The Path of Anger (20 page)

‘I remember the first time I was in love,’ he said as if speaking to himself. ‘I was barely older than you are now. I remember the desire, the longing . . .’

He turned round to look at Frog.

‘How is it possible that a feeling can give you such an ache in the belly?’ he asked lightly.

But the lad’s expression remained stony. What was the general hoping for? That the boy’s tongue would suddenly loosen and he would reveal all? That he’d reassure Dun-Cadal? Perhaps Negus was right after all, there were traitors scheming in Emeris . . . and a young refugee girl from the Saltmarsh was using Frog, in his innocence. Supposing that an apprentice knight could still be innocent.

‘Tomorrow . . . we’ll help Negus launch his assault against Strom-dag’s rebels,’ he decided.

Frog gradually separated himself from the wall, letting his arms fall, mute with astonishment. How could he possibly imagine the real reason for this change of heart? Dun-Cadal knew the lad was at far less risk out here, fighting visible enemies, than he would be in the vipers’ nest in Emeris. As for Aladzio . . . well he would survive a day or two more. A cry rose in the distance, a sort of harsh scream.

‘Have you ever seen dragons before?’ Dun-Cadal asked quietly, looking thoughtful.

And above the forests miles away four black shapes climbed into the sky in a great spiralling ascent. Their wings spread and their long necks became more distinct in the moonlight. The dragons were waking in the night.

At nightfall the following day they would go hunting for them, and for the men who sought to rouse them against the Empire.

9

SAVING A LIFE

Will you be a phantom for the rest of your life?

Or will you act like a real general?

Proud columns rose from the black-specked brown marble floor. Around the hall, the tall tinted windows conferred a golden brown hue to the sunlight. At its centre stood the small man with a face marked by age and a head bearing just a few grey locks of hair. Despite his plumpness, his white toga fell in loose folds about him, with a green cloth draped across his shoulder. He was a councillor of the Republic now . . . Who would recall that he once led Imperial armies to victory, that he employed the
animus
better than anyone and that he had fought at Dun-Cadal Daermon’s side for the last time at Kapernevic?

‘I am Viola Aguirre, Councillor Negus,’ the young woman introduced herself as she shook the small man’s proffered hand. ‘Historian at the Great College of Emeris.’

He watched her bow to him, charmed by her grace.

‘We’re grateful that you could accord us a little of your time, having just arrived here in Masalia. But it’s a matter of the utmost importance, which—’

‘He’s here, Negus,’ interrupted Dun-Cadal.

The councillor continued to smile, but his expression suddenly seemed wry.

‘And here I was thinking you wanted to rehash old times . . .’ he murmured as if to himself.

Opposite him, Dun-Cadal appeared worse for wear, with stubble sprouting from his weathered face and his eyes bloodshot from alcohol, giving him a hangdog look. Anyone watching these two men
talk would never imagine they had been heroes.

‘It concerns the assassination of Councillor Enain-Cassart,’ Viola explained. ‘We have every reason to believe—’

‘Leave us,’ ordered Dun-Cadal without taking his eyes from his old friend.

She hesitated, but finally nodded, turned around and went over to one of the benches under the windows.

Alone in the middle of the large hall, the two men stared at one another without any great show of affection. Yet there was a strange gleam in both men’s eyes. What they had experienced together could not be forgotten. Which made what they perceived of one another’s current state all the more unbearable.

‘I thought you were dead,’ confessed Negus.

‘And I thought you were worthy,’ replied Dun-Cadal in a mutter.

He swallowed his anger. Seeing his old comrade thus, wearing the colours of the Republic, revolted him. There must be an explanation for all this.

‘Things change, my friend . . .’

‘This much?’ Dun-Cadal asked gravely. ‘To the point of forgetting what you fought for and siding with the enemy . . . ?’

‘So you’ve come to judge me,’ Negus said with a sad smile. ‘A ghost from the past has come to judge me.’

‘No . . .’ sighed Dun-Cadal

He shook his head and looked down, as if searching for something lying at his feet that would lend him courage.

‘No,’ he repeated.

Had he changed so much as well? He no longer recognised himself in this listless body that served him as a vessel, sailing from tankard to tankard, from a tavern in the slums to Mildrel’s house.

‘I was at the port yesterday when Enain-Cassart was killed . . .’

Negus was no longer smiling. His normally affable face had become suddenly as hard as that of a statue.

‘I saw the man who killed him,’ Dun-Cadal continued.

‘And who was it?’ asked the councillor in a murmur.

At last he was showing signs of emotion, his eyebrows frowning.

‘The Hand of the Emperor . . .’

There was a brief silence while they eyed one another, unblinking. Dun-Cadal was the first to look away.

‘The Hand of the Emperor,’ repeated Negus, at last taking stock of
the full gravity of the situation. ‘And so . . . here you are, to warn me?’

‘To save your life,’ declared Dun-Cadal.

But his face was livid, his eyes vague, his general appearance . . . filthy. He was filthy and pitiful to behold. Negus looked him over from head to toe, barely disguising his sorrow.

‘You’re still living in the past, aren’t you? Logrid is dead, Dun-Cadal. Enain-Cassart was killed by a madman, nothing more. The rest does not concern you.’

So that was it. This would go no further; but the old general could not accept being dismissed in this fashion, convinced that he could see what others were doing their best to ignore. Masque Night had been declared a national holiday. The evening festivities, when everyone shed their social rank and donned masks, celebrated the victory of the people over their oppressors. This year, by some quirk of fate, Masalia was playing host to the most important members of the High Council and the presence of an assassin raising the banner of a fallen Empire now was no mere coincidence. As Negus turned to walk back to the door at the rear of the hall, Dun-Cadal tried to reach out to his former comrade in arms.

‘Negus, wait!’

He could not even catch hold of the other man’s arm. Negus had gained weight over the years, but was nevertheless still nimble. He sidestepped his friend’s clutching hand, looking both saddened and scornful. By the door, the guards stiffened in alarm.

‘The affairs of this world are no longer your concern, Dun-Cadal! You cannot understand!’ Negus exclaimed irritably.

‘Understand what? That you’ve raised yourself from the ashes of what we once defended?’ Dun-Cadal said in a trembling voice. ‘You were a knight! A general! You took an oath!’

A combination of anger, hurt and disappointment choked him. Was this really his friend before him, wearing that awful toga which reeked of arrogance? Or was he just another opportunistic upstart . . . ?

‘We had beliefs, Negus. The Empire . . . the Order of Fangol . . .’

‘The Lost Book, is that it?’ asked Negus, shaking his head. ‘And what if we deserved something better than the destiny the gods wrote for us in the
Liaber Dest
? Is this degradation what they foresaw for you? You were great once, Dun-Cadal . . . but you were never one for reflection.’

‘I know how I lost my grandeur. Tell me what you did with yours!’

‘That’s what you can’t understand,’ replied Negus with equal rage. ‘See me as a traitor if it pleases you, but as for the grandeur we achieved defending the Reyes dynasty? Tell me what it brought you. Take a good look at yourself and tell me how serving the Empire improved your lot.’

Negus turned away from his friend one last time and stalked off towards the door, but could not resist a parting shot:

‘Both then and now, I’ve always served the people. You’ve never served anything but your dreams!’

In a daze, Dun-Cadal heard the door slam. He did not react as Viola came up behind him.

‘Dun-Cadal?’ she called softly. ‘Is everything all right”

He gave her a brief glance, reluctantly meeting eyes filled with compassion. He had no need of it. He deserved better than that. Hadn’t he once been something more than a drunk haunting the lowest dives in Masalia?

‘No . . .’ he said, glaring balefully at the door on the far side of the hall.

But something was going on behind it. He could sense the air vibrating like a taut piece of string.

‘You . . .’

‘We’ll find some other way to convince him,’ she said, trying to sound reassuring as a guard approached them.

‘You stay . . .’

She placed a delicate hand upon his shoulder.

‘I’ve always been able to sense death,’ he affirmed with a trembling voice and a tear in the corner of his eye.

Upon joining them, the guard prepared to usher them out of the building.

‘Stay close to me, Frog . . . Negus, are the traps ready?’

‘It’s here!’ he snarled.

Suddenly, Dun-Cadal seized hold of the guard by the collar and with his other hand reached for the hilt of his sword. Before the man could make the slightest gesture, the general had shoved him to the ground and was unsheathing the blade from its scabbard. He rushed towards the door Negus had just vanished through.

‘They’ll be here soon . . . I can feel it.’

He ran as fast as he could, his heart thumping fit to burst, his skull
about to explode. His head was hammering so hard he thought he was boiling inside. His entire body seemed like a piece of old meat: rotten, useless, flaccid . . . burnt up.

‘The dragons . . .’

‘They’re coming . . .’

But still he ran. He ran because the same odd sensation he’d felt at the port the previous day was now prickling at his temples again. He had dodged death so many times that he could sense its presence even before it struck. With a blow of his shoulder he smashed open the wooden door and halted abruptly.

‘Are the traps ready, Negus?’

‘This might be the last battle we fight side by side, my friend . . .’

‘They’re coming . . .’

Under the starry night sky, their mouths exhaled thick plumes of condensed breath. The cold seized hold of the men, wrapping them tightly and stripping away every degree of heat beneath their frost-covered armour. In the torchlight they held themselves ready, lying prone in the snow at the foot of the trees. Standing at their side, Dun-Cadal gripped the hilt of his sword, the creaking of his leather glove audible in the deep silence.

‘I don’t hear them,’ murmured Frog, stretched out close by him.

‘Trust him on this,’ advised Negus, leaning against a tree a few paces away.

He gave the lad a wink before lifting the blade of his sword before his face. They had grouped themselves on a small mound in the heart of the woods bordering Kapernevic, hundreds of Imperial soldiers numb from the cold and nervously awaiting the assault. It had been more than an hour since the beaters had left their positions, sneaking through the trees with muffled feet to seek out the rebels’ camp. Their mission was simple: simulate a surprise attack, pretend to retreat and draw the enemy army out, certain of its superiority, to the appointed spot. Dun-Cadal had come up with this plan at the last moment, based on Negus’s advice and having considered all the alternatives. The dragons’ stupidity was the keystone of his plan and the flaw in Stromdag’s strategy. Now all that remained was to see the matter through to its conclusion. Curiously, it was due to Aladzio that the idea had occurred to him. It was time to see if it had been a wise choice.

‘Hold your positions,’ he ordered in a low voice as he knelt at the top of the mound.

In the darkness he could barely make out the movements of the pines. Was it the wind bending their branches? No. There were shadows running in their direction. Dun-Cadal’s hunch was panning out. The clatter of their armour as they dashed forward became more distinct and, with it, a drumming sound just behind them. A first voice yelled:

‘They’re coming!’

A second:

‘Get ready!’

Dun-Cadal and Negus exchanged a determined look. This moment would decide the outcome, and it was the only obvious weakness in their strategy. Everything depended on the inventiveness of a man who, so far, had only succeeded in burning down a barn. Frog had not been enthusiastic when the plan was explained to him either. And Negus had thought Dun-Cadal was joking.

‘Spearmen!’ bellowed Dun-Cadal.

It was no joke. The first line of soldiers readied their spears. Only a few yards ahead of them infantrymen armed with axes calmed their fears and pressed up against the pines. Cords had been wound around the trunks of the conifers. The drumming . . . the clatter. The clatter, the drumming.

‘They’re here!’ cried a man leaping out of the darkness.

Ten more beaters followed, gasping for breath. Numerous deafening roars resounded in the night. It was no longer a drumming but an infernal din, a mixture of shattering wood and shifting earth. When the maw of the first dragon became visible in the torchlight, there was not a moment’s hesitation.

‘Now!’ shouted Dun-Cadal as he stood up.

The axes fell upon the ropes, sharp and brutal. It took no more than three blows to sever them, releasing the enormous net lying hidden at the foot of the pines. Studded with metal barbs, the trap sprang from the ground, throwing off the blanket of snow and pine needles that had been concealing it. The dragons had followed their unreasoning fury, rampaging through the forest, and the first of them was stopped dead in its tracks. Its brothers to the left and right suffered the same fate. Despite their instinctive attempts to deploy their twisted wings, beating them vigorously as
they roared, their heads were trapped by the thick mesh of rope and metal.

The spearmen charged, screaming as their weapons punctured the leathery hide of the imprisoned creatures. Dun-Cadal completed the assault, planting his sword in the eye of the closest beast. Turning round, he spotted Frog standing motionless, his hand barely gripping his sword. He was gaping at the massive bodies mottled with grey swellings, their long maws bristling with fangs and glistening with drool, their thick nostrils expelling clouds of steam. Dun-Cadal had described them to the lad before the operation began but seeing the beasts before him, struggling to free themselves from the net hampering their movement, was another matter entirely.

‘Frog!’