The Path of Anger (10 page)

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.

‘That won’t be able to pierce armour,’ Frog whined from behind his back.

‘That’s not the idea,’ Dun-Cadal replied calmly.

He stood up, stifling a groan when he felt a pain run through his barely healed leg, like a dagger scraping against the femur. But it would withstand the ordeal ahead; he wasn’t an old man yet. He was a general and had lived through other battles, other wars. His bones would not break this time.

Standing next to the horse, Frog stared at the ground, looking nervous. He held the reins loosely and gave the impression that he’d rather be anywhere but here. A few hours earlier, however, he’d been
more enthusiastic as they left their camp. Dun-Cadal deduced from his change of mood that he was just anxious to see action. The lad was boiling with impatience and then closed up like a clam when confronted with the slightest obstacle. Although real clams never complained.

‘We need to hurry, we can’t stay here all day.’

‘We’ll wait for nightfall before trying anything,’ Dun-Cadal replied as he went to join him.

He tossed the wooden sword to the boy without warning. Frog caught it in mid-air without difficulty. He was keen. Anxious but keen. That was good.

‘The woods are only an hour’s march away!’ Frog pleaded. ‘And in two hours, we could put this whole region behind us! There are very few soldiers in this area, I told you. It will be child’s play.’

Dun-Cadal moved forward to face him. He expected him to lower his eyes again, but the lad was determined to be heard. Smiling faintly, the general spoke in a soft voice.

‘When children play, they rarely plant a spear in a man’s back.’

‘But—’

‘Nightfall,’ Dun-Cadal insisted, before hoisting himself onto the horse’s saddle.

The beast had lost all its sheen, its bones sticking out beneath its brown coat, the hooves as dry as old sticks. Even so, it had survived the past few months in the Saltmarsh, transporting Frog to Aëd’s Watch on numerous occasions. During these trips, the lad had not merely stolen food, but also gathered crucial information about the development of the revolt. He had even been able to learn the precise disposition of the enemy’s forces. Once, he’d laid out their lines beneath the shelter of the cart with the help of twigs and pebbles, he left the strategy to the knight’s better judgement.

Dun-Cadal had taken stock of the situation and instantly saw where to strike. But to have the best chance of success, they would need the cover of darkness. Having pushed Azdeki and his men back, the insurgents had spread their forces across the whole northern boundary of the Saltmarsh, forming a wall of camps which stretched for miles. There might only be a few thousand seasoned warriors in the entire ragtag army, but the ordinary people who had taken up arms remained formidable. Their numbers meant Dun-Cadal couldn’t hope for a discreet crossing. He had felt a
distinct relief when he spotted a possible breach in the alignment marking out the front. It was obvious once he saw it, at the very spot where they kept their catapults. Standing slightly apart from the camps and not protected very closely, it offered an ideal crossing point.

‘We’ll stop here,’ Dun-Cadal ordered.

They had finally reached the edge of the woods. Coils of grey smoke rose into the air above the tree tops; the rebels had poked up their campfires as soon as the blue sky began to darken. A few stars sparkled in the twilight, barely veiled by the thin clouds that slowly slid before them. The soft rustle of the evening wind was accompanied by the hooting of waking owls.

Dun-Cadal dismounted and began to unsaddle the horse.

‘They’re just on the other side of these woods,’ Frog affirmed, darting nervous little glances all around.

He was afraid a patrol would discover them. Dun-Cadal was amused by this. The lad still needed to learn patience and to use the last peaceful moments remaining to calm his nerves. Otherwise they risked paralysing him when the hour for combat arrived.

‘I know,’ he murmured.

He threw the saddle down at the foot of the tree, removed the horse’s bridle and gave it a slap on the rump with the flat of his hand. When the animal was no more than a silhouette galloping towards the darkness of the marshes, Frog approached his mentor.

‘Did you like him?’

‘He was just an old nag,’ Dun-Cadal replied with a smile.

‘No . . . not the horse.’

The general’s smile vanished as the image of Tomlinn being snatched up by the rouarg came back to him. He studied the horizon with a gaze as dark as his thoughts.

‘He was a good general and a noble knight.’ He turned round abruptly and then, placing a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, he added: ‘And, above all, he was my friend.’ With a slow step, he climbed a small hillock that extended into the woods. Frog followed him. ‘But we knew the risks. I’d just always believed he would die under a rain of arrows rather than be torn apart in the jaws of some nasty beast.’

As he leaned back against a tree to catch his breath he noticed the
worried expression on his pupil’s face. Tucked into the boy’s belt, the sharpened stick hung like a sword. A wooden stick . . . against armour. He glanced down at his own weapon, the pommel gleaming at his waist. Could they really escape the Saltmarsh like this? Did he truly believe that? A limping knight and a . . . a lad from the marshes with a wooden sword?

‘Do you know what’s in store for you over there?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.

‘I . . . yes, we’re going to fight—’ ‘No,’ interrupted the knight with a shake of his head. ‘Are you ready to inflict death?’ There was a fraught silence, so fraught that Frog turned his gaze away. ‘There’s nothing worse than watching someone pass away, Frog. Nothing worse. The last breath, the last gleam in the eye looking at you. It’s not a game. There’s nothing innocent about it.’

‘I’m ready.’

‘It’s not just them you’re going to kill. Whatever the reason for your acts, whether you can justify them or not, there will never be any excuse for taking someone’s life.’

‘I’m ready,’ repeated Frog, with insistence.

‘Listen to me!’ Dun-Cadal growled, coming off the tree he was leaning against. The boy retreated abruptly, surprised by the glow of anger in the knight’s gaze. ‘You’re still just a lad. Once you’ve plunged that stick into the flesh of a man, what will happen? Will you break down like some little girl?’

‘Never,’ Frog hissed the word between his teeth.

‘It’s your own innocence you’ll kill over there, lad. And believe me, I’m the first to regret that.’

The boy nodded, finally averting his eyes.

‘But you said we can do this and I’m crazy enough to believe you.’

With a closed fist, Dun-Cadal punched the trunk of a young ash tree. He was not assailed by any sudden doubts before their mad attack, but fear was nevertheless slowly tightening its grip on his guts. He had seen men barely older than this boy march proudly into battle, only to find them later, kneeling in tears in the middle of the fighting. What would happen to his pupil? He was only a lad . . . just a mere lad.

‘There’s nothing left for me here,’ Frog declared. His voice was quiet but his tone was firm. ‘I’m no longer anyone . . . not here.’

Dun-Cadal looked at him, pensive. The opportunity was too good to let pass by.

‘And who were you, before this?’

Frog glanced briefly at the marshes bathed in the falling night.

‘Not much of anything interesting,’ he confided as if talking about the weather. ‘A child who wasn’t much good at anything. I’ve never been very gifted.’

‘And now? What are you?’

The lad gave him a look that would make the bravest man tremble. Determined, passionate, feverish . . . no one would be able to stop him.

‘At least I’m trying to do my best.’

What more can anyone ask of him?
the knight said to himself. An owl glided over their heads and the wind strengthened, bending the short grass at their feet. The lapping of the water in the marshes seemed no more than a distant murmur. The lands of the former Kingdoms were spread behind these woods. Only the insurgents’ front line separated them from friendly territory. Dun-Cadal sat down at the foot of the closest ash tree and raised his eyes towards the sky.

‘We’ll wait here and attack in the middle of the night when their sentries will be somewhat . . . sleepy.’

He smiled faintly as Frog approached him. The lad hesitated as if waiting for his master to grant him permission to sit down. But Dun-Cadal looked away, plucking up a blade of grass and placing it in his mouth. As he chewed on the end, he let his gaze drift over the shadows growing at the edge of the woods. Frog settled down to his right, looking distracted, until the hoot of an owl broke the silence.

‘Do you remember what I taught you?’ Dun-Cadal asked suddenly, without a single glance at the boy.

‘Yes,’ Frog replied sullenly.

‘What I asked you to do?’

‘Yes.’

And with his left hand he pretended to seize something, while the right mimed striking a blow.

‘As soon as I attack the guard, from behind, I block him with my arm and strike him, just once, below the shoulder blade.’

‘And your hand?’

‘My hand goes over his mouth to stifle the cry. All of these actions, at the same time.’

‘Good,’ Dun-Cadal sighed. ‘Nothing else, just that, no direct confrontation . . .’ From the corner of his eye he saw the lad sitting with his head bowed, casually pulling at tufts of grass between his outstretched legs. ‘You don’t like that very much, do you?’

He waited a moment for a reply. When none came, the knight continued:

‘You’d prefer something more grandiose. That’s the picture you have of knights, am I wrong? Courageous, brave . . . is that it? Facing the enemy head-on, like death itself . . .’

‘I’ll do what you told me to do,’ the boy murmured.

‘Good,’ said Dun-Cadal, satisfied.

He contemplated the stars that were coming out one by one in the darkening sky.

‘Do you see these gloves?’ And without turning his eyes away from the celestial spectacle, he held out his iron gauntlets to Frog, certain that curiosity would force the lad to look at them. ‘They may not look it, but they’re covered with blood. From battles and other combats, but not just those.’

‘There’s no blood on them,’ noted Frog quietly.

‘Oh no? That’s because it can’t be seen anymore. But me, I can sense it. And that’s what matters in the end. Never try to avoid the responsibility; always face up to what you’ve done.’

‘So you weren’t only a knight, were you?’

The lad had already asked him the question. And truth be told, this time it was more like a statement than a real question.

‘No. Before I became a knight, I was what you don’t want to become.’

He turned his head towards the lad, curious to see his reaction.

‘I was an assassin,’ he admitted.

Frog didn’t even blink. He bore Dun-Cadal’s scrutiny, frowning slightly, waiting for the rest.

‘I don’t see much difference between the acts I committed as an assassin and the ones I committed as a knight of the Empire. In both cases, victory or success, call it what you will, requires the deaths of others. Of people who surely had a family, friends . . . duties of their own.’

His voice had grown harsh, his tone more serious . . . and his gaze more evasive.

‘So killing people from in front or from behind, what difference does it make? As long as it’s done quickly and done well. Without them suffering before they go off to the heavens . . . Strike quickly and strike well, Frog.’

He stared at the lad for a long moment.

‘Strike quickly and strike well,’ he repeated.

‘I shall,’ Frog promised.

Without taking his eyes off his mentor he put on a pair of darned woollen gloves, which he had stolen from a trader at Aëd’s Watch a few days earlier.

The lad’s feigned calm did not fool a seasoned warrior like Dun-Cadal. How many times had he seen young soldiers – although older than Frog – similarly stiff, hoping to disguise the fear inside? No, the general wasn’t taken in, especially not when he saw the boy rubbing his woollen-gloved hands together. He wasn’t wearing them because of the cold. Frog was doing his best to build up his nerve, the general knew. Just as he knew the real reason the lad had stolen these gloves: to stop his hands being stained with blood.