The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘. . . as it often does the evening after a battle,’ he continued with a sigh.

  ‘What do they want?’ Dun-Cadal suddenly asked. ‘What are they seeking? War? For this is no longer merely a rebellion.’

  ‘We’ve seen harder fighting than this. And they retreated in the end. In two months’ time, we’ll no longer speak of it.’

  ‘No, my friend,’ the general replied, shaking his head, an expression of disgust on his face. ‘They’ve won.’

  He caught the puzzled gaze of the small man encased in his mud-spattered armour.

  ‘They know what they’re doing, believe me. This is only the beginning. Everyone will remember the battle of the Saltmarsh, because they managed to bring the Empire to its knees.’

  Behind them, the camp was still smoking, tents lay in tatters and soldiers hobbled about . . . The whole place was a shambles.

  In the days that followed, Dun-Cadal tried to regain control of the situation, collecting all available information about the opposing forces: Who? What? How? Once the Count of Uster had been executed, Etienne Azdeki had ordered the disbanding of the county guards throughout the Saltmarsh region. In view of this, and after seeing the enemy’s strategy, Dun-Cadal supposed that the former county guard captain, Meurnau, was leading the revolt. But he had no hard proof of this. Over the next months, the Imperial forces suffered a series of lightning attacks and skirmishes which prevented them from advancing into the marshes. Several times, their enemies used the same tactic again: smoking out the rouargs’ giant lairs and sending the frightened beasts against the Imperial outposts, before launching a lethal attack. Wandering through the tall grasses, the Imperial Army did its best; if not to advance, then at least not to retreat. Between the unfamiliar territory of the deep marshes, in which numerous men weighed down by armour drowned, the rouargs who delighted in chewing up their flesh and the constant harassment by enemy troops, the Saltmarsh soon earned a sad notoriety.

  Hell was on earth . . . and it burned in the marshlands.

  General Kay lost his life along with fifty of his men trying to establish a bridge across the Seyman river. He was only the first of several generals to fall. In addition to fighting, they also had to contend with the diseases carried by mosquitoes and the putrid swamp water. And despite the sweat dripping from the soldiers’ faces and their fixed, feverish eyes, they needed to remain alert.

  ‘I want these catapults repaired at once!’ ordered Captain Azdeki.

  Facing him, three ill-looking soldiers were on the receiving end of this order. They had not slept for two days and despite their fever they were supposed to repair the two catapults damaged during the previous assault. Since the arrival of General Daermon, Azdeki had been seeking any means to reassert his authority. The soldiers weren’t fooled.

  ‘They need to be operational by this evening,’ continued Azdeki, looking tense.

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ acknowledged one of the soldiers in a feeble voice.

  ‘No rest breaks until you’ve finished—’

  ‘Take three hours!’

  Azdeki’s head snapped around. Accompanied by Negus, Dun-Cadal passed behind him without even giving him a glance. He preferred to devote his entire attention to the tottering soldiers.

  ‘You can barely stand on your feet,’ observed the general. ‘Go and get some rest. Azdeki, the catapults can wait. The men come first.’

  The soldiers could not refrain from smiling in relief, which they barely managed to disguise when Azdeki shot them a black look.

  ‘General Daermon!’ he called.

  But both Dun-Cadal and Negus walked away without paying him any heed.

  ‘General Daermon!’ Azdeki repeated as the two men entered a large violet tent decorated with the golden symbol of the Imperial general staff, a slender sword circled by a crown of laurels.

  Fists clenched, the captain followed them inside. Sitting in a small armchair, Dun-Cadal was removing his mud-crusted boots, letting out a moan of relief. In the corner, Negus was filling two tankards with wine.

  ‘General Daermon!’ roared Azdeki. ‘By what right do you—’

  ‘Save your breath, Azdeki,’ interrupted Dun-Cadal in a dreadfully calm voice. ‘You’re so red in the face it looks like your head will explode.’

  ‘Explode? Explode?!’ the captain said indignantly, spreading his arms wide. ‘This time, you’ve really gone too far!’

  ‘I remind you that you’re under my command. You too, go and rest for three hours.’

  In the shadows, Negus smiled faintly as he brought a tankard to his lips.

  ‘I don’t have time to rest! No one here has time to rest, Dun-Cadal. And I demand that in front of my men you address me by my rank. That’s Captain Azdeki.’

  He was seething. Like his troops, he had not slept, or only very little, for days now.

  ‘You arrive by order of the Emperor, proud and arrogant. You demean me in front of my men, countermanding my orders for one reason or other—’

  ‘Perhaps because they were bad orders,’ Dun-Cadal suggested mildly as he scraped the mud from one of his boots.

  ‘Oh, spare me that, please,’ sighed the captain, pointing an accusing finger at the general. ‘My family is close to the Emperor, too, and I know why and how you came to be promoted so quickly! Don’t ever forget, Dun-Cadal! Don’t ever forget where you came from or how you became a general. It was not due, in any way, to your sense of honour!’

  Dun-Cadal did not raise an eyebrow, did not lift his head, and did not seem upset by the young officer’s insinuations. He contented himself with removing the excess filth from the leather boot with his gauntleted hand. As he busied himself with this task he said in an ominously dry tone:

  ‘Don’t you forget that you are only a captain . . . Azdeki. And if we find ourselves in this situation, if so many men have perished, it is your fault. Don’t forget that if your uncle had not dandled you on his knee, you would not even be in this tent speaking to me.’

  He stopped rubbing his boot as soon as the tent flaps fell shut behind Azdeki’s exit.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Negus, bringing him a tankard of wine.

  ‘His anger will pass soon enough,’ Dun-Cadal grumbled.

  ‘It’s not a matter of anger, my friend . . .’ Negus leaned forward with a sad expression. ‘You’ve humiliated him.’

  It was far worse than that. They already had more than enough trouble dealing with the rebels. Adding tensions within their own camp and, what’s more, among their commanders, was suicidal. They might as well have accepted their defeat immediately.

  ‘He’s too sensitive,’ said Dun-Cadal dismissively. ‘The result of inbreeding, no doubt.’

  Negus chose to ignore this comment and with a weary step went to sit down on an old chest, his gaze lost in his tankard. The quarrels between the ancient families of the East and those of the West, ennobled more recently, were common currency. But there was more than that going on between Daermon and young Azdeki. Sooner or later, blood would be spilled.

  ‘Does the fact that he was dubbed a knight by the Emperor himself still rankle you so much?’ asked Negus in a hoarse voice.

  Dun-Cadal waited a moment before replying, carefully removing his iron gauntlets. When he finished, he let out a sigh before turning to his friend, looking hurt.

  ‘My grandfather started off as a captain, did you know that? Fighting against the Toule kingdom.’ A strange smile stretched the corners of his lips as his gaze wandered around the tent’s interior. ‘He was the first soldier from the House of Daermon. Ah, those Toules! They put up a devil of a fight, the unbelievers . . . It was a holy mission, capturing their kingdom. Bringing them to the light of the gods and the Sacred Book.’

  He was seized by emotion as he pictured his ancestor taking up arms and waging war for a just cause. The Daermons had earned their nobility through sacrifice.

  ‘He came across a gigantic library during the capture of Toule,’ Dun-Cadal continued.
‘They wrote books of their own, can you imagine that? They gave themselves that right! What—’

  His voice suddenly choked up.

  ‘He burnt the books,’ he resumed, shaking his head. ‘He burnt them all. And then the Toulish troops fell upon him and his men. He lost an arm there.’

  ‘I know how much your grandfather gave the Empire, Dun-Cadal, you don’t—’

  ‘Yes I do!’ Dun-Cadal cut him off brusquely. ‘That’s my whole point. The Azdekis have had great knights in their family, as well as great statesmen, but Etienne is not one of them. Has he even unsheathed his sword once, since he was given charge of the Salt-marsh? Has he displayed his courage? His family fought in the great Nâaga incursions, but he flees before his enemy. This is the type of man who will bring about the Empire’s downfall, Negus. Not all nobles are knights, but all knights must earn their title.’

  ‘He graduated from the academy,’ objected Negus calmly. ‘As we all did.’

  He drank a sip of wine keeping his eyes fixed on Dun-Cadal, who remained with his head down and his jaws clenched.

  ‘He earned his dubbing.’

  ‘Men are dying under his command.’

  ‘Many have died under your command as well.’

  ‘Never so uselessly,’ said Dun-Cadal with feeling. ‘Would you put your life in the hands of Etienne Azdeki? In the midst of battle, would you entrust your life to him? Tell me truthfully, Negus . . .’

  He looked into his friend’s eyes. His anger had faded into his usual self-assurance, certain he’d won the argument.

  ‘No . . .’ Negus admitted weakly.

  ‘No man would,’ Dun-Cadal concluded. ‘He lacks the charisma to persuade his troops to follow him. And when faced with danger, his decisions are always the wrong ones.’

  It was only a few weeks later that Dun-Cadal realised how mistaken he was on Etienne Azdeki’s account. Before he met the lad.

  Although, Kay had been unable to build a bridge permitting them to cross the Seyman river and advance further into the Saltmarsh lands, they had not given up on the idea. A new expedition was sent with Tomlinn, Azdeki and Dun-Cadal at its head. If they were to have any hope of bringing the conflict to an end they needed to capture the town of Aëd’s Watch. And it was located on the far side of the river.

  Moving cautiously through the marshes, the expedition numbered sixty in all, with half the men hauling pre-built sections of the bridge. The three commanders went back and forth on horseback, urging their troops on. They rarely resorted to abuse, aware of the difficulty of the task. Weighed down by their armour and weapons, the soldiers also had to bear the burden of the wooden structures. And in addition to the physical effort, they had to put up with the pestilential odour of the sludge. In this area, the salt marshes blended with the swamps.

  They were only an hour’s march away from the river when Dun-Cadal’s attention was drawn by something in the rushes. Pulling on his mount’s reins to force it to turn round, he trotted back up to Tomlinn at the head of their column.

  ‘We’re being spied on.’

  ‘I sense that, too,’ Tomlinn agreed with a grim face. ‘How many, do you reckon?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . a dozen maybe. Scouts,’ he suggested in a low voice.

  To the west, beneath the scarlet rays of the setting sun, the rushes moved strangely among the tall grasses, as though someone was parting them with extreme caution. There was only one way to make sure. Dun-Cadal threw Tomlinn an amused glance before he gave the flanks of his horse a nudge with his heels. He galloped over to Captain Azdeki at the other end of the column and just as he drew up he warned:

  ‘There’s movement to the west. Keep the formation close together but get the men ready to respond to an attack.’

  ‘We’re flanking the enemy, General Daermon. It’s surely wild animals, not rebels. Going over there would be a waste of time.’

  ‘That was an order,’ murmured Dun-Cadal, clenching his jaw before hissing, ‘Captain Azdeki.’

  Although certain he was right, the young captain decided to obey and while the general rode back towards Tomlinn he alerted the soldiers who were advancing at a slow walk.

  ‘Be on your guard. There’s danger to the west,’ he said. ‘When the moment comes, be ready to act swiftly.’

  Wild animals . . . or rebels. The idea that Azdeki might be right did not even occur to the general. The presumptuous young officer always made the wrong choices. Why would be it otherwise in this case? Seconded by Tomlinn, he moved away from the column. His horse shied as if aware of a danger close by. A reassuring pat on his neck induced it to move forward once more. Nothing in the tall grasses seemed threatening. A few mosquitoes buzzed by their ears and the smell of the sludge was almost unbearable. But there was no sign of any enemy.

  The horses’ hooves sank into the muck, hampering their progress. Another few yards and they would no longer be able to extricate themselves from the natural trap of the quagmire. Nevertheless, the two generals picked their way forward, the tall grasses springing up again behind them with a slight hiss. Soon the soldiers in the distance were only silhouettes beyond the rushes, growing faint in the haze from the heat.

  The wind quickened, bending the wild grasses and forming ripples on the stagnant water. And along with the breeze there came a long snarl.

  ‘Dun-Ca—’

  A black shape sprang from the marsh, carrying Tomlinn off before he had time to react. Riderless, his horse reared and whinnied, before fleeing westward. There was a growl, then a second and a third, moving off through the reeds. Yanking his sword from its scabbard and holding the reins in a firm hand, Dun-Cadal felt his temples beating like drums.

  He saw shadows rolling about in the grasses.

  ‘Azdeki!’ he yelled. ‘Azdeki!’

  But his call went unanswered. With a sharp jerk on the reins, he forced his mount to make a hazardous about-turn. Its hooves sank further into the sludge.

  ‘Azdeki!’

  Off in the distance, the captain was ordering his men to advance.

  ‘Blast it!’ Dun-Cadal swore.

  He could finally see the shapes more clearly: three rouargs with green fur and black spots. They uttered roars that sounded like a challenge.

  ‘Tomlinn!’ he called, sweeping the air with his sword. ‘Tomlinn!’

  He heard a cry of pain a few feet away, beneath the heaving round back of one of the beasts. ‘Azdeki!’

  The impact was so violent he could almost hear his ribs crack. The rouarg’s jaws closed on his forearm guard, its fangs nearly piercing the metal before the beast carried him down in its fall. And with them came the horse, whinnying in terror, its eyes bulging, two black marbles surrounded by white.

  An enormous jolt was followed by a sound like ripping cloth as the rouarg began to gut the fallen horse. There was a sharp snap and Dun-Cadal felt his leg break beneath the weight of his mount. Trapped, his head bathed in the loathsome sludge, he caught a glimpse of the tops of the tall grasses slowly dancing in the wind.

  ‘Azdeki!’

  All was quiet now, as the grunts of the feasting rouarg grew distant. Almost as quiet as the trickle of blood making a groove in the mud, mixing with the filthy marsh water until it looked like wine . . .

  ‘Frog . . . I shall call you Frog . . .’

  A sharp, bitter wine with such peaceful little ripples in the tankard of an old knight lost in Masalia. Far, far away from the Saltmarsh.

  ‘Frog . . .’

  ‘Frog?’ asked Viola.

  His eyes gone vague, Dun-Cadal’s head swayed as if he didn’t know where to look. There were not many customers left in the tavern. How long had he been talking? Longer than he would have liked. Once again, he had been betrayed by his inebriated state. At their table, the merchants from Serray were humming now, close to sleep, their eyelids drooping and their jugs empty. The small man who had begged Dun-Cadal for a loan took advantage of their inattention to pick their pockets.

  ‘What?’r />
  ‘You were saying: “I called Azdeki with all my might, Azdeki, Azdeki”,’ recounted Viola, ‘and then suddenly, out of the blue, you said “Frog”.’

  Although the tavern had emptied, a thick cloud of smoke still floated in the air.

  ‘Ah,’ Dun-Cadal sighed.

  And then he added in a thick voice, with a sad smile playing at the corner of his mouth:

  ‘Frog was the lad. The lad who saved my life.’

  Was it the smoke that had made his eyes grow red? His expression immediately hardened. He has spoken too much, said too much, told too much.

  ‘It’s nothing, forget it,’ he muttered with too much spit in his mouth.

  ‘He’s drunk too much,’ declared the tavern keeper as he gathered up the empty jugs at the adjoining table. ‘You should get him home.’

  Surprised, Viola raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Home? But where?’

  ‘The courtesan Mildrel’s house. It’s two streets away from here. That’s where we usually leave him when he’s just a barrel on legs,’ the tavern keeper explained before returning behind his counter with a weary, heavy step.

  Dun-Cadal leaned dangerously forward, his nose falling into his tankard, his eyes half-closed.

  ‘The lad . . .’ said Viola thoughtfully.

  And then, as though he had lost none of his vigour, the knight lifted his head, a strange gleam lighting up in his wide-open eyes like the sparkle of a tear.

  ‘He was the greatest knight this world has ever known.’

  3

  WOUND

  All wounds heal.

  Although the scars remind us of them.

  And if the pain is less keen,

  It still cuts deep.

  He had clearly slept for a long time, but the length of sleep didn’t matter when one had succumbed to the weight of so many tankards. He sat up in the rumpled bed with a splitting headache, as if a blade had been driven into the back of his skull. The rays of the noontime sun shone through the brown curtains, forming luminous columns upon the waxed wooden floor, far too bright for his half-awake eyes. He raised a hand over his eyes to mask the light, muttering words even he could not understand. It was one thing to try to forget who you were in drink. It was another to be reminded of it with your head beaten like an anvil. He had shed his boots and his vest, but he was relieved to find he was still wearing the rest of his clothes, and then disappointed again when he recognised the chamber. A few feet from him, a basin stood beside a tall cheval glass. Slightly tilted on its pivots, the mirror reflected a pale image of the knight he had once been.