The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Frog,’ he hailed. ‘Come here.’

  ‘He’s grown up,’ Negus murmured.

  ‘He hasn’t become much wiser, though,’ Dun-Cadal said before raising his voice once Frog had joined them. ‘Do you remember Negus? From Garmaret?’

  Without saying a word, the boy nodded before bowing slightly. Their first stop once they left the Saltmarsh behind had been the fort at Garmaret, then under the command of General Negus. Of course he remembered. Dun-Cadal had spotted him talking to a girl, a refugee from the Saltmarsh, and with his keen eye had understood that he was attracted to her. But now Frog remained unsmiling, displaying only the politeness owed to a general. Negus’s face darkened.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ he said. ‘You’ve changed a great deal since we met at Garmaret.’

  ‘As have you, since you lost that town,’ Frog replied bluntly.

  In the shadow of his hood, his grey eyes shone with a piercing light, looking straight at the dumbfounded little general. Time stretched between them, as though the boy’s reply left them both stunned. Before Dun-Cadal could give voice to his indignation, Negus let out a breath of stupefaction. Then he tilted his head back to look at the sky and laughed loudly, striking his bulging belly.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ he chuckled. ‘You are indeed his mentor!’

  ‘He sometimes forgets who he’s talking to,’ Dun-Cadal fumed, giving the lad a black look.

  But Frog did not seem to care.

  Negus immediately calmed his comrade’s wrath with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Bah . . . he’s right,’ conceded Negus with a sweep of the hand. ‘I lost Garmaret. But who could have held it, faced with the scale of the revolt?’

  Dun-Cadal feared that a voice would pipe up to claim that he, Frog, would have done so, but the boy remained quiet. He had to be aware of his mentor’s embarrassment. He nevertheless gave the general an amused glance full of mischief and provocation. Dun-Cadal stiffened, his fists balled, ready to deliver a reprimand. But deep down he’d grown fond of the lad’s spiritedness. In other circumstances, facing people he disliked, he would have been entertained by such impudence.

  ‘I didn’t think the Emperor would send you here,’ Negus remarked. ‘Especially for mere escort duty. Is this inventor really so important?’

  The scowl on his round face left little doubt as to his low opinion of the man.

  ‘The inventor himself ? I don’t know. But the nobleman at court who requested his repatriation surely is, yes.’

  ‘Bah,’ Negus murmured. ‘If the Emperor granted the request and assigned you to this mission, then he must have deemed it important too. And to tell you the truth, it suits me. A few more days and I would have skewered him.’

  Dun-Cadal raised his eyebrows in puzzlement. Negus looked around the village, studying the houses.

  ‘Aladzio! Aladzio!’ he called out. ‘Where is the blockhead? Aladzio!

  When a slender figure appeared around the bend in a street, a tricorne jammed on his head, Negus beckoned him to hurry.

  ‘Aladzio! Get over here!’

  ‘I’m coming, General, I’m coming,’ the young man answered breathlessly. ’Just give me time to . . . Oops!’

  In his haste, he dropped four long parchment scrolls he’d been carrying under his arm. He bent down to pick them up, but in doing so he let slip some books he had been hugging to his chest with his other arm. On his knees in the snow, huffing, he tried to gather all of it up again. His breaths formed little clouds in the cold air, coming faster as his anxiety grew.

  ‘Him? A genius?’ sneered Negus. ‘Three months he’s been out here, studying I-don’t-know-what kind of stone and the only thing he’s achieved is to set fire to a barn.’

  ‘An accident?’ Dun-Cadal suggested.

  ‘Three times in a row?’

  Dun-Cadal held back a laugh, crossing his arms.

  ‘I don’t know which nobleman values this good-for-nothing so highly, but if he’s planning to burn down his apartments he’s found the right man for the job,’ added the little general before shouting again: ‘Aladzio! They’re just bits of paper, let them rot in the snow!’

  ‘Let them rot?’ objected the alchemist, clumsily scooping up his scrolls. ‘Works hand-copied by the scribes in their monasteries? You have no idea, General, of the sum of knowledge contained in these bits of paper, as you put it. The Order of Fangol would be appalled if I damaged these scrolls.’

  And, shivering in his long grey cloak, he shuffled forward with tiny steps. When he arrived at the foot of the watchtower Frog barred his way, tapping the pommel of his sword. The alchemist looked to be about twenty-five years old, with a pale face and rings under his eyes. His high cheekbones were reddened by the cold and his hair tumbled out from beneath his jet-black tricorne to fall in curls to the nape of his neck. His cloak was spattered with odd stains, either the result of his experiments or simply dirt, it was difficult to say. Licking his thin chapped lips, he repressed a nervous giggle, stepped around Frog and presented himself to the two generals, looking highly embarrassed.

  ‘A thousand pardons, I— I’ve found some . . . some . . . yes, some finds, I would say,’ he stammered. ‘Some stones in the mines near . . . over there, the mines . . .’

  Crushing the parchments against his chest, he managed to free one of his arms to extend it towards the woods before the watchtower.

  ‘The territory of Stromdag’s men,’ Negus explained, raising his eyes towards his friend. ‘He’s the one leading the revolt in Kaperdae, Krapen and the area surrounding us here in Kapernevic. The miners have joined him. He promised them their freedom.’

  ‘The mines,’ repeated Aladzio in a dreamy tone. ‘There are plenty of finds there.’

  His face lit up with a wide grin, almost like that of a half-wit.

  ‘Just the idea, it’s like . . .’ He hunted for the right words and then, leaning forward slightly, said in a confidential tone: ‘It’s like the kiss of a woman on your . . . I mean . . .’

  Dun-Cadal looked away, both amused and shocked. Who had taken such an interest in this man that they must fetch him from this distant region of the Empire? Ignoring Aladzio, the general turned to his friend.

  ‘Stromdag?’ he asked. ‘I can’t stay long, but what’s the situation here?’

  ‘Oh, there’s not much to be said,’ Negus sighed.

  Advancing towards the pillars of the watchtower, Dun-Cadal raised his voice.

  ‘Frog, go with Aladzio to the inn and see about our chambers.’

  ‘But . . .’ the boy whined.

  Dun-Cadal barely turned his head. His tone was enough to quash any further insolence.

  ‘Take care of Aladzio and don’t argue. We’ll be leaving at dawn tomorrow.’

  He exchanged a smile with Negus upon hearing the lad mutter in discontent.

  ‘Come here,’ Frog said to the inventor in an icy tone.

  And the pair of them went back up the village main street, heading in the direction of the inn. Aladzio almost trotted to keep up with the boy, taking care not to drop his precious scrolls.

  A few soldiers passed by the watchtower, looking wan and tired. Their armour was tarnished and bore numerous nicks, while beneath it pieces of their chain mail hung down like tatters of old cloth.

  ‘Stromdag,’ sighed Dun-Cadal. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He started off as a common thief,’ Negus replied. ‘A sort of bandit with a big heart, in the eyes of the peasants in these parts.’

  He began to climb the ladder leading to the tower’s summit, inviting his friend to follow him, and as he climbed he continued his account:

  ‘A little over a year ago he became the leader of the revolt here in the North. The general in command at the time managed to push him back as far as Kaperdae, but it cost him his life.’

  ‘And in this cold the rebels are still holding their positions?’ enquired Dun-Cadal.

  Negus reached the top of the tower and used the par
apet to hoist himself into the lookout post. Some heavy logs tied to one another with braided ropes provided a thick platform protected by planks. Wooden poles rose from each of the four corners to support a sloping roof. Two guards paced back and forth keeping watch on the horizon, bows in their hands. A third guard was seated near an old sack and was whittling the tip of arrow with a big knife. Upon seeing Negus arrive he stood up as if caught doing something he shouldn’t. Without saying a word Negus waved him away with a scowl. The man drew back and let them approach the parapet. Their hands resting on the edge, the two generals contemplated the forested expanse covered in a thin white blanket which stretched out below them. The horizon merged with the blindingly white sky.

  ‘That’s their territory,’ Negus commented grimly. ‘They know every nook and cranny in these woods, all the way to the mountains a little further north. They’re at home out there.’

  ‘Just like in the Saltmarsh,’ acknowledged Dun-Cadal.

  ‘In the Saltmarsh they sent the rouargs against us. Here they promise freedom to the miners . . . and stir up the dragons . . .’

  These lands belonged to the Empire, but what general could claim to know them completely? Most of them had grown up in Emeris and when, like Dun-Cadal, they hailed from elsewhere, they had usually spent their youth cooped up in a castle. The war continued, quite simply, because the bonds joining them to the people had been broken. And the Emperor himself was unaware of the fact. For the first time, in all the fighting Dun-Cadal had known, he had the strange feeling that the Empire was really crumbling.

  ‘Do you see that basin over there?’ asked Negus, pointing his finger at a spot in the distance.

  In spite of the trees covering it all the way to the foothills of the mountains, Dun-Cadal could make out the form of a valley.

  ‘That’s the only reason we haven’t been defeated yet,’ admitted Negus. ‘The dragons are hemmed in by the forest. They don’t try to fly over it to attack Kapernevic. You see? They simply charge into the trees, once Stromdag has drawn them out of their lair. It’s the only reason we’re still holding on here.’

  ‘Animals,’ groused Dun-Cadal. ‘Just animals . . .’

  He knew that dragons were almost as dumb as sheep, but to that extent? The advantage they gave the rebels might turn out to be a weakness, after all.

  ‘Animals, certainly, but ones that can tear our men to pieces, even when they remain on the ground,’ Negus replied. ‘Imagine what will happen the day one of them decides to fly over to this side of the valley . . . So far, they’ve kept to the mountains.’

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Dun-Cadal assured him. ‘It’s always the same with these dragons. You herd them into a corridor, under an open sky, and they’ll follow it like stupid rats. Things never change, Negus.’

  ‘Yes they do,’ Negus said in a whisper, his eyes lowered. ‘Some things do change.’

  He drew in a deep breath before saying, as if it were a dead weight he wanted to be finally rid of:

  ‘Nothing will ever be the same as before. This war has gone on for too long. You’ve just come from Emeris . . . haven’t you felt it?’

  ‘Felt what . . . ?’

  ‘The vipers’ nest, my friend. The Emperor is receiving poor advice. Uster’s son, Laerte, is still at large. He’s embarked on a campaign near Eole, word has it. But although we know there’s a revolt there, nobody can confirm that he’s the one leading it. He seems to be everywhere at once, at the head of every rebellion that breaks out. They arrested rebels at Serray, you know. They were interrogated. They captured some others around Brenin. All of them said that Laerte was there, but none of them could say what he looks like. The man is so completely disembodied he’s become merely a rumour. And do you know happens to rumours? They collect at the Imperial palace. Rebellion is brewing there too . . . People fear most the things they can’t see. Certain noblemen have already rallied to Laerte’s cause. The ideas Oratio of Uster was peddling are becoming attractive. We made a martyr of him when we hung him. Laerte has realised this: he’s waging a political war, through accusations and hearsay . . . That’s what’s going on in Emeris. A war using no weapons but words.’

  Standing with his forearms on the parapet, Dun-Cadal let his gaze drift over the strangely silent landscape. How peaceful Kapernevic seemed. The distant trees swayed gently, caressed by a slight breeze.

  ‘Are there any suspects?’ Dun-Cadal asked grimly.

  The very idea that Emeris might be infested with traitors was unbearable. The palace was his refuge, his lair . . . his heart. He had protected the Emperor in inadmissible ways before later serving him as honourably as possible. And now the perfect world he had built for himself was tottering like some poorly made tower . . . as rickety as the wooden watchtower on which he now stood.

  ‘There are rumours about noblemen from families close to the Saltmarsh. The counties of Asher and Rubegond, the duchy of Erinbourg, not to mention refugees from the Saltmarsh itself . . . certain ones in particular.’

  Fight. Strike. Attack. That was familiar ground for Dun-Cadal. But the struggle for influence in high places was totally foreign to him. He felt himself at a loss. On edge, he slowly straightened up.

  ‘What are your plans for countering Stromdag?’ he asked.

  He might as well stick to discussing things he’d mastered.

  ‘My friend . . .’

  Negus placed a hand on his forearm, looking sorrowful.

  ‘The Emperor is wary of refugees from the Saltmarsh who are now in Emeris. Don’t you understand?’

  Dun-Cadal took a deep breath. Yes . . . he understood. He had fully grasped the inference, but he refused to take it seriously. With a quick motion, he shook Negus’s hand from his arm and left the parapet.

  ‘Dun-Cadal,’ called Negus.

  ‘He has no need to be suspicious of Frog! No more of him than anyone else,’ the general said coldly without turning round.

  He prepared to descend the ladder, placing a foot on the first rung.

  ‘Listen to me!’ implored Negus as he joined him with an urgent step.

  ‘He won’t betray the Empire!’ Dun-Cadal said angrily.

  ‘Perhaps not, but be on your guard,’ Negus advised. ‘Some of those close to the Emperor think he is dangerous.’

  Seeing his friend’s stricken expression, Dun-Cadal responded with a savage smile. Frog was only a boy, yet the guileful advisers who were poisoning his Emperor with their vile words were afraid of him. There at least was one point all could agree upon.

  ‘They have reason to be frightened of him.’

  The idea pleased him. He knew nothing of politics and had no particular liking for the games of power. All that mattered to him was the respect earned by deeds, not empty words. Frog had risked his life so many times fighting the rebellion that to imagine, for a single instant, he could be accused of sedition was intolerable.

  During the rest of that day, as he and Negus inspected the troops, Dun-Cadal kept thinking about what awaited them in Emeris. Although he was close to the Emperor, did he carry enough weight to defend his pupil if . . . ? No, it was inconceivable.

  When he joined Frog again in the cosy warmth of the inn he was still not reassured. The lad held a small wooden horse in his hands. Dun-Cadal had seen him contemplating this particular object before, a child’s toy he must have picked up on the road from the Saltmarsh. He brought it out on the eve of each battle they fought. The fact that he was holding it now did not augur well.

  ‘The troops look tired, don’t they?’ Frog said as his mentor sat down at his table. A fire crackled with bright red flames in the inn’s wide hearth. They danced above the logs, revelling in their wavelike movement, spreading a saving warmth throughout the room. All around them soldiers were making the best of their meagre hot meal. At the counter, some of them were getting drunk in silence, gazing blankly into space. A feeling of great lassitude reigned, as if the cold here at Kapernevic had frozen every desire.

&n
bsp; ‘Weren’t we the same at the foot of the Vershan mountains?’ Dun-Cadal said lightly as he clasped his hands together on the table. ‘Or at Bredelet after three weeks of fighting? You’d wear the same look if you’d been here as long as they have, believe me.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ agreed Frog, looking down at his plate.

  The remains of his meal rimmed the porcelain. With a nonchalant gesture he seized his steaming tankard and drank a mouthful. The scent of it reached the general’s nostrils and he recognised the smell of hot berry juice with distaste. Too sweet for him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a serving wench with an impressive bosom filling a jug from the spout of a barrel. He beckoned to her and then brought his attention back to his pupil. He seemed troubled.

  ‘Where’s Aladzio?’

  ‘He went back to the house he’s been occupying to pack his bags. Is it true we’re leaving tomorrow?’

  ‘We have a mission. We’re under orders to accompany this inventor back to Emeris. He’s too much at risk here and there are important people worried about his safety.’

  ‘I’d like to give him a thump,’ Frog declared flatly.

  Dun-Cadal bit back a chuckle.

  ‘Don’t laugh, Wader,’ Frog said, looking aggrieved. ‘All he does is blather . . . words, words, words. He’s more at risk spending ten minutes with me than he is staying here for the duration of the war.’

  ‘Come now,’ the general sighed. ‘You’ll get used to it. The trip won’t last that long. And that’s not what’s bothering you. Out with it.’

  Frog hesitated.

  ‘Are we going to leave all these people here?’ he asked.

  ‘Negus is protecting them.’

  ‘I heard talk of dragons . . . of a red dragon, in particular. It seems it’s the worst sort of beast in the entire world, attacking whole villages and not leaving any survivors.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ smiled Dun-Cadal.