The Path of Anger (43 page)

The duel resumed with a fearsome clash of blades. Thrusts, parries . . . the two men moved gracefully in the cramped space. Splinters of wood flew through the air and the walls crumbled as their bodies slammed into them, but they continued to strike, dodge and counter each other without either gaining the upper hand. They were like two reflections trying to foil one another.

A particularly powerful blow forced Laerte to draw back. He immediately held his sword out horizontally, hoping to block another thrust, but Logrid surprised him: dropping down, he stretched out his leg to sweep the boy off his feet with a swift kick. Laerte fell to the floor, hitting his head sharply on the edge of his bed. The ceiling became hazy and bells chimed in his ears . . . the
animus
began to slip from his control, his heart stumbling with the force of it, and blood continued to run from his nose. His eyelids seemed turned to lead.

He had barely regained his wits when Logrid’s shadow fell over him. The assassin’s knees pressed down on the boy’s arms, pinning him to the floor while a gloved hand covered his mouth. As the sword blade sliced through his shoulder, his cry was stifled by the leather, and could only be heard inside his head. The tearing pain ran through his body, forcing him to arch his back. Distress shone in his eyes when he glimpsed Logrid’s sardonic smile above him.

He could not die. Not here, not now, not like this. The assassin continued to muffle his scream with a firm hand, whispering something incomprehensible in his hissing voice . . . It was unbearable and yet hypnotic. If only he would stop speaking! Along with the pain! If only this would all end . . .

No, Laerte could not let himself to succumb. He needed to breathe deeply, fill his lungs, and resist this blade tormenting his body. He had to fight; that’s what he had learned to do these past years, fight to avenge his family. The ghostly image of his father hanging from the gallows haunted him. The silhouette of his brother dangling from the end of a rope . . . the murder of his raped mother, of his little sister . . .

He could not contain his tears. Rage was keeping him afloat. Neither despair, nor his sense of loss, and still less this damn pain was going to stop him. He would not give up! Force of will alone reasserted his control over the
animus
—

—a chair slammed into Logrid’s head, shattering into pieces. Barely dazed by the blow, the assassin turned and Aladzio stepped back, furious, holding two broken chair legs in his hands. One arm freed from beneath Logrid’s knee, Laerte seized this opportunity, lifting a widespread hand. And the
animus
did its work.

Logrid was lifted into the air. But he did not fall back down. He remained suspended there, spinning slowly, one hand upon his chest, his fingers bent as if trying to remove something piercing his chest. Laerte felt his pain. He lived it, endured it, desired it. He felt the assassin’s heart throbbing; like an orange being squeezed in his hand, a wretched thing to be crushed between his fingers. And as he squeezed it, he saw the life slowly draining from the suspended body.

When he felt no more than an icy sensation and saw Logrid’s head hanging limply, Laerte lowered his arm. And fainted.

*

A distant voice pulled him from the darkness, when his only desire was to immerse himself in it completely. The words became sharper and more urgent. The creaking of the floor sounded like an entire forest being chopped down.

‘Frog? Frog?’

‘Laerte . . .’ he murmured hoarsely.

Just saying the name felt like needles clawing his throat.

‘No, don’t move,’ the voice told him.

By the time his mind took in the instruction it was already too late. He had attempted to sit up, and the wound to his shoulder had made it clear it was a bad idea.

‘I removed the sword and I tried to make a quick bandage.’

‘Your two students, Dun-Cadal . . . how ironic.’

Kneeling beside him, Aladzio was looking at him with great sorrowful eyes. Laerte glanced at his shoulder. It was wrapped in a piece of blood-stained cloth.

‘Your two students fighting one another . . . Who would you have wagered upon, hmm, Dun-Cadal?’

‘You passed out for a few minutes. I-I did what I could,’ the inventor stammered.

‘Thank you . . .’

Next to him, Logrid had fallen to the floor, lying motionless on his green cape, one leg bent beneath him, his twisted hand still clutching at his chest. The cape . . . Aladzio helped Laerte to stand up.

‘That’s the Hand of the Emperor, isn’t it?’

‘He was,’ corrected Laerte with a sigh. ‘I’m glad you were here.’

‘de Page,’ said Aladzio with an embarrassed expression. ‘He asked me to keep an eye on you . . . You need to flee, Frog. If the Emperor sent his assassin after you, you’re no longer safe here. They must have discovered something—’

‘No,’ he snapped, making his way to Logrid’s body with determination.

It was now or never, flee or fight, succeed or give up altogether. Like the Erain frog creeping as close as possible to its prey, he would take on the appearance of his enemies one last time.

‘And that’s how . . .’

Despite his wounded shoulder, despite his fatigue and Aladzio’s advice against it . . .

‘. . . that’s how . . .’

. . . he donned the leather jacket, the boots and the gloves. And he disguised himself in the Hand of the Emperor’s green cape, drawing the hood over his head, its shadow hiding his face.

Hadn’t he always planned to become the Emperor’s assassin?

‘And that’s how you had the idea . . .’ repeated Dun-Cadal.

Seated on the doorstep, he contemplated the shards of the pitcher scattered across the gravel. The young man had reined in his emotions, savouring the quiet of the city below, illuminated by a thousand fires. At night, Masalia’s torches rivalled the stars above.

‘Logrid!’

‘So it was you I saw . . .’ recalled the general in a low voice.

‘Logrid! You scum. You piece of filth!
Logrid!’

‘You thought you were cursing Logrid . . . but you cursed me.’

Laerte saw the general again in his memories, being escorted to the double doors by the soldiers, hurling a thousand insults at him. He had looked away, unable to bear the sight of his mentor’s tears, and his face twisted by hatred.

‘I was . . . hurt, Wader,’ he explained gravely. ‘I felt as if I was falling, rolling downhill . . .’

He took a deep breath. The scene had been so painful, so traumatic, that he could not simply think of it. He was forced to relive every instant.

‘I was fourteen when I saved you. I was barely seventeen, that day. And the Emperor was only a few feet from me. Just a few . . . feet.’

He stood silently for a moment and then resumed his account, weighing each of his words carefully.

‘They hung my father and my brother in the Saltmarsh.’

‘I know . . . it was the law,’ the general groaned.

‘And was it the law to rape my mother?’

He shot a dark look at the old knight. Dun-Cadal masked his surprise beneath an impassive face. But Laerte knew his mentor was only now realising the extent of the terrible punishment that had befallen the Uster family. And that it had nothing to do with ideals, with a desire for change, or with building a republic. Nothing at all . . .

‘My little sister,’ Laerte said, voice trembling. ‘She was only four years old.’

She’d endured horrors the high and mighty justified, cynically, by explaining to those who chose to listen that no war was ever clean, that violence engendered violence, and that cruelty, if not excusable, was simply inevitable. Laerte stepped closer to Dun-Cadal, his throat choked and his eyes shining with pent-up tears.

Bam!

‘They left her nailed her to a door like some kind of animal.’

Bam! Bam!

Laerte turned away, regaining his calm and wiping the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘I waited. I waited until the next day.’

‘Frog,’ murmured the general, ‘I didn’t know, I—’

‘I waited until the next day, for the rebels’ attack to begin,’ Laerte continued as if he hadn’t heard.

‘Logrid! Stay by my side! I must leave the city right away.’

He leaned towards Dun-Cadal.

‘Logrid?’

‘That evening, I learned just how closely the Reyes family and my own were linked . . .’

9

THE END OF A WORLD

One day you’ll understand.

Be certain of that.

I shall be the greatest knight

This world has ever known.

‘Logrid?’

The voice was quavering and high-pitched . . . surprisingly high-pitched for someone who reigned over the world. In front of him, Laerte merely beheld a frail figure wearing a long black robe with a golden mask upon his face. Standing in the middle of an empty throne room, lit by the explosions that were causing dust and debris to rain down on the balcony, the Emperor Asham Ivani Reyes had lost his splendour. One of his arms was bent in front of his torso, while his back was twisted and one shoulder was noticeably higher than the other. As the cannons thundered outside, he was revealed to be nothing more than an ugly monster, overcome with fear.

The previous evening, Laerte had resisted the urge to take him by the throat and run a sword through his body. Still feverish from his fight with Logrid, he didn’t feel strong enough to defeat the Emperor’s remaining guards.

So he had waited. He had rested.

When the first cannon salvoes shook the city and the generals left the palace to defend Emeris’s fortifications, he had seized his chance. Although the wound in his shoulder was seeping blood beneath its bandage and a dull ache persisted, he was determined not to back down this time.

‘Logrid? What are you doing?’

Reyes had come rushing into the throne room in a state of panic.
He had been even more frightened to see Laerte standing before him with his sword drawn.

‘We must flee Emeris! Laerte of Uster’s troops are at our gates, I cannot—’

The boy’s hood had fallen to his shoulders, revealing a face dripping with sweat, and wearing a baleful expression.

‘W-who are you?’ stammered the Emperor, backing away.

‘Your mask!’ ordered Laerte. ‘Take it off! I want to see your face!’

‘Frog!’ The Emperor recognised him. ‘You’re the apprentice . . . By the gods!’

‘Your mask!’ repeated the boy, his sword at the ready.

The glow of the burning city danced across the marble columns. Beyond the balcony, above the tree tops, coils of black smoke rose into a starry sky. The walls shook beneath the rebels’ cannon fire. No, it was no longer a mere rebellion, it was a revolution.

‘Show me your accursed face!’

‘Why? What do you want with me? Where is Logrid? You could not have killed him!’ Reyes said in panic as he retreated further, his strange crooked arm slipping beneath his black robe.

Fearing that he would draw Eraëd from its scabbard Laerte charged towards him, letting his rage burst forth. In his haste, Reyes tripped and collapsed on the floor, weeping. His mask fell away, hitting the flagstones with a clatter and acquiring a crack. His face finally revealed, there was nothing imposing or dignified, much less Imperial, about him. He was just a poor frightened figure with his arms held up defensively before him. But the attack he was afraid did not come. Laerte had halted, stupefied.

If one gloved hand opened its fingers wide towards him, the other was a shapeless lump of flesh, covered in white swellings.

‘No, no . . .’ Reyes begged. ‘I beg you, no . . .’

‘You’re a monster . . .’ muttered Laerte, staring at the man he had hated so much for so long.

There was nothing human about the face before him. It was a mass of grooves and hollows, bulges and scars. Some terrible disease was eating away at his ravaged features. His right eyelid drooped hideously. His nose was reduced to two slits between his pockmarked cheeks, above a harelip.

‘Don’t hurt me!’ he cried.

‘My father would never have grovelled,’ snarled Laerte, before
spitting on the ground. ‘When you had him hung in the Saltmarsh, he never grovelled!’

Reyes’s eyes widened, as if he was starting to understand.

‘My mother, did she beg them not to hurt her?’ Laerte roared as he advanced towards him. ‘Did my sister?’

Reyes lowered his head like a dog afraid of receiving a beating, his body jerking with spasms.

‘It wasn’t what I wanted . . .’ he protested. ‘It wasn’t me, I—’

‘You lit the fires of this war, Reyes! You will pay for everything you’ve done!
You
will pay!’

‘It wasn’t what I wanted, it wasn’t what I wanted!’ the Emperor wailed.

‘You murdered my family!’ Laerte shouted.

As if it were planned, the sound of cannons and loud shouts rang out at that moment, followed by the echo of swords clashing in the streets of Emeris. The rebels had entered; the entire city was aflame.

At Laerte’s feet, the Emperor gave him an imploring look.

‘Look at me, I’m nothing. I’m just a poor monster who hides behind a golden mask to impress people . . .’

Heavy tears ran down his cratered cheeks.

‘But I’m not evil! I’ve always acted for the good of my people. I never ordered your entire family to be . . . It was just your father who was to be judged! He was the only one who threatened me!’

Laerte was in no state to excuse anything, or even to comprehend Reyes’s motives. His youthful nature favoured impulse over reason. Whatever pity he felt for this monstrosity, he told himself it was his duty to finish the deed here. He swung his sword with a menacing air, suppressing a grimace of pain. His shoulder was bleeding more freely and the hot liquid was leaking from the bandage. The blood was gradually forming a stain beneath his leather jacket.

He hesitated, trembling and feverish, his blade pointed at the cringing man on the floor. Was there any cause for clemency? For mercy towards this deformed thing at his feet? He had waited so long for this moment . . .

. . . and Reyes, his great enemy, was weeping like a lost child.

Laerte had believed that seeing him unmasked would provoke hatred, nothing else. He had imagined a powerful man, a tyrant, who would look Laerte in the face as the young knight ran his sword through his heart.

‘No, please, Frog, please . . . They made me to do it . . . They told me the Saltmarsh had to be crushed! Don’t kill me, Frog . . . don’t kill me—’

‘
I am Laerte of Uster!
’ the boy shouted.

Another voice, just as loud, filled the throne room.

‘Well, there’s another mask that has fallen!’

Keeping the point of his sword directed at the prostrate Emperor, Laerte turned slightly to see a squad of ten soldiers filing through the double doors. Four men in armour, barely showing any trace of the fighting, brought up the rear of the procession. He had no trouble recognising Negus and his paunch, Bernevin’s proud strut or Rhunstag wearing his bearskin over his shoulders, along with . . .

‘Captain Azdeki! Save me!’ ordered the Emperor, stretching out his hand towards the fourth man. ‘This madman wants to kill me! Defend me!’

Azdeki stepped forward, examining Reyes’s mangled face with contempt. He replied by spitting on the floor.

‘How ironic,’ he reflected aloud. ‘To find Reyes and Uster here together. This started with them, and so it shall end with them . . .’

The soldiers formed a circle around Laerte and the Emperor, Rhunstag tucking his thumbs in his belt as he walked to the right, Bernevin moving to the left. But Laerte’s attention remained fixed on Etienne Azdeki’s gaunt face.

‘Captain Azdeki! Do something!’ Reyes commanded, dragging himself across the floor towards him.

Laerte jabbed his sword at him with an air of intent and the Emperor froze, darting frantic glances at the soldiers. None made any move to come to his aid and his generals ignored him.

‘Laerte of Uster, Oratio’s younger son . . .’ mused Azdeki. ‘I always thought you were older. A clever strategy, making you a myth. Does Meurnau even know that you are here among us? That you’ve been fighting
against
him all this time?’

Laerte felt the growing symptoms of fever as well as the pain in his shoulder. Sweat beaded his brow.

‘Azdeki!’ Reyes cried angrily.

Laerte’s thoughts wavered like a storm-tossed sea when he most needed to keep his wits about him.

‘Don’t come any nearer!’ he warned with a scowl.

He pointed his sword towards the Emperor at his feet. Azdeki did
not react, his face stern, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He remained calm and still. Outside, the cannons continued to boom.

‘Do it,’ the captain urged, nodding at Reyes. ‘End the life of this pitiful . . .’

He paused, his lips pinched in disgust. ‘. . . thing,’ he finally said, gritting his teeth.

Gasping for breath, Reyes almost collapsed full length on the floor. Tears of blood ran from the eye with the deformed lid. In the other, his panic was plain to see.

‘Rhunstag?’ he called out in a quaver. ‘Bernevin? Negus . . . help me . . .’

But his distraught calls and pleading gaze met a wall of indifference. The generals stared at him with no sign of emotion, neither pity nor anger. He could expect nothing from them; they disavowed him with their silence and their stillness.

‘Mercy . . .’

‘Why?’ asked Azdeki, without even glancing down at Reyes.

For instead, he was looking straight into Laerte’s eyes. Responding to the boy’s anger with sincere curiosity.

‘Why did you join Dun-Cadal Daermon?’ he continued. ‘Why have you lied for so long?’

‘It’s time to end this, Etienne,’ Negus said impatiently.

Laerte gave him a brief glance and the small man avoided his gaze. His mentor’s friend had betrayed him, too. With a tight throat, Laerte spared a thought for Dun-Cadal, worried about his fate. Who could the general turn to now?

‘Now,’ insisted Bernevin. ‘Then we must deal with Meurnau before the fighting in the city ends.’

Reyes was sobbing on the floor, robbed of the capacity to speak.

‘It’s revenge, isn’t it?’ Azdeki deduced with a frown. ‘Is that the reason you’ve waited so long?’

‘Meurnau and his troops are approaching the palace, nephew!’ a heavy rasping voice announced. ‘If we don’t kill him as planned, he’ll claim this victory for himself and rob us of any legitimacy!’

Laerte detected a movement behind him. An obese figure limped into view between the columns, accompanied closely by a small frail man who walked with the help of a cane, and was snickering nervously.

‘Azinn,’ squealed Reyes. ‘You, too . . .’

Bernevin acted, taking a bright dagger from his belt. With a firm hand, he seized the back of the Emperor’s neck and placed the dagger against his throat. Laerte was paralysed, darting feverish glances about the room. Everyone seemed astonishingly calm, while outside Emeris was falling into the rebels’ hands.

‘Meurnau’s time is up, we need to be quick,’ ordered Azinn, giving Laerte an odd look. ‘And since Oratio’s son has been among us for so long, it will be no lie when we expose him as a traitor to the revolution,’ he concluded, running a hand over his smooth skull which boasted a single lock of white hair.

They would survive this war, they would claim victory for themselves; they would become the heroes who brought the Empire down. They surrounded him, eyeing both him and Bernevin’s dagger, a few feet away, ready to slit Reyes’s throat. Tears flowed freely down the Emperor’s pockmarked cheeks, reflecting the glow of the flames consuming his Empire. He was lost. Leaning against a column with a quivering hand resting upon his cane, the Marquis of Enain-Cassart watched the scene with relish.

‘We were sure you’d survived, but we thought you were leading the rebellion. How did you manage to fool us?’ he asked Laerte with some surprise.

‘The registers,’ smiled Azdeki, nodding his head smugly as he worked it out. ‘That’s how. That’s why Meurnau burnt the birth registers at Aëd’s Watch: to hide your true age from us.’

‘Well, that’s one thorn in our side we can easily remove,’ Azinn remarked with pursed lips. ‘The mythical Laerte of Uster is going to lose all his mystery.’

‘You’ve been so useful to us, right to the finish,’ conceded Azdeki, staring at the young man. ‘Laerte, Frog . . . whatever name you use, in the end you are the one who will have destroyed the Empire . . . and you alone.’

He seemed sincere, shaking his head slightly, a strange hint of regret in his eyes.

‘I am your Emperor,’ Reyes suddenly sobbed.

‘Times change, Reyes,’ Etienne said calmly. ‘Times change. The people need another destiny now. A destiny that the gods alone have decided. Yours ends here. What do you make of your existence in this world, Reyes? What do the Fangolin monks say: “There comes a day in every life, a meeting point of what we were, what we are
and what we will be. At that moment, as all things draw to a close, we decide our fate. Proud or ashamed of the road travelled . . .”. This is your moment, Reyes. Think about the vile creature you’ve always been and all the deeds that, in the end, you never accomplished. Are you proud or ashamed of your reign, Reyes? Now your people are massing at the gates of your palace . . .’

Laerte remained silent, angry, his gaze alternating between the Emperor and the captain. What should he do? Was he going to fail here, once again? He drew in a deep breath, wincing in pain when his torn shoulder rose.

‘If there was one hero in the Saltmarsh, just remember his name: Dun-Cadal Daermon.’