The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  But as soon as he drew aside the flaps of the command tent erected at the centre of the camp, he knew it was too late to deal with the revolt swiftly.

  ‘They’re massing most of their forces here . . .’

  Bent over a large model representing the Saltmarsh, a knight in black armour pointed to a line along the edge of a small forest. Facing him, a thirty-year-old man with a gaunt face and an aquiline nose jutting over thin pinched lips was listening attentively, his hands clasped behind his back. His silver breastplate depicted a proud eagle holding a serpent in its talons. It was the emblem of the Azdeki family, an heirloom of their rise to glory during the great battles between the civilised forces of the Empire and the nomadic Nâaga, before the latter were finally subjugated.

  ‘Our scouts have tried to get as close as possible, to accurately determine the number of their catapults, but they’ve been spotted every time. Two of them did not return.’

  There were five knights surrounding this small-scale model of the battlefield, all of them wearing family colours which identified them as members of the provincial nobility. Their families had sworn allegiance to the Emperor and sent their sons off to the military academy in order to serve with honour in the Imperial Army. Only the most experienced among them ever reached the rank of general, but owing to his appointment as captain of Uster county, Etienne Azdeki had authority over those present. They were merely reinforcements and, despite their superior military rank, were bound to comply with his commands.

  All of them except Dun-Cadal. Upon catching sight of him, the young nobleman stiffened.

  ‘You’d better count on there being twice as many catapults as you saw when you controlled this situation, Azdeki,’ said Dun-Cadal as he advanced towards them, not even acknowledging the soldiers’ salutes with a glance.

  ‘General Daermon,’ Azdeki greeted him tersely.

  He made a slight bow. Even that simple gesture seemed to be an effort.

  ‘Azdeki,’ Dun-Cadal replied with a smile, before addressing the entire group. ‘What a pleasure to see you again, and so eager to kick peasant arses!’

  ‘You didn’t waste any time getting here,’ the man in black armour observed gleefully.

  ‘I came as quickly as I could, Tomlinn. Although I’m having trouble understanding why the situation has not evolved since the uprising began.’

  Dun-Cadal caught a glimpse of Azdeki’s lip curling in a bitter grimace The Emperor respected his general’s judgement more than that of any other man. There were rumours about why this was so, but few could claim to know the truth behind them. The idea that there might be a bond of friendship between the Emperor and this provincial nobody, despite his promotion to the highest rank, was simply inconceivable to most aristocrats. But instead of feeling hurt by this, Dun-Cadal responded to their restrained contempt with an unstinting flow of withering comments. No one would dare complain.

  For he was here at the request of His Imperial Majesty, to redress an extremely . . . embarrassing situation.

  ‘Now, explain what’s going on,’ requested Dun-Cadal.

  His tone had become less stern. Although these generals might dislike him, he nevertheless had complete confidence in them. Two of them had even been his classmates during military training and he felt a certain affection for them. Although the feeling was not mutual, Dun-Cadal felt at ease in their company. He knew these men were gifted when it came to battle and that was really all that mattered to him. Tomlinn, the man in black armour with a bald head and a large scar across his face, began to speak as he walked around the model. He was one of the few on friendly terms with Daermon.

  ‘The county of Uster has demanded its independence. The rest of the Saltmarsh region has rallied to its call.’

  ‘I did what I had to do,’ Azdeki immediately broke in to say.

  A heavy silence fell, which his quavering voice tried to dispel.

  ‘For two years, I’ve tried to keep hold of the region, but these peasants won’t accept that the Count of Uster betrayed them. I was only applying the law!’

  Azdeki may have been acting in accordance with the Emperor’s orders, but Daermon could not have cared less. Nor was he interested in the reasons behind the revolt or the manner in which it had been dealt with. Only the consequences warranted his attention.

  ‘These peasants have raised the army which stands before you and does not appear at all frightened by the might of the Empire,’ observed Dun-Cadal.

  ‘I deemed it preferable not to attack,’ Azdeki replied. ‘And the Emperor trusted my judgement. I’m not a warmonger.’

  ‘That, I don’t doubt for an instant,’ the general replied scornfully.

  ‘Daermon,’ sighed Negus from behind him.

  Azdeki was visibly seething, standing straight with his hands joined at his back. For a brief instant Dun-Cadal thought the man might dare to respond, but instead he drew in a deep breath and kept still.

  ‘The strategy might still work,’ conceded Negus. ‘Once they realise we have more than a hundred thousand soldiers, plus a thousand knights capable of employing the animus . . . surely they will see that any combat would be in vain. And we’ll keep the Empire intact without shedding even a drop of blood.’

  ‘The Count of Uster was well-liked in these parts. Many doubt he betrayed the Empire,’ Tomlinn interjected as he approached Dun-Cadal.

  ‘They no longer trust us,’ added a massively built man wearing blood-red armour.

  Standing at Azdeki’s side, he pushed forward a wooden block representing an Imperial legion.

  ‘Rebellious sentiment has made them bold, but when they see exactly how many we are, they will recognise their error and order will be restored.’

  ‘So you hope, but you’re wrong. You should have attacked them from the very start,’ declared Dun-Cadal, sweeping away the blocks of wood with his hand. ‘You should have shown them, rather than waiting for them to see for themselves, General Kay. All this means nothing; they have been lulling you into a false sense of security. Believe me, I can sense this sort of thing.’

  Kay took a step back, his head bowed. He had known Dun-Cadal for some time and was one of those who criticised the general. He was too sure of himself . . . too arrogant. And even when he was right, it did not excuse his lack of tact. The world was changing and it seemed Dun-Cadal was the only one not following the current; too rooted in his own certainties, too confident in the abilities which, thus far, had been the source of his strength and fame. All of those present here were of high lineages, unlike Daermon. Dun-Cadal was a conceited upstart . . . but for now it was better to be on his side than against him.

  ‘The problem would have been resolved once and for all. But instead you dithered. You dithered and complicated matters . . . and everything would have been so simple if you had attacked first. It would have been child’s play.’

  ‘And if there were some other way to—’ Kay objected.

  ‘You’re asking yourselves too many questions!’ Dun-Cadal roared.

  A whistling noise could be heard, growing louder and more strident, piercing their ears.

  ‘No more dithering,’ he muttered, before yelling: ‘Down!’

  The top of the tent ripped apart. All the officers dove to the ground, arms over their heads, their hearts pounding wildly. A fireball crashed down upon the model, splashing hungry flames against the walls of the shelter. It only took a few seconds for the whole tent to become a blazing inferno with flames running up the wooden poles in flickering waves. Lying on his belly, Dun-Cadal tried to spit out the dirt he’d swallowed in his fall. With an abrupt movement, he turned over and calmly took stock of the trap which had ensnared them. To his right, he recognised Kay’s red armour rising from the ground with a stagger.

  ‘Kay! With me!’ Dun-Cadal yelled as a thunderous roar came from outside.

  Close by, obscured by the spreading black smoke, he glimpsed Negus’ round silhouette helping Tomlinn and Azdeki to their feet. Dun-Cadal spat out anot
her clod of earth, feeling a burning in his lungs.

  ‘Kay!’

  ‘I’m here,’ Kay replied at last in a groggy voice.

  Like Dun-Cadal, the general clasped his hands together and brought them down, inhaling deeply. Their lungs were burning, but they ignored the pain as they stretched their arms out in front of them, releasing as much air, and animus, as possible. A violent gust of air parted the flames, tearing away what was left of the tent and breaking the burning poles in two. The fire continued to spread over the remnants of their shelter, but already the pungent air of the salt marshes was dispersing the smoke. The entire camp was in upheaval. Soldiers were yelling and running towards the trenches, as knights with unsheathed swords pointed the way for them. And more flaming balls were still falling from the sky. This time, the Saltmarsh rebels’ aim was true.

  With Negus propping up Azdeki, both still dazed, Dun-Cadal passed before them, hand on the pommel of his sword.

  ‘You should have attacked first,’ he growled.

  ‘Th-there aren’t that many of them,’ stammered Azdeki, his eyes reddened from the smoke.

  Amidst the soldiers’ cries there came a dull thudding sound, like a giant’s footsteps.

  ‘A rouarg!’ Kay exclaimed in dismay, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

  Not just a rouarg, but twenty of them, with bristles like dark pikes sprouting from their round backs, maws dripping with white slaver and long powerful forelegs ploughing through the swamps as they charged forward. Behind the furious beasts rose a wall of flames. The Saltmarsh rebels had smoked them out of their lairs and goaded them into a destructive rage. The peasants could not match the Imperial Army’s numbers . . . but they had the resources of an entire region at their disposal.

  ‘They stand a good three metres tall at the withers,’ commented Negus as he pushed himself away from Azdeki. ‘Six tons of anger.’

  He also drew his sword and placed a firm hand on Dun-Cadal’s shoulder.

  ‘My friend, what exciting lives we lead!’

  They exchanged a smile before joining the trenches at the edge of the camp. Once there, they endeavoured to organise the defensive lines. The rouargs were only a first taste of the onslaught to come; behind them the enemy troops were advancing. Some knights remained behind to coordinate the men charged with extinguishing the fires. The balls covered with flaming tow were still falling at a steady rate. Then, suddenly, there was only silence. A dark veil slipped beneath the white clouds, formed by streams of smoke rippling in the wind. It was soon punctured by swarms of arrows. Perched on the lip of the trenches, the Imperial archers quickly nocked new missiles on their bowstrings.

  ‘Stand!’ ordered Tomlinn, marching behind them, brandishing a sword. ‘Loose!’

  Whistles, roars, crackling . . . no sound managed to stifle the thumping hearts of the soldiers at their posts, watching in horror as the huge rouargs charged towards them. They were too close now for the archers to arm their bows in time, and even if they could the creatures’ skins were too thick to be pierced by a small metal point. Whistles, roars, crackling . . . and then the screams which accompanied the deafening crash as the beasts leapt over the trenches, their maws twisted in rage. The black smoke dispersed in wavy ribbons. Between the rouargs, the white of the clouds was mixed with the grey of metal, sparkling body armour with the brown of surcoats. And then blood began to stain the earth red.

  Off in the distance, the rebels’ drums began to beat as their troops advanced.

  A few of the rouargs did not manage to break through the Imperial lines, their bare bellies riddled with spears. But those that succeeded were free to rampage at will, the savage beasts thirsting for blood, biting, crushing, ripping apart anything that came within reach of their giant jaws. As he was tossed about in one monster’s maw a soldier screamed until his vocal chords broke, before finally being flung into the air. He landed with a heavy thud a few feet away. No further sound came from his broken body. His pale face was marked by a trickle of bright red blood running from the corner of his mouth.

  Although the rouargs wreaked mayhem in the Imperial ranks, they were guided only by their own fear of the flames behind them. The terrifying beasts were themselves terrified. Most of them managed to flee into the marshes, carrying off tattered tents snagged on their hind legs, broken carts . . . and several limp bodies of Imperial soldiers.

  ‘Get out of the way! Get out of its way!’ ordered Dun-Cadal, as a lone rouarg found itself encircled.

  It showed its fangs, with its wide, high turned-up nostrils quivering and black bristles standing erect on its round back. Its eyes narrowed for an instant and then the beast charged. Dun-Cadal just had time to sidestep, barely avoiding one of the forelegs. Three of his men were less fortunate and were thrown into the air like wisps of straw.

  The circle immediately re-formed around the animal and Dun-Cadal chose its flank to deliver his attack. But his sword failed to leave even a scratch on its armoured hide. The Rouarg let out a howl, digging its claws into the ground before spinning round. The general took a leap backwards. Spears broke against the monster’s thick furry side, enraging it further. It kicked out in all directions, breaking the circle. Some soldiers were trampled and others were torn to pieces by the sudden snaps of its jaws, before the beast reared up defiantly on its hind legs.

  Through the smoke Dun-Cadal spotted its weak point. The belly. It was the only solution available to him. A well-placed sword stroke beneath the beast, where the thinner skin revealed the presence of some thick purple veins. He inhaled a gulp of air, held his breath and launched himself at the creature.

  ‘Feel the animus, be the animus. Feel it, Frog!’

  His heart was beating so slowly that he could barely hear it. Each gesture, each movement around him, seemed as slow as the progress of a snail across a leaf.

  ‘It’s there, the magic. In every breath you exhale . . .’

  The rouarg reared up again, its maw wide open.

  ‘It’s like music, Frog . . . It’s not enough to simply listen. Feel it . . . legato . . .’

  In mid-dash, Dun-Cadal went down on his knees, sliding across the damp ground, flattening the tall grasses. Time stood still for him. Burning embers hung in the air, their red glow standing out against the immaculate white clouds.

  ‘Staccato . . .’

  The embers whirled, the grasses sprang up again, the general’s heartbeat accelerated. He felt everything, perceived every movement, anticipated every action. Bent backwards, his rear end almost touching the heels of his boots, he kept his eyes fixed on the beast’s exposed belly. He expelled the air from his lungs, pointing his sword at the brown skin and its bulging veins.

  ‘Feel the animus, Frog. Breathe as one life with it. Breathe in the same rhythm with it . . . And strike!’

  The rouarg lifted its maw to the sky, howling in pain as the blade perforated its body. Dun-Cadal rolled to the side to avoid being crushed. The monster collapsed with a harrowing death rattle.

  ‘They’re coming!’

  ‘Resume your positions! Halberdiers! I want halberdiers here!

  ‘Hold fast!’

  The orders could barely be heard over the drum rolls. On his knees in the mud, Dun-Cadal stared at the still-warm body of the rouarg. Before he could rise, an arrow landed just a few inches from his right foot.

  ‘Dun-Cadal!’ Negus called from somewhere behind him. ‘Dun-Cadal!’

  Once he stood up, the general went to join his friend by the trenches. Facing them, thousands of soldiers in mismatched kit were advancing to a drummer boy’s beat. Behind them, the crisp snap of bowstrings resounded. A swarm of arrows rose, slicing through the clouds of smoke with a hiss. The first wave plunged down upon the rebel troops, piercing armour, riddling shields, planting themselves deep in the damp earth.

  It was the opening blow of the battle of the Saltmarsh. The first confrontation between these two armies. It was brief but bloody. The Empire had the advantage of numbers, the rebels t
hat of surprise. The stampeding rouargs had opened numerous breaches in the Imperial lines, the artillery barrage had set fires in the heart of the Imperial camp and the rebels made good use of the resulting chaos. It required all of the knights’ discipline to reorganise their troops. Clamour, thunder, the clash of swords, bodies charging at one another, shouts . . . Clamour . . . thunder . . . and the animus . . . That was what the rebels lacked and they were well aware of the fact. When the Imperial generals deployed the animus, they beat a hasty retreat.

  All in all, the first battle of the Saltmarsh lasted only ten minutes. Ten short minutes during which two thousand soldiers died. Standing at the lip of a trench, watching the fading sunlight wash over the still corpses in the broken tall grasses, Dun-Cadal cursed Azdeki’s dithering. All the conditions needed to inflict a stinging blow against the Empire had been allowed to gather. Within the week, half of the Kingdoms would hear of the Saltmarsh revolt. About the peasants who had stood up to the greatest army in the world . . . People always took delight in stories like this. Just so long as they did not rally to the Saltmarsh cause. The effort to contain the revolt in this region had already been botched, but if other counties or baronies showed leanings towards independence, the situation would quickly become unmanageable. It would no longer be a simple rebellion, but a revolution.

  Sitting on a corpse’s broken armour, an enormous crow fluttered its wings as it plunged its beak into a seeping wound.

  ‘The sky has turned red . . .’

  Dun-Cadal nodded, letting his gaze drift out over the salt marshes. Beneath the grey clouds, the glow of the setting sun cast a curious coppery veil just above the tall grasses. Negus halted at the general’s side, his thumbs hooked into his belt, bearing a wide raw cut on his round face.