The Path of Anger (8 page)

‘You look like a wading bird . . .’ a voice behind him said in a mocking tone.

Dun-Cadal tried to keep his balance with his good leg.

‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ the boy advised as the general struggled to harness the horse.

Each time his healing leg touched the ground, a fiery arrow raced up it and into his heart and his brow burst out in sweat. The horse had been quietly grazing behind the cart and did not seem to appreciate having a lame cripple trying to cinch a saddle upon its back.

‘The war goes on without me. I’ve recovered enough to go and find my men, lad,’ Dun-Cadal assured him.

But his perspiring face and his features drawn by pain contradicted his words.

‘You won’t be able to ride with that leg,’ the boy warned. ‘Waders don’t belong on horseback. You look funny like that, trying to keep your balance, but you’re going to fall over.’

‘Oh, you think so, do you?’ jested the knight as he finished buckling the girth beneath the horse’s belly.

In fact, he almost fell as he stepped back, the plank digging into his armpit despite the chain mail protecting his upper body. He was anxious to be rid of it. He placed one hand on the pommel of the saddle and used the crutch to heave himself painfully onto his mount. He had to try several times before he succeeded in lifting his injured leg over the horse’s rump. Then he let it slide across the saddle with a moan. His scabbard smacked against his unpolished armour and he thought he was going to pass out as his leg with its wooden brace knocked against the useless stirrup. But once he was settled in the saddle, his hands gripping the reins, he was able to catch his breath and wait for the pain to slowly subside.

‘You think so,’ he repeated in a murmur, staring into the distance. A heat haze covered the marshes and the sky was masked by the same white clouds that had greeted his arrival in the region.‘I must find my men.’

With a twitch of the reins, he urged the horse to a walk. Even this gentle movement made him grimace in pain, each time the splint tapped the saddle leather. If he was going to ride for hours with only one good leg, this was merely a foretaste of what he would have to endure.

‘What about me?’ the boy asked plaintively.

‘You? Well, live long and happy with your frogs and avoid armed men whenever possible. All hell may break loose around here . . . I still have a town to capture.’

‘You mean Aëd’s Watch?’ The boy was walking up beside the
horse now, trying to catch the reins. ‘You don’t know what happened there—’

If the lad persisted in his efforts, he was going to stop the horse. Dun-Cadal gritted his teeth and kicked twice with his good heel to make the horse trot. The boy had to step aside to avoid being jostled. Seeing his frown, the knight gave him a mocking smile.

‘I should think that idiot Azdeki was unable to take the town and had to retreat.’

He held back a laugh, however, as his ribs ached with the slightest jolt. The pain made him want to vomit up his guts, but he imposed his will upon his body. He had to find his troops, lead the fight to the end and stamp out the revolt.

‘They lost,’ the boy said, ‘You said it yourself: the war went on without you.’ Dun-Cadal tugged slightly on the reins. The horse slowed. ‘The Empire lost the Saltmarsh four days ago.’

With one hand, the general turned the steed. A few feet from him, the lad was standing up straight, his balled fists close to his thighs. His face had reclaimed the angry expression he’d worn during the first few days and there was still a childish quality about it, as if he had just been punished and was about to throw a tantrum. Should Dun-Cadal believe him? He could accept that Azdeki had failed to capture the town, but the idea that he, a hundred thousand soldiers and a thousand knights using the
animus
had suffered a decisive defeat was quite simply unthinkable.

‘Aëd’s Watch was a trap. They held off your men and then launched a great attack,’ the boy said mournfully. ‘Your army was so surprised it couldn’t react in time . . . It was routed.’

‘How could that be . . . ?’ Dun-Cadal whispered, tight-faced and overwhelmed; the once proud and arrogant military leader suddenly an injured man reeling on top of a scrawny horse.

‘You’ll need to cross the enemy’s lines to rejoin your men,’ the boy said. ‘You’re lost out here, behind the rebels holding the borders of the Saltmarsh.’

Dun-Cadal leaned over the horse’s neck, one hand gripping the saddle pommel, and stared at the lad. He was well and truly stuck out here, all on his own. No one even knew he was still alive.

‘You should have told me sooner,’ he snapped. ‘Godsfuck, why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

‘How would knowing have changed anything?’

The insolent little imp gave him a strange smile that was at odds with his severe gaze.

‘You’re going to need me,’ he added.

‘For what? Now you want to help me escape the Saltmarsh as well as saving my life?’

Dun-Cadal’s voice had risen in both anger and despair. He tried to think things through, searching for a solution, any way out. But his leg was incredibly painful, an agony which ran up his thigh and bored its way through his guts to strike at his heart. The lad was right; he was not yet fit enough to ride.

‘You’re a knight.’

He gave Dun-Cadal a determined look.

‘Teach me to fight.’

‘What?’ exclaimed the general, startled.

‘Teach me to fight and I’ll help you escape from the Saltmarsh and find your troops.’

‘Because you think the two of us will be able to cross the enemy lines, just like that?’ Dun-Cadal asked in a mocking tone.

He placed a feverish hand on his damaged ribs. If he stayed on the horse any longer he was in danger of keeling over.

‘It’s possible,’ the boy insisted. ‘You have no idea what I’m capable of.’

‘I don’t know anything about you! I don’t even know your name!’

‘You can give me whatever name you like,’ the boy said evasively. ‘Teach me to fight. You won’t be sorry.’

He didn’t move an inch, his shoulders slightly hunched but his dark eyes looking up at the knight, standing his ground without a hint of fear.

‘You, fight? At your age you want to take up arms?’

‘I’ll be a knight before you know it.’

‘Such confidence! It takes a long time to become a knight, lad.’

‘I can do it.’

‘You won’t be any use to me crossing enemy lines.’

‘I can do it,’ the boy insisted.

Each time the knight raised his tone, the boy answered in a low but firm voice.

‘You’re starting to annoy me!’ bellowed Dun-Cadal as he drew on the reins. ‘You’re only a child! Stay in your place and stop dreaming
of ridiculous things. The situation is too complicated for me to train you now.’

‘I’m not a child!’ The boy pointed an accusing finger at the general. ‘And you won’t get far like that and you know it! But you’d rather go and tempt the demons out there than stay here and give your wounds time to heal. You could use all that time to teach me to fight, but no, you’d rather go and throw yourself into death’s arms on your own. Who cares that I know where the rebels are located, how many there are and how to get past them! And the two of us, together we can do it!’

Out of breath, his mouth twisted in anger, he lowered his arm. He was on the edge of tears.

‘And I’m not a child,’ he repeated.

The horse snorted. It seemed tired too. Reluctantly, Dun-Cadal accepted the idea that he could not undertake the journey on his own.

‘Do you even know how to wield a sword?’ he asked.

The boy nodded and they went back to the cart. Dun-Cadal needed the lad’s help to dismount and, one arm around the shoulders of his young rescuer, he hobbled back to his blanket. Only when he was finally lying down did the pain in his leg subside . . . for the moment. He raised it with the help of an old crate to ensure the blood would drain better and not cause his foot to swell.

‘Help me take off my boot,’ he sighed.

He watched as the lad obeyed, searching his face for any signs that would tell him something more . . . A scar, an expression, a detail he’d overlooked up until now, the slightest clue that would reveal a shred of this lad’s past. Anything but this complete blank. Once the boy had removed the boot, he moved to the knight’s side and took the frog from its box to extract more urine from it.

‘If I’m staying then I’ll have to give you a name,’ said Dun-Cadal, lifting his chin.

‘If you like,’ the boy replied, shaking the flask to mix the water and urine together.

‘Let’s see . . . you called me Wader didn’t you? Why don’t I return the favour? As you seem to like those wriggling beasties you will be . . . Frog . . . I shall call you Frog.’

He waited to see if the lad would take offense but he merely nodded before opening the flask and passing it to the general.

‘It suits me,’ the boy said with a wistful smile, ‘Wader.’

Evidently, he was willing to put up with anything to achieve his goals, even a ridiculous nickname.

‘Sir Frog the knight . . . Do you want to be known as Sir Frog?’ Dun-Cadal asked jestingly as he took the flask.

But the glance the boy gave him made him to falter. In those grey eyes lay the force of an unbreakable will. The lad’s next words were quiet but firm, a mere murmur which nonetheless carved itself into Dun-Cadal’s memory, as powerful as any cry.

‘One day you’ll understand. Be certain of that. I shall be the greatest knight this world has ever known.’

4

THE ASSASSIN

‘Attack someone from behind?

There’s no honour in fighting like that!’

‘There’s no honour at all in killing someone, lad.

No matter how you strike.

There’s no glory to be had in taking a life.’

Everything she knew of the world came from books. Her long years of study at the Great College of Emeris had made her impressively erudite, but all that knowledge consisted merely of words. Here, she was discovering their true meaning. She was finally seeing the living embodiment of those written works, copied and recopied down the centuries by the monks of the Order of Fangol. Until now these servants of the gods had been the sole masters of writing. Recording the voices of the gods themselves, set down in the Sacred Book. But the
Liaber Dest
vanished long ago, while the Empire had been overthrown and the rules had changed. Knowledge was no longer supposed to be the sole preserve of the elite. In the Republic, a young peasant girl like Viola could be taught the history of her world and how to relate its events with the help of a quill dipped in ink. But what had she really seen with her own eyes? The leafy paths of the village where she had been born, and later, the long and wide avenues of the Imperial city of Emeris. But what else? Nothing but words in books, describing the former Kingdoms in a poetic way.

So the simple act of walking along the cobbled streets of Masalia seemed to mark a new stage in her life. All along the street, traders exhorted passers-by to try their magnificent goods: vegetables, spices that pricked the nostrils, braided necklaces, lace-trimmed fabrics,
dried meats, or the still bloody chops from a pig slaughtered right by the stalls . . .

The noon sun at its zenith bathed the city in light and the heavy scent of musk and citrus fruit floated in the air. In the days of the Empire, Masalia had been the only city where someone who dreamt of something better might achieve their goal. Now that the Republic ruled the destinies of its peoples, the advantages of this city had spread like an unexpected wind of hope throughout the former Kingdoms. Viola was a perfect example of this, a blacksmith’s daughter who had proved quite brilliant and completed her studies at the Great College, hitherto reserved for the nobility. What career lay ahead of her now? That of a historian, cooped up in a library with ancient tomes? Or that of an archaeologist, travelling the world in search of antique artefacts and idols? Who would she fall in love with? With whom would she raise a family? What was her place in this new chapter of the world, now everyone had the chance to choose their own future . . . ?

She pondered all these questions without really expecting to find any answers, and the possibility that there might be more than one pleased her. Her parents had not, at any point in their lives, had a chance to consider their futures. Her father had been a blacksmith like his father before him, while her mother barely knew how to write her name. The Fangolin monks had taught the skill of writing to some, but they ensured they alone mastered the art.

‘Miss, try the flavours of the Sudies Islands! Spices like you’ve never tasted before!’ hailed a smooth-faced man with an olive complexion. His round belly almost rested on his stall, its surface covered with bags of spices.

She gave him a brief smile and nodded disinterestedly before passing two men brawling in the middle of the street. No one paid them much attention, and she had other things to do than stroll about the city. She had been charged with a mission and was intent on carrying it out. Finding Eraëd, the Emperors’ sword, was not a passing whim but rather a conscious effort on the part of some to honour the past. Eraëd . . . the sword was much more than a symbol, it was a legendary object, said to have been forged at the beginning of time.

Leaving the market street, she spotted the dried-up fountain that stood at the centre of a small square paved in red and white cobblestones. There, among the tall, prosperous-looking houses with
balconies bright with flowers and wide windows, was the townhouse where she had left Dun-Cadal the previous night. It was not hard to recognise in the light of day. It was the only house whose curtains remained drawn and there were young women with exposed shoulders parading in front of the door. Long skirts fell to their bare feet, and they wore fine, brightly coloured cloth that clung perfectly to their curves. They were selling their charms to the highest bidder, and they had come to the right address for proper training. It was murmured here and there that Mildrel had been one of the most prominent courtesans of the Empire, sharing bedchamber secrets as she distributed both her favours and her advice in the shadowy light of private salons.

Viola adjusted her spectacles before seating herself on the lip of the fountain. A stone cherub stood in the middle with its wings spread wide and one knee bent, as if about to take flight. She observed the passers-by: traders in Masalia on business, dirt-stained travellers wearily leading their mounts, and even some Nâaga swaggered past, staring all about them. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she finally spied the familiar figure of a badly-shaven old knight.

Dun-Cadal emerged from Mildrel’s house, raising a hand to shade his face from the sun. In his other he held an apple and he lifted it to his mouth to take a bite. Two of the girls pacing before the door greeted him with broad smiles. The bright sunlight reflecting off the paving stones was dazzling. For someone whose eyelids already bore the weight of a hangover, the glare was almost unbearable.

‘I was afraid you’d never come out of there,’ a voice said behind him.

He threw a glance over his shoulder, munching on a piece of the apple. Viola approached with a light step, her hands clasped behind her back and two rebellious curls falling before her ears. So the young red-headed woman was not going to leave him alone. He examined her from head to toe with a frown.

‘You again . . .’ he grumbled hoarsely.

‘Did you miss me?’ she asked with a smile, rocking on her feet like a child. ‘As female company goes, I think you did rather well for yourself last night.’

Dun-Cadal walked away, grumbling as he went. Viola kept up with him.

‘I see you’re just as pleasant as you were yesterday,’ she said in a jesting tone.

‘Your savage isn’t with you?’ the knight groused. ‘Too busy drawing more tacky things on his face?’

‘Oh well, if you’re missing him then don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough.’

‘I could easily manage without that . . .’

He picked up his pace, eating his apple with an irritated air. To be pestered like this, so soon after waking, was intolerable. As was the hammer beating an anvil within his head. And it was compounded by all the sounds of Masalia; its street peddlers and hawkers . . . even its seagulls gliding past in the cloudless sky. Dun-Cadal shouldered his way through the crowd with Viola still dogging his heels.

‘Have you come back to threaten me?’ he asked.

‘Threaten you? With what?’

‘Now that you know who I am—’

‘I’m not about to put you on trial,’ Viola interrupted as she moved up to his side.

A trader coming towards them with a cask in his arms almost ran into her. She sidestepped to avoid him and then swung back to follow in the knight’s wake. The trader went on his way without missing a step, whistling as he went.

‘I’m seeking something other than vengeance,’ she added.

‘I won’t help you find the rapier.’

‘That sword belongs to history!’

‘And that history is long over.’

At the end of the street, they could see the swaying masts of the ships anchored in the port. Eager to leave all this frantic activity behind and spend a quiet moment in front of a full tankard, Dun-Cadal turned right. But a tattooed colossus stood at the mouth of the alley with his arms crossed, one corner of his mouth twisted into a strange smile. Their eyes met and, judging by the old general’s scowl, there was nothing friendly in their glances.

‘I said you’d see Rogant again,’ Viola murmured behind him.

Dun-Cadal turned round and headed for the port. Viola hurried to catch up with him before he disappeared into the crowd.

‘Dun! Wait, Dun!’ she cried. ‘Wait for me!’

‘Why should I wait for you?’ he asked firmly. ‘The only thing I’m
waiting for is the moment when you lead the Republican Guards to me.’

‘The civil war is over, General,’ Viola replied. ‘Get that through your skull. You really believe I’d turn you in on the faint hope that you’ll talk to me from a gaol cell?’

‘The thought occurred to me.’

‘Be serious. I’d have to be an idiot to try something like that.’

‘That occurred to me as well,’ the knight said sarcastically.

A multitude of proud, tall ships lay moored in the harbour, rocking gently on the water. Some sort of escort party was disembarking from one of them, composed of guards dressed in red and sky-blue armour, holding halberds and wearing swords at their side. At their head, two less heavily-armed soldiers bore standards with the colours of the arriving dignitaries. The councillors . . . so the rumours were true. He had known several of them in his previous life. He halted and felt Viola’s slight body press up against his back.

‘Why would I denounce you,’ she murmured, ‘when so many who prospered far more than you under the Empire, yet never even defended it, are now the elected representatives of the people?’

There were four of them here, mostly old and wrinkled, wearing rich red cloaks adorned with gold fleurs-de-lys and trimmed with cream fur. Of these four, Dun-Cadal recognised three of them. The Duke of Azbourt, a cruel man with a deeply creased faced, massively-built despite his advanced age, who had long ago retreated to his northern duchy and made no effort to seek the Emperor’s favour. The Marquis of Enain-Cassart was a small man with a high-pitched voice, wearing a tightly curled powdered wig and a large smile on his face, who walked with the help of a cane. He had frequented the palace corridors in Emeris and proclaimed his loyalty to the Empire until the day it fell. What sort of deals had made him a candidate to represent his region in the Council? His personal wealth had certainly played a part. The third councillor in line was a personage unknown to the knight, much younger in age, with a thin scar beneath his right eye, but Dun-Cadal felt sure he had connections with the first two. As for the last man . . . Dun-Cadal shook his head, gritting his teeth.

‘I don’t know if you ever met again after he abandoned you in the Saltmarsh,’ Viola said, ‘but Etienne Azdeki is now one of the Republic’s most prominent councillors. Others will be arriving soon
for Masque Night. If the people don’t hold their pasts against them, why should they hold yours against you?’

She stood at his side, her gaze drifting over the crowd that had gathered around the officials and their escort. He had paid no heed to the Republic’s affairs, trying to forget about the world and hoping the world would forget about him. Although he had once known the Emperor himself, he cared little about who governed now, choosing to dwell in a reality apart. But some had risen again from the ruins of the Empire.

‘Congratulations, General, you’ve just realised that this world is neither black nor white, contrary to what you believed in the Empire’s heyday . . .’

Something wasn’t right. He had a sense . . . but it was still too vague for him to understand the mounting fear inside him. His distraction partly accounted for his stinging retort:

‘Don’t play this little game with me.’

‘I can be sarcastic, too. Only I have a few advantages over you.’

‘Those being . . . ?’

‘I don’t stink of sweat, and I’m much prettier than you.’

Dun-Cadal couldn’t hold back his smile, although the air around him seemed heavier, as if foreboding some disaster. No, truly, something wasn’t right. But the scent of lavender had beguiled him for an instant. She wasn’t lying about her pretty face, either.

‘I don’t mean you any harm, General, rest assured about that.’

She gazed at him, her eyes so beautiful, so green, with fine long eyelashes. Their light was barely disguised by the glasses of her spectacles. How could he resist the quiet charm radiating from her, the resolute will contained in a velvet glove? He had the impression that she was stroking him, as if he were an old wolf she was trying to tame. And he found himself liking the experience. He had even day-dreamt that she could have been Mildrel’s daughter. The way the lavender scent clung so deliciously to both women’s throats . . . Without a word he bit hard into the apple, tearing off a chunk as if were meat on a bone, and looked away.

But the ominous feeling was more distinct now. It was so obvious to him; his warrior’s senses telling him to remain on his guard.

‘Don’t move,’ he ordered, watching as the procession left the docks and crossed the big square just behind them.

Before a wide building whose front steps were framed by tall white
marble columns, four carriages awaited the new arrivals.

The motley crowd was still pressing around the councillors, excited and curious enough that only the honour guard formed up by the halberdiers prevented the most intrepid from accosting their Council representatives. Although Azdeki, Azbourt and the unnamed stranger showed little interest in the people who had come to greet them, Enain-Cassart seemed delighted by their warm welcome. He squinted in the glare of sunlight reflecting off the paving stones, but anyone observing him could see a gleam of joy peeping through the slit between his eyelids.