The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Laerte . . .’ sighed Dun-Cadal as he passed a trembling hand over his face.

  What he wouldn’t give for a jug of wine right now . . . Laerte gave him a brief nod of the head.

  ‘Dun-Cadal,’ he said as if they were meeting for the first time.

  It hurt him to see the general who had once taken him under his wing in such a filthy state, with his features so deeply drawn and a defeated expression on his face. It was like discovering an entirely different man from the one he had known. How could he have fallen so low? He tried to guess what the general was thinking, what questions were passing through his mind now that he knew Laerte’s true identity. He had prepared so long for this meeting that no query could have surprised him.

  ‘Frog . . .’ the general said, looking blankly into space.

  It was as if he were recalling a dead person. In a sense Frog truly was dead, if he had ever existed at all. The general’s gaze fell upon the rapier’s perfect form and stayed there.

  ‘You’re here for this . . . for this sword . . . but why . . . ? Why these deaths?’ he mumbled.

  Laerte advanced to the table and grasped the sword’s hilt with a firm hand, to heft its weight.

  ‘For many reasons, Dun-Cadal,’ he replied. ‘Vengeance, duty . . . obligation . . . but mostly will.’

  He stared at the general, waiting for a reaction. But none came. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the sceptical expression on Viola’s face. But he knew the old man better than anyone; he knew how to rouse the general sleeping inside.

  ‘You’re angry with me, aren’t you? For never telling you anything, for hiding who I was . . . I know that.’

  Dun-Cadal continued to look into space without saying a word . . . but little by little his jaw tensed.

  ‘It wasn’t part of our plan that I would see you. Rogant is some-what put out about it, in fact,’ said Laerte, sounding a little amused.

  In the corner, the Nâaga shook his head in exasperation.

  ‘But I always do as I please, you know me.’

  The general’s eyes met Laerte’s with an aggressive challenging glint.

  ‘Really?’ he asked.

  And for the first time during this face-to-face encounter, Laerte looked away. He lowered his head, letting silence settle. But his former mentor did not break it as he had expected. So with slow, deliberate steps, he started to walk around the table, and continued speaking.

  ‘When I heard that a former Imperial soldier was recounting his adventures in return for a few tankards, I never thought it was you. And then came that moment when, for whatever reason, you started talking about the sword. Oh, I’m certain there are many people looking for it in the Vershan, Wader. But not me . . . Once I realised it was you, I knew you would never have hidden it so far away. Even as pathetic as you are now, even filthy and as stinking as shit, you’d never abandon this last piece of the Empire. The Hand of Reyes, the great general, the relic of the Empire watching over . . . a symbol, was that it?’

  Dun-Cadal endured his speech without stirring. And when Laerte reached his side and slowly bent towards his ear, he did not move in the slightest. An angry tear, however, emerged at the corner of his eye.

  ‘You’ve been reliving your past, haven’t you? Did you recall your former glory? Here. Take it.’

  With a flick of his hand, he rolled the sword towards the impassive general.

  ‘I can sense you boiling inside.’

  ‘Laerte,’ intervened Viola. ‘That’s enough!’

  She could not stop herself from blushing when he gave her a black glare. Trying to mask her apprehension, she had left the edge of the window and stood with her hands joined before her.

  ‘He doesn’t deserve this,’ she said in a low voice.

  She thought Laerte was going to react violently, perhaps even slap her, but nothing happened. Beneath Rogant’s expressionless gaze, he left the room with the same slow step.

  He could barely take stock of the emotions assailing him. It had been so many years since he had last seen Dun-Cadal. So many years to understand what had forged his own destiny . . .

  Viola seized him by the wrist in front of the closed kitchen door.

  ‘Wait,’ she demanded. ‘What are you trying to do? Tell me.’

  Although there was a note of reproach in her voice, she tried to remain friendly enough not to aggravate the situation. He was forced to admit she was gifted when it came to calming things down. But she was young, too young to comprehend what he felt in the old general’s presence.

  ‘He shouldn’t be here,’ Viola continued, darting brief glances at the kitchen. ‘We have what we wanted. What are we going to do with him now? If we let him leave he might reveal everything. Even if he’s a drunk he could attract attention and that’s something we don’t need.’

  ‘Rogant will keep an eye on him here,’ Laerte replied curtly.

  ‘But when de Page finds out that—’

  ‘He won’t say anything. I know what I’m doing,’ he assured her. ‘Trust me.’

  With a brusque movement, he raised his hood.

  ‘And you’re right, he doesn’t deserve this . . . he deserves much worse.’

  Before she had time to reply, he turned on his heel and left the house.

  3

  GARMARET

  It’s your own innocence you’ll kill over there, lad.

  And believe me, I’m the first to regret that.

  He had let himself fall to one side, lying hidden as best he could in the thick grass.

  ‘Is this how you were taught to stand guard?’ a man roared nearby.

  ‘What? I was just havin’ a piss,’ a second man answered nonchalantly.

  The night was clear, and just one step in his direction might allow the two soldiers to see his outline in the grass. He was barely fourteen years old. And he was fleeing the Saltmarsh.

  ‘Don’t ever leave your post without warning the others!’

  ‘We only arrived yesterday,’ the soldier defended himself. ‘Us lot, we don’t know what’s up yet, do we? They just told us, line up the catapults.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘From Avrai Wood, Cap’n. There’re fifteen of us.’

  His wooden weapon. It was only a few inches from his outstretched arm. Lying flat on his belly in the damp earth, as if crushed by fear, he did not have the courage to make even the slightest movement towards it. His heart pounded violently, echoing in his temples, while his chest felt constricted and his breathing too heavy.

  ‘You should always be—’

  A few yards away, a captain with shiny boots took one step forward.

  ‘What on earth have you done?’

  ‘We lined up the catapults, didn’t we?’

  A single step, allowing the man to make out a dark shape in the grass. When he heard the hiss of a sword being drawn, Laerte had no choice but to attack. Agile, he seized the wooden sword as he rolled over and stood with astonishing ease. He had trained hard these past months.

  But tonight it was no exercise where mistakes were allowed. His life depended on the choices he made.

  ‘You?’ the man gasped. ‘How?’

  The scarred face, dimly lit by the camp’s tall torches, was frozen in stupefaction. The officer was bald, broad-shouldered and had a split lip.

  ‘When you’re out roaming the countryside, I can’t protect you. If the Imperial soldiers spot you, I hope you can run fast.’

  Laerte also hesitated for an instant. In his trouser pocket, the rouarg whistle felt heavy.

  ‘I can’t protect you.’

  Opposite him, Madog still seemed stunned, his sword almost loose in his hand.

  ‘What are you—?’

  ‘. . . protect you . . .’

  He woke with a start at sunrise, soaked in sweat and gasping for breath. Every night since they had left the Saltmarsh, he relived that moment, that terrible decision. Each time he slept he was burdened with the same nightmare, where he i
rrevocably chose to commit murder. Because he had not plunged his wooden sword into the man’s throat to defend his own life. The moment haunted him to the point where he despaired of ever seeing the guilt fade. He tried to forget, to persuade himself that he had acted for the best, that he had no other possible choice.

  ‘Who is Madog?’ asked a voice at his back.

  They had ridden for two days straight, only pausing to allow their mounts to rest. They had galloped as far as the great forest of Garm, a border of pine trees between the saltwater marshes and the arable plains of the county of Garm-Sala.

  Behind him, Dun-Cadal was harnessing the horses while giving him brief glances.

  ‘No one,’ Laerte replied, drawing in his legs.

  ‘No one?’ the general said with a surprised laugh. ‘And yet you call out to him every night. So this Madog must be someone . . .’

  Laerte ignored him, determined to reveal nothing more.

  Dun-Cadal was only a tool, a pawn who would take him to the Emperor. He had no cause to know Laerte’s secrets. And if the general learned his true identity, then without a doubt, it would cost Laerte his life. He did not understand much about the Saltmarsh rebellion; his only goal was the death of the Emperor. Nothing else warranted his attention. Truth be told, he was barely aware of the rest of the world.

  For months he had thought, reflected and imagined the deed right down to the last detail. Looking after the knight so that he would become his teacher was only the first step. He had been drawn into the game little by little, certain that one day he would be as respected as his father . . . and above all, feared by his enemies. He had trained until the point of exhaustion, overcoming pain, repeating the movements endlessly as soon as his mentor fell asleep.

  ‘Come on, get up, lad,’ Dun-Cadal sighed. ‘We’re in the county of Garm-Sala, Garmaret is only two weeks from here. Soon we’ll be enjoying a warm bath.’

  By the time they reached Emeris, he would be the greatest knight in the world, capable of challenging the Emperor himself. Like the Erain frog, he would take on the colours of his prey . . . all the better to fall upon him. He got up, still feeling tired.

  ‘Get a move on!’ Dun-Cadal urged him.

  The general mounted his horse unsteadily, grimacing. Was his leg still bothering him? Laerte caught himself feeling sorry for the man’s suffering. He had feared the general’s injury would be a handicap during their flight, but to his great surprise, Dun-Cadal had shown an impressive mastery in actual combat. He’d helped Laerte escape before facing the rebels alone. Laerte had to respect him for that, at least.

  Two weeks, he’d said. Two weeks riding through the forest until they reached the green plains where the fortified town of Garmaret awaited them. Two weeks during which he dreamt of Madog, and was subjected to the same questions each morning from his mentor. During their journey, the general taught him some rudiments of hunting, and he was glad to eat something other than hive frogs.

  Even so, Laerte experienced some difficult moments. The man was boorish, cocky and inquisitive. He was always trying to learn more about Laerte, asking him questions out of the blue to which the boy struggled to find answers. To his relief, whenever he deflected his mentor’s curiosity with evasive responses, Dun-Cadal changed the subject.

  At every halt, his apprenticeship continued. In the dim light, he fought invisible enemies until his muscles felt like burning coals and he fell to his knees, drained. He wearily returned to their camp and lay down to sleep for barely three hours before he awoke with a start at dawn.

  Jouncing along on his mount, he almost fell asleep more than once. And then finally they reached the edge of the forest and he saw the Garm-Sala plains. Beneath the gentle spring sunshine, hundreds of fields spread before him, ranging from the dark green of mowed grass to the golden hues of grain. Here and there dirt tracks meandered between them, travelled by a few rickety ox-carts. Small dark silhouettes walked at their side, quiet and peaceful. Some odd white shapes floated in the air, tiny and beautiful, borne aloft by a slight breeze.

  ‘Those are dandelion seed heads. The wind blows them,’ Dun-Cadal explained, before saying, with a sigh of pleasure, ‘Garmaret . . .’

  His arms resting on the pommel of his saddle, he indicated the town and its crude ramparts with a nod of his head. From here, the place looked like a simple stone square with a watchtower at each corner.

  ‘We’ll be there by the end of the day if we maintain a steady pace.’

  Laerte contemplated the landscape with a stoical expression. He allowed none of his astonishment to show, too used to masking his emotions.

  ‘Well . . . you look delighted . . .’ Dun-Cadal remarked as he patted his mount’s neck. ‘A little well-deserved rest doesn’t appeal to you?’

  ‘It does . . .’

  His laconic reply seemed to irritate the general, so he thought it best to explain himself.

  ‘It’s the first time.’

  ‘That you’ll have had a bath?’ mocked Dun-Cadal.

  ‘No . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything but the Salt-marsh,’ he clarified.

  Fear gripped him along with a thrill of excitement which he carefully concealed. Was the Empire so immense that it would take him years to reach Emeris? Instinctively, he looked over his shoulder, back towards the Saltmarsh.

  ‘Hey, boy!’ called Dun-Cadal. ‘Look at me.’

  When he met the general’s eyes, he was so upset that he felt tears rising within him. He saw kindness in the man’s eyes. Why was he starting to dread the moment Dun-Cadal discovered he’d been nurturing his own enemy?

  ‘You are at home here, lad.’

  And with a dig of his heels, he spurred his mount into a gallop. Being at home here . . . was not at all reassuring.

  They rode along the tracks at a goodly speed, passing wagons and peasants without any of them showing signs of surprise. He had expected to be stopped, for one of them to block the road and shout that he was from the Saltmarsh, or worse. Everyone in these parts was bound to serve the Emperor and his court; they must all have cheered when they heard about Oratio’s death and the initial occupation of the region. Why then did they show so little interest in two horsemen galloping towards the fortified town? When they reached the gates of Garmaret, as the sun was setting, Laerte understood the reason for their indifference.

  Beneath the hard gaze of Imperial soldiers, dozens of wagons were queued up before the gates, packed with ragged, weeping women and children. Men in their hundreds slowly advanced at their side. They were all fleeing the Saltmarsh to seek refuge here at Garmaret. The rustling of war had reached as far as this town. And far from enjoying a calm respite, families found themselves being rudely searched, and sometimes separated from each other, before passing beneath two raised portcullises and being escorted through the town.

  The general and Laerte made their way through the crowd, crossing the town’s heavy gates and walking their horses through the narrow alleys that climbed to the Army’s camp. It surrounded a small stone tower standing a few yards from a wide gate blocked by a portcullis. On the far side was the beginning of a great road which was watched by soldiers wearing dark armour.

  As he rode, not once did Laerte lower his eyes towards his people who had come here seeking peace. He dared not meet their gaze for an instant, for fear of being recognised . . . or of seeing the depth of their suffering. Anxiety weighed heavily upon him when a squad of soldiers passed behind them. He was just dismounting from his horse at the foot of the tower and the thought that he was now in the jaws of the wolf squeezed his heart. Everywhere he looked there were soldiers and refugees. Here at the entrance to a tall, wide tent, a woman was soothing her baby by rocking him slowly. Over there, soldiers were arguing with a defeated-looking man, his features drawn with weariness. He barely heard his mentor’s voice, speaking with a young lieutenant wearing shiny armour.

  ‘Who commands this camp?’

  ‘General Negus, sir.’


  The young officer was clean, carefully groomed, and clearly intimidated. The general had spent months in the marshes, was filthy and stinking, wearing dented armour, and his unkempt hair crowned a face marked by exhaustion.

  ‘Call him, quickly.’

  He immediately snapped his fingers to recall the lieutenant before he hurried off.

  ‘Tell him Dun-Cadal Daermon is here.’

  At this the lieutenant lost his composure completely. Beneath the marsh muck that spattered the other’s armour, he could make out Imperial colours. And any military man could spot the rank engraved on his shoulders. But General Daermon had been given up for dead almost a year ago. The lieutenant nodded and climbed the stone staircase leading to the top of the tower without demanding further explanation.

  And Laerte suddenly noticed that people’s gazes were not directed at him. Dun-Cadal was drawing all the attention. Soldiers were whispering amongst themselves, guards stopped in their tracks upon seeing him, and others, on patrol, gave the general a wide berth without taking their eyes from him.

  He attached the reins of his horse to a large wooden beam that jutted from the stone and Laerte followed suit, before joining him as he came around his mount.

  ‘Behave yourself, Frog, don’t make a bad impression,’ Dun-Cadal said in a firm tone.

  ‘Yes, Wader—’

  ‘And stop calling me that!’ his mentor snapped. ‘I am General Dun-Cadal Daermon here, so use my rank, blast you!’

  He yanked nervously at the bottom of his breastplate to adjust it. Although everyone was observing him with a certain reverence, the only thing that worried him was that Laerte should make a good impression. He’d saved the man’s life, helped him cross enemy lines and this was how Dun-Cadal treated him. Like a child who might embarrass him at any moment.

  ‘By the gods! By the gods!’ someone cried.

  And turning round, Laerte saw a small round man, stuffed inside a golden suit of armour, coming towards them with outstretched arms.

  There was a radiant smile upon his face, and a gleam of joy in his eyes.