The Path of Anger (38 page)

‘We didn’t have a chance to talk yesterday, I’m sorry about that. I left you alone at the tavern but—’

‘Don’t trouble yourself over that,’ interrupted Laerte

‘—I had baggage to prepare,’ continued Aladzio as if he had not heard. ‘And yes, I thought I was leaving today, but, well . . . no. Instead, we’re doing this.’

He placed his hands on his hips, gazing out at the forest with a bemused expression.

‘That’s how things are,’ he sighed. ‘That’s life. Sometimes one thinks a thing . . . and sometimes it turns out not to be the case. One thinks one is leaving for a destination and in the end fate has a quite astonishing surprise in store for us . . .’

Laerte gave a brief nod of the head and started to sidle away slowly from the man.

‘Tell me,’ Aladzio asked, to Laerte’s dismay. ‘During the battle, I don’t have to stay here, do I? I mean, would it be possible for me to return to Kapernevic? I’m not certain I’d be of much use here, and . . .’

His voice had suddenly become nervous. He clasped his hands together anxiously, exhaling a milky-white cloud with each breath.

‘That all depends,’ replied Laerte with a nasty smile.

He slowly turned towards the inventor, the snow scrunching beneath his feet, and gave the man a mocking glance.

‘If your traps are any good, Stromdag’s men won’t get past our lines. So what risks would you be taking then, if you watched the battle from the edge of the forest?’

‘N-none,’ stammered Aladzio, before smiling doubtfully. ‘None, of course. It’s just that, obviously, as in any science, there’s a degree of
uncertainty. I am a scientist. And this is . . . experimental.’

‘Are you claiming there’s some
uncertainty
involved in your dragon nets? That you’re experimenting?’

With each step Laerte took towards Aladzio, the inventor retreated. The apprentice knight kept hounding him with a stern glare.

‘No, I’m not one to claim anything,’ Aladzio defended himself without abandoning his smile. ‘I performed a rough mass-weight-speed calculation based on what we know of the grey dragons inhabiting the Kapernevic mountains . . . But if there’s a red dragon . . .’

‘Scientist!’ snorted Laerte. ‘We’d be better off with a magician.’

Aladzio shook his head.

‘Oh, no, no. Believe me, I know a little magic and it’s not very effective.’

He lowered his eyes once Laerte was right in front of him.

‘Well, when I’m the one trying to perform tricks, anyway . . . I carried out my calculations correctly, I assure you . . . I-I am gifted that way.’

The inventor looked so embarrassed that the boy didn’t think he needed to add anything further. He took a step to the side, letting his gaze drift over the nets that the soldiers were stretching between the trees. In just a few hours a small party of Imperial troops would simulate an assault on Stromdag and draw the rebel forces to this very spot. Them and the dragons they’d driven from their lairs. It was the same tactic that they’d used with the rouargs in the Saltmarsh, adapted to the circumstances here. Laerte heard the crunch of snow beneath Aladzio’s boots. Although the inventor was trembling from both the cold and fear he remained standing at the boy’s side.

‘Duke de Page did not tell me about this,’ he sighed.

‘de Page?’

‘My patron,’ explained Aladzio, placing himself on Laerte’s right. ‘Well . . . for the moment. Indeed, that’s why you’re here . . . at least, I suppose that’s why. There are others besides him who seek to obtain my services. But he sent me out here to study. Not to wage war.’

His voice suddenly grew faint as his gaze wandered to the edge of the snow-covered forest.

‘With all due respect, apprentice knight, frankly I don’t understand much about this . . . war.’

When Laerte glanced over at him, Aladzio did not blink. Although
a certain fear could be detected in his eyes he continued to speak.

‘It’s true. I have nothing, personally speaking, against these people. They are simply fighting for . . . well, they just want to be listened to, don’t they? They want to have a say in their own destiny, at least I-I—’

‘You could be killed for saying what you just said to me,’ Laerte said gravely.

Aladzio looked away, a thin smile on his lips.

‘For giving my opinion?’ he objected in an uneasy tone. ‘I’m just trying to understand . . . Well, what I mean to say is that . . .’

Laerte shook his head disgustedly. The inventor had started another monologue, one he preferred to ignore. Close by, the soldiers were finishing rigging the nets. Would they really be enough to stop the dragons? The boy could not understand how a man like Dun-Cadal could have built his plan around such an uncertain linchpin. There was both anxiety and excitement mixed with his doubts. Each battle offered him an occasion to forget himself, to see himself as someone big and strong when he vanquished his enemies, whoever they might be. Each confrontation let him reassure himself, to be certain he was becoming what he needed to be in order to avenge his loved ones. It mattered little to him that he was fighting people who proclaimed they were defending the ideals of a Republic. His father’s dream mattered little – he’d been killed and his dream had been shamelessly appropriated by Meurnau and his supporters . . .

None of this mattered much to him. Here at Kapernevic, in the blinding whiteness of the snow, there was more than the desires of Oratio of Uster at stake. There were his own. Stromdag and his men counted for little compared to the dragons.

As far as he knew, these furious beasts were as stupid as the rouargs. But among them was a breed superior in every way: bigger, stronger and more intelligent. The legendary red dragon. Dun-Cadal had minimised their dangerousness but nevertheless warned Laerte about them. His ambiguity itself was an indication of just how dangerous they were.

The red dragon represented the greatest challenge Laerte could hope for in this world and he was praying for a chance to meet one.

At nightfall, the soldiers took up their positions at the edge of the forest, hidden by the mound of snow. Pressed up against the trees,
men with axes were preparing to cut the ropes holding the nets against the ground. The stars started to twinkle in the sky like distant fires in the icy darkness. Dun-Cadal ordered torches to be lit all around the traps and remained standing on top of the mound, only a few yards away from the pine trees. The tension increased among the Imperial troops. Next to the boy, a soldier was trembling, and not just because of the cold.

The squad chosen to act as bait had been gone for more than an hour when Negus took up his position against a tree trunk, his sword drawn. There were a few fits of coughing and the sound of the wind lifting the branches.

‘Uhh . . . excuse me . . . please?’ called a voice as someone tapped Laerte’s shoulder.

The young man glanced back and was not surprised to see Aladzio’s hunched silhouette. In the settling night his face was as pale as the moon. He was nervously crumpling his hat in his hands.

‘Is it really necessary for me to remain here, my lord? I won’t be of any great use to you. I suppose I—’

‘Be quiet!’ Laerte commanded.

He gestured at the inventor to step back.

‘Well, I guess I should take that to mean: “By all means, go warm yourself in Kapernevic”,’ Aladzio said in jest. ‘“You’ve devised your trap well, you deserve to enjoy a spring chicken by the fire.”’

Laerte could not help smiling. The inventor annoyed him so much he chose to be amused by him. The man left, accompanied by the crunching of his footsteps upon the mantle of snow. Then Laerte heard a few murmurs. Not loud enough, however, to cover the beating of his heart echoing in his temples. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to the hilt of his sword. The cold was numbing his entire body and he was impatient to get moving in order to feel alive, impatient to leave his position here, crouched down behind the mound.

Dun-Cadal’s gloved hand slipped within the guard of his sword . . . Had the general sensed something?

‘They’re coming,’ he announced.

‘I don’t hear them,’ Laerte murmured.

‘Trust him on this,’ advised Negus, standing against the tree a few feet away.

He punctuated his remark with a wink and then brought the blade of his sword up before his face. Laerte was not calmed by this
at all. According to Dun-Cadal, Stromdag would send the dragons first. While the beasts busied themselves hunting those unfortunate enough to be standing in their path the rebel leader would try to overrun Kapernevic, given their advantage in numbers. They would arrive here certain they were superior in strength, while the torch-light would enrage the dragons. At that point the Imperial soldiers would spring forth from behind the mound. That surprise would create doubt and disorganisation in the rebels’ ranks. As for the dragons? That was where Aladzio’s contribution would tilt the balance in the Imperials’ favour. The dragons’ charge would crash into the nets . . . so long as they were strong enough to contain the beasts . . .

‘Hold your positions,’ ordered Dun-Cadal, kneeling on top of the mound.

Laerte observed the strange movement of his mentor. The general placed a hand upon the snowy blanket as he stared into the distance. Behind the wall of torches there was only darkness.

Little by little, a curious noise could be heard. Growing stronger and stronger, it was like the clash of metal on metal.
The clatter of armour
, thought Laerte as he slowly drew his sword. The drumming sound that followed reinforced his impression. The beaters sent out by the general were coming back, and behind them came Stromdag’s army.

‘They’re coming!’ a voice yelled.

A second added just as loudly: ‘Get ready!’

Laerte stood up but the sound of his mentor’s calm voice made him kneel again. It was not yet time to throw himself into battle. Not now . . . but soon.

‘Spearmen!’ shouted Dun-Cadal.

The soldiers obeyed, readying their spears. A few yards ahead of them, their comrades were preparing to sever the ropes restraining the nets with their axes. The branches of the pine trees lifted slowly, announcing the approaching storm. Clumps of snow fell from the tree tops with soft thumps. Not nearly as brutal as the clatter of armour or the heavy breathing of soldiers running through the forest.

Clattering . . . drumming . . . and then a roar.

‘They’re here!’

A man came hurtling out the darkness, soon followed by ten more. Behind them the pine trees bowed and rustled.

Laerte finally stood up, his heart pounding, feeling as breathless as
the soldiers who ended their mad dash by leaping over the mound. And looming between the trees, an enormous maw with gleaming fangs opened wide, ready to swallow the first victim that came within its reach. Two huge rolls of flesh vibrated at the rear of its throat and it gave a terrible bellow.

To the right and to the left, its brothers answered with their own spiteful cries, one of them raising hackles of torn flesh. From the cream-coloured spots on their scales to the striping of their leathery wings the differences between them were obvious. But all of them were driven by the same rage and their powerful jaws gaped ready to snatch men up in their charge.

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

Laerte was speechless, looking in horror at the furious beasts stampeding out from between the trees. The axes plunged down several times upon the ropes before the nets suddenly sprang up, wrapping the dragons’ voracious maws in their mesh. One by one, the dragons were trapped.

Dragons of the same colour as the darkness that enfolded them.

There was just enough light from the torches to make out the smallest details of their wings as they deployed between the pine trees. The spearmen charged, screaming at the top of their lungs. They rushed at the enraged monsters, planting their weapons in the beasts’ necks. Watched by his astonished apprentice, Dun-Cadal leapt upon the snout of the first dragon and, with a quick, precise stroke, pierced its wide-open eye before falling heavily into the snow. But when the general turned round, Laerte was no longer looking at him. He was only interested in the enormous dragons, with their long snouts caught in the nets, a thick slaver glistening on their fangs. Clouds of white smoke swirled upwards from their wide nostrils and their bodies were covered with swellings that mottled their damp scales, except upon the thin wings that beat violently at the air in the hope of escaping the snares. But the nets held firm . . .

‘Frog!’

The frenzied beasts writhed, clawing the ground with their powerful legs.

‘Frog! By the gods, get out of the way!

The sound of Dun-Cadal’s voice surprised him. The tide of howling warriors who surged through the pine trees was even more surprising. Mercenaries, soldiers and peasants. All of them driven
by the same anger, brandishing swords, flails, hatchets, or common pickaxes, gleaming in the torchlight. They skirted around the floundering dragons or climbed over the still-warm carcasses of the dead beasts, ready to sacrifice their own lives for the cause. They would never give up.

Going over the mound of snow, the Imperial troops’ charge was equally unwavering. The impact between the two armies was violent, producing a din like thunder. Screams mixed with the clash of weapons, the death rattles of the dying with the roaring of the trapped dragons. At the very heart of the chaos Laerte parried, dodged and leapt, striking again and again, always with precision. His breathing accelerated and his heart raced. Everything became fast, violent . . . and sublime. There, in the middle of the battle, he became someone strong, powerful, invulnerable.

He caught a blow from his right on his blade and then took a quick step back to avoid a second. With his free hand he struck at the mercenary’s head before whirling his blade to keep his adversaries at a distance.

‘Frog! There!’

A single warrior had decided to continue the fight, standing proudly before him, sabres in either hand. When he charged, Laerte merely had to kneel, raising his sword so that his opponent impaled himself without a sound. The apprentice knight extracted his blade from the man’s flesh with a swift yank and turned back to Dun-Cadal. The general was gamely fighting on, surrounded by several rebels, parrying blows firmly and waiting for an opening that would let him to deliver a killing stroke.