The Path of Anger (37 page)

When he returned to the academy he felt changed inside. Who he was, Frog or Laerte, no longer mattered now that he had become a man. He saw Esyld several more times, but they never had the chance to relive the embrace they shared that day. The tension within the palace had increased a notch and, as the days went by, the impression that they were being spied upon grew stronger. The Emperor was suspicious of everyone, and of the refugees in particular.

Laerte took part in several classes at the academy without incident. The other cadets avoided him . . . Some of them even started to regard him as if he were Dun-Cadal Daermon himself. Laerte had never felt so confident of himself. He was sure of who he was, what he doing, and why he was doing it.

Yet Esyld was right. In reality he was losing sight of his goal,
fighting battles instead, constantly postponing the confrontation with the Emperor, sometimes even forgetting the origin of the rebellion. The excitement of combat took precedence. His rage blinded him to the point of having no motivation except that of satisfying it. It had become an unquenchable thirst he carefully preserved, an unbreakable addiction.

Frog was losing himself in anger and violence.

It would continue until he confronted himself and the dragon full of rancour that roared within his heart. This inner dragon, which every man must one day fight, he would finally meet far away from Emeris, in the northern reaches of the Empire.

At Kapernevic, where he met an ingenious inventor by the name of Aladzio for the first time.

6

MASTERING THE DRAGON

Feel the
animus
, be the
animus
.

Feel it, Frog! Breathe as one life with it.

It’s there, the magic.

In every breath you exhale

‘Get up.’

He gave the bed a violent kick before turning round and going out the door. The old man grumbled where he lay. Laerte waited a few minutes to make sure he was up and then descended the stairs of the small house. In the salon, sitting comfortably in the hollow of a large armchair, Viola lifted an eye above her book. Surprised, she set it down on her knees when she saw Laerte walk past with a determined step. A few seconds later, Dun-Cadal appeared, still looking sleepy.

‘Good morning,’ she greeted him uncertainly.

The general ignored her and crossed the room, his eyes swollen. When he saw Laerte in the doorway leading outside, he sighed and shook his head.

‘Oh, this is going to be a good morning,’ Viola thought aloud as Dun-Cadal went out in his turn.

Neither man had uttered a single word, but they left a palpable tension floating in their wake. Viola stood up slowly and glimpsed Laerte slipping past one of the windows. She approached cautiously.

The two men were walking in a little gravel-surfaced courtyard overlooking the houses that descended in terraces towards the heart of the city. From here, they could contemplate all of Masalia, its high towers and buildings decked with flowers, the three cathedrals and the glittering dome of the Palatio. In the distance, ship masts swayed with the movements of the tide. The bright reflection of the newly
risen sun danced upon the sea. Dun-Cadal advanced to the low wall enclosing the courtyard, looking down at the succession of red-tiled roofs. In his younger years he could have jumped from one to the next like the steps of a stairway. Was he still capable of racing down them? Simply leave all this behind and resume his life in the taverns ? But he no longer wanted to flee. A few feet away from him, Laerte was hefting a sword.

‘What do you want ?’ muttered Dun-Cadal.

In place of a reply, he watched the blade fly through the air to plant itself at his feet. Laerte swept aside his cape with a movement of his arm to reveal the pommel of his sword. Since his mentor did not dare to wield Eraëd, perhaps he would consent to use another weapon.

‘Pick it up,’ Laerte ordered.

‘So . . . you want to finish me off here and now,’ concluded Dun-Cadal. ‘The final reckoning . . .’

‘When you saw me at the port, assassinating Enain-Cassart, what did you try to do?’ Laerte asked him, an odd smile at the corner of his lips. ‘After Negus’s murder, when you chased me? Weren’t you planning to challenge me then? I’m giving you the chance now. Go on!’

‘At the time I thought I was chasing Logrid,’ Dun-Cadal replied drily.

‘Another one of your students, wasn’t he? Are you disappointed with the results of your teachings now?’ the young man asked ironically as he spread his arms. ‘Here I stand before you after all these years. I lied to you all this time. Don’t you feel any anger about that? You know it. You feel it. When the Empire collapsed, it was because of me . . . The shadow of Laerte of Uster . . .’

Dun-Cadal tilted his head, his eyes on the pommel of the sword before him.

‘The man I knew would have fought . . . and then burnt this house to the ground before leaving,’ Laerte continued. ‘He would have stood up for himself. But you let yourself be pushed around . . . It’s not just your body which has grown old, it’s also your soul.’

Laerte saw the old man quiver. All the features of his face hardened and his gaze shifted away from the weapon planted at his feet. Dun-Cadal was containing his anger. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out Viola’s face behind the window. Although she did
not like the situation at all, at the same time she did not seem ready to intervene.

‘I thought you were saving me for the end . . .’ Dun-Cadal smiled sadly. ‘But that would have been too great an honour.’

‘Honour is something you never had,’ Laerte said in a grating tone. ‘Oh yes, you were an exceptional general. An uncouth man who, in the age of the nobility, managed to get himself invited to the banquets of the high and mighty.’

‘That’s enough,’ murmured the old man.

‘Did you ever realise to what extent
he
took you for an idiot? A mere weapon in his hand? A great warrior, to be sure, but one with the brains of a sparrow.’

‘Stop it.’

‘The man of the West at the Emperor’s feet. Yet you swore to defend him,’ Laerte continued speaking calmly.

‘Stop it!’

‘You lost everything, Daermon. The world you devoted your life to has gone, along with what small glory you once possessed. No one respects you now. Not even yourself, which tells how far you’ve fallen. If Frog had ever existed,
your
Frog, believe me, he would never have wanted you as a father.’

With a swift movement, the old man reached for the sword. The hilt lodged itself snugly in his hand. While Viola looked on in alarm, Laerte lunged forward and delivered the first attack. Dun-Cadal just had time to lift his blade and parry the stroke. He tried to push his attacker back with his knee. Laerte evaded the blow, spinning, and struck the general’s groin with a closed fist. The two swords clashed again and the blades slid against one another with a grating noise.

Behind the window Viola turned pale. But she had barely taken a step towards the door when Rogant’s hand fell on her shoulder.

‘Wait,’ he advised her.

Reluctantly, she returned to the window and resolved to remain a mere spectator of a combat whose outcome she dreaded.

‘Is that it?’ taunted Laerte. ‘You’re even deader than I thought.’

‘You won’t kill me that easily,’ retorted Dun-Cadal.

‘Really? Have you found some of your passion, Wader?’ the younger man asked mockingly. ‘Is there still a soldier living inside you?’

‘I was . . . a . . . general!’

‘One who had the wool pulled over his eyes by a mere lad,’ Laerte
smiled, aware that his jibes were having the desired effect.

A violent blast of air dug a furrow across the courtyard, heading straight towards him. Laerte leapt backwards to avoid the wave of wind and gravel and fell heavily to the ground, one hand touching the earth. He had barely looked up when he saw Dun-Cadal swooping down on him. He evaded the attack with a sideways roll before using the
animus
in his turn. Gravel pelted the general’s face, almost making him fall.

‘You loved him, didn’t you? Your Frog . . . Although he felt nothing but contempt for you, and laughed at your weakness when you were asleep.’

Furious, Dun-Cadal aimed the point of his sword at the young man, small drops of blood running down his face.

‘Shut up! You are nothing but a lie! Deceiver!’

He lunged forward but Laerte sidestepped away. He struck at the general’s blade with his sword before tripping him up.

‘Azdeki played you for a fool. I played you for a fool. Don’t you deserve to end your life in this city, dying in a gutter?’ Laerte asked as he walked around the old man sprawled on the ground. ‘But you don’t deserve to have me kill you right here and now, that would be too much of an honour.’

‘So what do you expect from me?’ roared Dun-Cadal as he struggled to his feet. ‘You won’t break me! You cannot take away what I’ve lived!’

‘You’re already broken.’

Indeed, Dun-Cadal was shaking, and not solely from rage. His thirst had taken control of his nerves, turning them white-hot. His need for alcohol was burning up his heart. Laerte recognised the despair in the old general’s eyes when he attempted to strike another blow.

Laerte evaded it easily, again, watching as his opponent doubled over with sweat pouring off his brow and his breath wheezing.

‘Try again,’ Laerte urged him, turning his sword with a flick of the wrist.

Dun-Cadal charged at him, unleashing a flurry of blows, but Laerte’s blade turned away each strike with precision.

‘I gave you everything!’ the old man bellowed. ‘Everything! And you betrayed me! You should have killed me! That’s what you should have done! So kill me, come on!
Kill me!
’

Suddenly, Laerte leaned over and struck Dun-Cadal right in the sternum with his elbow before sweeping him off his feet with an outstretched leg. The old man fell flat on his back, stunned. Laerte stood over him, watching his head wobble, his face drenched in sweat.

‘I will not kill you,’ the former apprentice declared in a grim voice.

When he was still a child he had dreamt of this, the moment when he would surpass his mentor. But today, although he had Dun-Cadal at his mercy, he no longer felt anything but pity. The man was right. He had given Laerte
everything
. . . including his dignity.

‘You could do it,’ sobbed Dun-Cadal. ‘You killed a dragon . . . Me, I’m just a cockroach . . .’

‘Sometimes appearances are deceptive . . .’

He held out his hand. Dun-Cadal looked up at it, hesitating over whether to take it.

‘What if you only saw what you wanted to see?’ suggested Laerte, an odd smile playing at the corners of his mouth before it promptly vanished. ‘And what if Frog . . . what if he truly respected the man who saved him from the Saltmarsh?’

Dun-Cadal remained on the ground for a few more seconds, with tears in his eyes, before he caught hold of the young man’s hand. Laerte helped him regain his feet. Instead of swords, now they matched gazes.

‘You’d rather I finish you off,’ Laerte acknowledged.

Dun-Cadal turned away with a stricken air. After a brief glance around him, he massaged the back of his neck.

‘I’m thirsty . . . Is there even a single jug of wine here?’

‘You don’t need wine.’

‘Ha!’ laughed the general, rolling his eyes. ‘At least let me die as I see fit! You hate me! You’ve always hated me!’

‘No. You will always be the general who taught me how to fight.’

His tone was direct and cold.

‘That general is dead . . . he died with Frog!’ cried the old man, his mouth twisted in rage. ‘I taught Frog everything I know. He had honour, he had intelligence, he . . . he had passion. He would never have assassinated men as you have here in Masalia. Do you want to kill me like Enain-Cassart? Like Negus? Then go ahead! Carry out your revenge to the bitter end! That’s why you’ve revealed yourself to me, isn’t it?’

Laerte took a step towards him and then halted.

‘But what if things aren’t what they seem?’

‘It’s crazy . . .’

‘The dragon at Kapernevic . . . The red dragon . . .’

‘Wader, you can’t rely on that . . . that . . . He’s a fool!’

‘I didn’t kill it.’

‘Aladzio is just a little different from the rest of us, Frog. But his plan seems judicious to me.’

Dun-Cadal turned around slowly. Laerte had already disappeared and the sound of his footsteps soon faded to no more than a distant echo inside the house.

‘A judicious plan?’

‘Judicious . . .’

‘Judicious?’ Frog repeated as he quickened his pace to keep up with his mentor. ‘Relying on that cretin is anything but judicious. Negus told you: he burned the barn down several times with his experiments.’

Dun-Cadal gave a satisfied smile before halting at the edge of the forest. Behind them, the tracks of their steps in the snow formed an odd dotted path leading back to the blurry outlines of Kapernevic. The chimneys of the stone houses released a heavy grey smoke that wove its way up into an immaculate white sky. The afternoon was coming to an end and, since dawn, Negus’s soldiers had been pressed into service building the dragon traps designed by Aladzio the previous night. The fact that the inventor played a major part in the plan had greatly displeased the boy, he found it unbearable. Aladzio had one enormous fault: he talked constantly, about everything and anything, became ecstatic over the slightest thing, and was enthused by every passing idea.

When Dun-Cadal proposed that he help them defeat Stromdag’s troops, his loquacity had vanished. Nervous at first, he set to work and devised a system of nets capable of trapping the dragons.

‘Stay here, I’m going to check on things with Negus,’ ordered Dun-Cadal, before he continued to make his way between the pines.

Negus was pacing up and down a long mound behind which his spearmen were preparing. Dun-Cadal went to meet him under the baleful eye of his young apprentice. A few feet away, Aladzio was supervising a team of four soldiers kneeling around a net.

‘Judicious . . .’ muttered Laerte, before letting out a long sigh. ‘We’re digging our graves here . . .’

The two generals conferred in the distance without paying any heed to him. When Laerte saw Aladzio heading towards him, he regretted not being nearer to them; at least they would have drawn the inventor’s attention. But before he could take more than a single step in the snow, hoping to escape the man, Aladzio’s voice forced him to halt.

‘Frog!’ Aladzio called. ‘What a pleasure!’

Watched by the soldiers, Laerte had to give up any attempt to dodge the inventor. He waited until Aladzio reached him, his cheeks reddened by the cold and his tricorne jammed tightly on top of his head.