The Path of Anger (15 page)

There were blows, sharp and quick. There were cries of surprise and the snapping of an arm when the Nâaga emerged out of nowhere to seize one of the bandits. Dun-Cadal tried to make out what was going on but he couldn’t keep his head straight. All he perceived were blurred silhouettes and sounds like echoes rolling around inside his skull . . . and then finally there was silence, once the bandits had fled. He lowered his head, his belly knotted and his heart heavy. He should have made mincemeat of them. He should have used the
animus
; standing against them the way he had once defied the greatest warriors . . . A terribly cold hand gripped his wrist and helped him to his feet.

‘Come on,’ said a hoarse voice.

Was that a note of . . . compassion? It was a strong grip that had raised him from the ground. The grip of a tattooed colossus.

‘Y-you . . .’ stammered Dun-Cadal.

‘Yes,’ replied Rogant with a twisted smile on his lips. ‘Delighted to see you, too, old ghost.’

‘I’m no’ . . . dea’ . . . yet!

From behind the general’s back came Viola’s quiet voice.

‘Thank you for intervening,’ she said curtly.

Dun-Cadal attempted to turn his head to look at her, but sleep weighed heavily on his eyelids and every gesture was steadily becoming more strenuous. He thought, for the space of an instant, that Viola was looking at the rooftops as if trying to catch sight of something.

Then he passed out.

7

REGAIN YOUR DIGNITY

It’s easy to fight with a sword.

But to vanquish one’s demons

A blade is of no use.

If you are on your knees, pride gone,

Then stand up, even if you tremble,

And regain your dignity.

For it is the only weapon

Which protects you from the powerful.

‘Aaaarrows!’

The desperate scream was immediately drowned out by a deafening whistling noise. A dark swarm plunged down upon the infantry, striking the breastplates and helmets of the lucky ones, piercing the leather surcoats of the less fortunate. The sharp stinging noise of metal on metal was followed by the heavier, punching sound of torn flesh and the deep wheezing of the soldiers who had dropped to the ground. The whole dire symphony finally faded into a stunned silence. The first lines did not disperse, however, the uninjured men rising up among their fallen comrades. The plain had to be held. They had been carrying out this task for more than a week now and many of them had seen previous fighting. The revolt had spread to numerous regions, but here at the foot of the Vershan mountains its forces were weakening. Soon, Imperial troops coming from the East, led by Captain Etienne Azdeki, would trap them in a vice and calm would be restored. They just had to keep their position a little longer.

‘Hold the line! Hold fast!’ ordered a deep voice at their backs.

Sitting on his horse, Dun-Cadal Daermon encouraged his men, the hooves of his steed pounding the ground as he rode back and
forth. Some of the soldiers regained their posts, their faces contorted with fear. Others remained permanently still. On the far side of the plain, lying low near the woods at the foot of the mountains, enemy archers prepared a new volley.

‘General! General Daermon!’

A young knight was galloping towards him, looking nervous. His armour had seen use in numerous battles and was covered with nicks and cracks. He was the well-bred son of a family entirely loyal to the cause of the Empire, one of those who followed in their fathers’ footsteps without ever expressing a single doubt, justifying their complete submission by invoking tradition. In other circumstances, no doubt he would have been elegant and polite, displaying a degree of cultivation and even a touch of humour at banquets in Emeris. But since his graduation from the military academy he had been sent to the battlefield. The war had surely transformed him to the point that, in forthcoming festivities, he would limit himself to bringing a glass to his lips while nodding at the remarks of those who hadn’t taken up a military career. For a young knight like this one, learning the art of war and the mastery of a force as delicate as the
animus
, Dun-Cadal felt only respect. From this battle, a young man like him should emerge a victor. One day perhaps, he might even save the life of his general . . .

The knight pulled sharply on the reins and his horse came to a halt with a snort.

‘General, the cavalry is prepared and ready. Captain Azdeki’s troops have skirted around the Vershan and are awaiting your orders.’

Dun-Cadal nodded. The hour had come.

‘Upon my signal,’ he said gravely.

With a dig of his heels, he urged his steed into a steady trot behind the lines of infantry. It was time to launch the assault, they had already waited long enough. The Emperor had not sent him to hold on to a piece of ground, but to win back an entire county. He descended a small hill and rejoined the main force of his army. Hundreds of cavalrymen and knights, ready to defend their Empire . . .

‘It’s time!’ he yelled, drawing his sword.

At the edge of the plain, the infantry was enduring another shower of arrows when suddenly the ground began to tremble. There was a growing rumble as if something were approaching. The captains acted immediately, barking out orders. The soldiers formed wide
corridors lined with spearmen, regrouping themselves with perfect timing. And coming over the hill, the cavalry rushed into the lanes thus opened.

In the woods at the foot of the mountains, few had knowledge of the art of war. Some had served the Empire, others had distinguished themselves as mercenaries, but most of the rebel army was made up of peasants or modest artisans from nearby towns, plus some more well-to-do folk seduced by the idea of change. When they heard the strange rumbling, their hearts beat faster. Upon seeing the rising dust, some thought their chests would burst. Masked by the clouds thrown up in the cavalry’s wake, the Imperial soldiers were advancing. Once the mounted knights had torn through the enemy lines the Imperial infantry would overwhelm their defences. Although some cowards fled, abandoning makeshift weapons and a few shreds of pride, most of the rebels resigned themselves to dying here in the shadow of the Vershan. For they were fighting for the ideal of a different world. Their hands gripped spears, swords, and maces as if they were the last things preventing their fall. And of their own accord, without anyone giving the order, they rushed forward to meet their adversaries in the most total confusion imaginable. Iron struck flesh, sharpened points punctured skin and the cavalry shattered their lines. Bodies flew through the air . . . and the edge of the forest was engulfed in chaos. And then the forces to the rebels’ rear joined the fighting. Coming down from the mountain, Captain Azdeki’s troops attacked in their turn.

The rebels had nothing left to lose. They would not lower their weapons, not with so much depending on their resolve. A simple insurrection was on the verge of becoming a true revolution. Standing, they held their ground. On their knees, they fought. Lying down, they continued to strike. Nothing would make them give up, nothing short of death.

Dun-Cadal had reached the woods. Sword in hand, he forged on, hacking and slashing. Until a spear pierced his horse’s neck. The beast whinnied and its legs gave away beneath its own weight, throwing the general to the ground. He regained his feet, nimbly, parrying a blow, then another, with the flat of his sword. And with his free hand, he shoved back his opponent without even touching him. The rebel was thrown into the air before crashing into a tree trunk with an awful thud.

Dun-Cadal caught a glimpse of Frog standing a few feet away. Visibly fascinated by his mentor’s use of the
animus
, the lad had come to a sudden halt. The point of a spear brought him back to the brutal reality of combat, forcing him to take a quick sidestep. A man with greying temples stood with his arm at full stretch, surprised at missing his target. Frog lunged with his blade and planted it in the rebel’s shoulder. The man screamed before collapsing, his face contorted with pain. Not so long ago, the lad would have been affected by the sight, but in the heat of action he had learned to forget all humanity. His gestures became mechanical, responding automatically to each attack, repeating parries and lunges over and over again. When two men charged him at once, he had no trouble dealing with the threat. Their swords clashed with his. He bent down before plunging his blade into the belly of one assailant and then, spinning round, dodged the attack by the second. With a kick to the ribs, he knocked him to the ground. The poor man saw the sword sweeping down towards him and the blade sank into his torso with an odd yielding sound.

‘Frog! Stay close!’

Dun-Cadal too was battling without a break. Despite vigorously repelling a series of assaults, he kept watch over his apprentice out of the corner of his eye. Although he was worried on several occasions, he was reassured by the lad’s ease in wielding his sword. Frog not only reproduced what he had been taught but, not content with achieving near perfection in each move, also improvised freely. His entire pent-up rage exploded on the battlefield and, although this could have served him poorly, in fact it lent his movements a precision worthy of the greatest swordsmen. A single stroke was enough to fell an opponent before dispatching the next with the same speed.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Frog grumbled as he shoved a man away with his elbow.

His attacker was a true soldier this time, probably a former mercenary from the North judging by his chain mail and pointed helmet. But the lad’s skill would not be enough; others were already coming to the man’s aid, running between the trees, heavily armed.

The general had to rid himself of two rebels, each visibly more used to working in the fields than fighting, given the way their arms trembled with each blow. He parried a spear thrust with a stroke of his sword before punching the first in the face. Stunned, the man
fell to his knees, eyes half-closed. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Dun-Cadal turned his blade before lunging and stabbing the other rebel’s hand. The peasant dropped his weapon with a scream of pain and ran.

For his part, Frog was holding off four mercenaries as best he could, and they were skilful and accurate fighters. Two of them were using studded maces, almost shattering his sword with each of their blows. Frog then attempted something unthinkable.

His mentor immediately understood when he saw the lad take a step back, his eyes closed. He must be trying to calm his beating heart, to breathe and feel the world . . . To employ the
animus
himself. But up until now, Frog had only managed to shift a clay pot and even that effort had exhausted him to the point of fainting. How could he imagine himself capable of mastering such a force? He dodged a sword and halted, kneeling on the ground with one hand extended towards his four assailants.

‘Frog! No, no, no!’ roared Dun-Cadal, running towards the boy.

The general whirled his sword in the air and forced a passage through the enemy. The lad repressed a grimace, his chest quivering with spasms. Perhaps he could do it. Perhaps—

Frog never saw the blow coming. A mace struck his wrist. His sword flew through the air to plant itself in the ground a few yards away. The pain in his arm made him cry out before he leant away by reflex to avoid a blade. The cutting edge brushed past his nose with a hiss. He threw himself into a roll across the leafy carpet of the forest and got back to his knees.

‘Frog!’ yelled Dun-Cadal behind him.

The general would not arrive in time to save his pupil unless he used the
animus
. But was he even able to do so? His lungs were on fire and another effort so soon after the first would probably kill him. He would have to rely on a more mundane method of combat. Dun-Cadal seized a sword stuck point-down in the ground and, a blade in each hand, waded through the mercenaries. All around them the rebels were starting to disperse. Azdeki’s troops were arriving.

‘You dogs!’ he howled as he ran, slashing the air with his weapons, cutting, slicing and shoving the unfortunate wretches who were in his path. ‘Filthy scum!’

Just a few yards away, protected only by his light, dented armour, Frog did not move. The four soldiers facing him were ready to
pounce. The lad leapt to one side, avoiding a first blow. But the other three men wielded their weapons so well he wouldn’t have a second chance. A mace and two swords came plunging down at him.

The sound of hooves striking the beaten earth announced the arrival of Azdeki’s cavalry. A blade slipped in front of Frog to halt the two swordsmen in mid-charge and jerked their weapons upwards with a powerful stroke. The man with the mace was thrown to the ground by an invisible force.

And as if to finish off the rider’s work, Dun-Cadal came up from behind to plant his weapons in the swordsmen’s backs, before despatching the third mercenary, who had been groggily regaining his feet, with a kick to the face. The soldier fell backwards, bleeding from the nose, his eyes rolled up in their sockets.

‘A man without a weapon is nothing,’ said a voice. ‘He loses all, including his dignity.’

Sword against his thigh, hand firmly gripping its hilt, his proud, straight body comfortably installed in the saddle, those scornful eyes set above a hawklike nose. Dun-Cadal had no trouble recognising him. Basking in his own arrogance, Etienne Azdeki looked the boy up and down with a disdainful expression.

‘Did your mentor never teach you that? Perhaps you chose the wrong master,’ he spat, before spurring his horse and galloping away.

In passing, he almost knocked Dun-Cadal down.

‘Captain!’ the latter bellowed.

But Azdeki was already disappearing between the trees. All around them the rebels were fleeing. Behind them there only remained the soldiers of the Empire and, strewn across the dead leaves or lying battered against the exposed tree roots, hundreds of bodies. The tumult of battle subsided little by little as the odour of blood and sweat drifted through the forest undergrowth. Frog could now hear branches snapping beneath the general’s feet.

‘What did you think you were doing, you little bugger?’ Dun-Cadal bawled.

‘Who was that man?’ the boy asked him with equal vehemence.

‘What were you thinking, dropping your guard like that?’

‘His name! What is his name?’ Frog insisted. ‘Tell me!’

His face twisted in anger and defiance, he advanced on Dun-Cadal. Only his teacher’s firm hand on his shoulder stopped before he took a step too far.