honour in fighting like that!’ he prot
ested.

  Dun-Cadal forced himself to drink a mouthful of Frog’s peculiar remedy. It had proved effective, but he had stop himself from gagging each time he swallowed any of the mixture, even a drop. He gulped some more before leaning towards the lad.

  ‘There’s no honour at all in killing someone, lad.’ His voice was suddenly grim and subdued. ‘No matter how you strike. There’s no glory to be had in taking a life.’

  The only sound was the crackling of the fire in the twilight. The pair stared at one another. Finally, Frog lowered his eyes to his knees.

  ‘You haven’t always been a knight, have you?’

  Dun-Cadal set the flask down at his feet, cracked his knuckles and yawned.

  ‘No.’

  With the foot of his healing leg he scuffed the ground before him, pensive. The lad hadn’t earned the right to learn more about him. If he opened up, it would change their relationship. Could he trust the boy with the truth? He was a child of the Saltmarsh . . . an enemy who had saved his life and rebelled against his own kind, instead of holing up at Aëd’s Watch. Would he be able to understand the course his mentor’s life had taken?

  ‘You were an assassin, weren’t you?’ asked Frog bluntly.

  Surprised, Dun-Cadal raised his eyes.

  ‘What’s the difference between an assassin and a knight, do you think?’

  Looking puzzled, Frog poked the fire.

  ‘One kills for money and the other for duty?’ he offered finally, not certain it was the right answer.

  ‘That’s a very simplistic view,’ Dun-Cadal sighed. ‘Believe me, lad, one day you’ll understand.’

  They ate soon after, relishing a rabbit that Frog had pinched the previous day from the Aëd’s Watch market. It made a pleasant change from hive frogs. That evening, they exchanged a few simple words, almost enjoying one another’s company, and fell asleep in a serene state of mind, far from the uproar of the revolt.

  The month that followed was, by and large, similar to the preceding ones. Frog learned to wield a sword more effectively, including parries and stealthy attacks. And each night, when he believed his mentor had fallen asleep, he continued to practise the moves he had learned during the day. As Dun-Cadal’s leg strengthened, dark rings grew under the lad’s eyes. But the general didn’t comment. He watched the boy suffer, endure, and become exhausted to the point of falling to his knees, his face lined by the ordeal of training. Each time it happened, Frog picked himself up without his mentor ordering him to do so. How far would he go? Dun-Cadal neither criticised nor praised him. He limited himself to teaching and kept his admiration to himself when he saw the lad start to combine the moves he had been taught, wincing from the pain in his muscles.

  The general had come across more gifted pupils in his day, but none with this degree of dedication. It was close to madness: the lad compensated for his faults with an unbending determination. Frog was convinced he would become the greatest knight the world had ever known, and after three months together, Dun-Cadal was starting to believe he had every chance of succeeding.

  ‘Arm straight. Straighten your arm!’

  In the middle of the tall grasses, the boy was pointing the general’s sword before him, his face expressionless. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the heavy grey-edged white clouds. The day before, a patrol from Aëd’s Watch had passed close by their camp. The noose was tightening around them.

  ‘Straighter,’ said Dun-Cadal, raising his pupil’s arm with a nudge of his stick.

  Frog glared at him from of the corner of his eye but immediately focused on the sword before him.

  ‘Now parry!’

  With a brusque movement, he stretched one leg behind him, bent the other and brought the sword up towards his head.

  ‘Cut!’

  He turned the blade to strike at an imaginary enemy on his flank.

  ‘Your feet, lad, pay attention to your feet.’

  ‘I am paying attention,’ Frog objected, abandoning his pose to relax his aching muscles.

  He had been slashing the air with the blade for five hours now without a single break, and this was the first time he had made any complaint. Dun-Cadal had been waiting for this moment when his pupil finally showed signs of impatience. He knew the lad was over-confident, too sure of himself, too ready to throw himself into the wolf’s jaws. The enemy’s lines had not advanced, the Empire was no longer retreating. And the two of them were still barely surviving out here, in the heart of the marshes.

  ‘Really?’ said Dun-Cadal with a smile, wielding his stick like a sword.

  He traced circles in the air with the point before slowly walking over to place himself in front of the boy.

  ‘Resume your position,’ he ordered.

  Letting out a sigh, Frog obeyed.

  ‘Parry!’ shouted the general as he brandished his stick.

  Frog parried the blow, but felt a sharp stab in his hand as the general struck.

  ‘Thrust!’

  He hadn’t had time to finish the move before Dun-Cadal sidestepped, lunging to strike the boy’s extended leg. Frog bent his knee, stifling a cry of pain. The stick whipped at the back of his head and then hard against his shoulder. Overbalanced, he fell hard to one side.

  The lad cursed, lying with half his face plunged in the mud, and then breathed heavily.

  ‘Your leg is stretched out too far. If a blade doesn’t cut it, a club will break it,’ Dun-Cadal said in a calm voice. ‘Get up.’

  Frog stood up with a scowl. Anger was visibly rising within the boy. For the first time, it was strong enough to burst through his patience.

  ‘Keep your arm held very straight—’

  ‘What good does it do?’ the boy raged. ‘If my arm is straight? If I have my feet here or there? Well? You’re doing this to stop us leaving. Because you’re scared. You’re no great knight. I saved your life for nothing!’

  He flung the sword down in disgust.

  ‘I should have let the rouargs eat you,’ he snapped, turning away.

  ‘So that’s why . . .’

  Dun-Cadal’s features shifted, a thin smile appearing on his lips. The lad was still a mystery to him and he’d made little progress in learning more. A new side was revealing itself at last. To his surprise, he realised he was moved by the fact.

  ‘So that’s why you saved me.’ Frog had his back to the knight, hands on his hips, staring at the marshes in the distance. ‘To teach you to fight, help you escape from the Saltmarsh . . . and after that?’

  Dun-Cadal spoke quietly, his gaze fixed on the boy who had saved his life out of self-interest. He had kept his guard up for so long, done everything he could to remain aloof, but as the days passed he had grown fond of Frog. What was the lad fleeing, for him to pin so much hope on becoming a knight of the Empire?

  ‘What will you do, Frog . . . after that?’

  ‘After what?’ the boy snapped, exasperated.

  ‘After we cross the lines and rejoin my army.’

  Frog turned slowly, his gaze still furious but his face gradually softening.

  ‘I told you I would help you get through the lines.’

  ‘That’s not why you asked me train you.’

  The lad looked troubled.

  ‘Why?’ insisted the general. ‘What are you running away from?’

  The boy fidgeted and his expression grew suddenly sad.

  ‘Frog—’

  ‘There’s nothing left for me here,’ the boy finally said. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Dun-Cadal let the silence stretch, hoping the lad would break it with a confession. But there was no sound except the rustling of the wind in the tall grasses.

  ‘You want to fight in order to kill people, is that it?’ Frog did not react. ‘Well, I’m teaching you how to stay alive. You made a distinction between being an assassin and being a knight, but in the end what you want, going about it like this, is to become an assassin.’

  ‘No, that’s not it, Wader, it’s—’

 
‘I’ve been teaching you to stay alive from the beginning because tomorrow, when we try to cross the lines, I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘You don’t understand, it’s—’

  Frog stopped, surprised.

  ‘What did you just say?’ he asked, excited. ‘You said—’

  ‘You saved my life. And you rarely complain. You’re enduring these exercises as few knights have managed before you.’

  ‘You just said—’

  ‘I have respect for that, lad. But if you don’t listen to me, you’re going to die in combat. And I would never forgive myself for that.’

  Frog finally held his tongue. He was listening this time. And seeing him listen, Dun-Cadal knew that he found the right words to make him reflect a little.

  ‘Tomorrow. You’re ready,’ he said simply, before turning on his heel.

  But Frog’s voice stopped him.

  ‘No.’ The general spun around and was surprised to see the lad, sword in hand, arm outstretched. ‘Show me more.’

  The wind in the tall grasses, the sun slipping between the clouds, the croaking of frogs in the distance . . . The life of the Saltmarsh went around them, heedless of the man and the lad lost in its midst. It took no notice of the fact that a bond had just grown between them which would change the world.

  ‘Teach me . . . I’m not ready.’

  5

  BLOOD-STAINED GLOVES

  If there was one hero

  In the Saltmarsh,

  Just remember his name:

  Dun-Cadal Daermon.

  The hand tightened on the stick to test the grip, making sure it would not slip from a closed fist or break upon striking. With a movement of the wrist, he traced circles in the air before briskly halting the movement. The wood vibrated as if it had struck something. The knight brought the stick up towards his tarnished armour and placed his palm against the whittled point. The weapon was sharp enough to pierce the hide of an ox. Satisfied, he removed his hand as his gaze fell upon the reflection in a stagnant puddle: a tired-looking man. His features were etched by the salt, his face burnished by the sun. His beard bore witness to the many months he had spent in the Salt-marsh. Sitting there at the edge of the marshes he was almost unable to recognise himself.