The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  The door opened slowly to reveal a lady, still beautiful despite her age, her curly hair falling on bare shoulders. Her green dress clasped her waist and a corset delicately uplifted her bosom upon which lay a pendant in the shape of a sword. The few wrinkles which gently ran from the corners of her ocean blue eyes did not mar her beauty. She advanced to the window, setting the platter in her hands down on a table bathed in sunlight. His throat dry, Dun-Cadal sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of his neck with numbed fingers, hoping his headache would go away. The scent of lavender drifted towards him, making him forget the pain for an instant.

  ‘I suppose you don’t remember a thing,’ she said as she transferred a breadbasket, apples, a pitcher and a glass from the platter to the table top.

  From the tone of her voice, it was certainly not shyness that made her stand with her back to the knight and her eyes on the platter. And it was not the first time he had woken here with no memory of reaching his bed.

  ‘A young red-headed woman brought you back,’ she said, filling the glass with fruit juice. ‘Well, not her so much as the Nâaga. He had to carry you here since your legs were already asleep.’

  The Nâaga . . . Viola . . . little by little, his memory returned. And as it did, the terrible taste of remorse filled his mouth.

  ‘I talked . . .’ he murmured.

  ‘Too much?’

  She raised her head. Tilted slightly to one side, it looked as though the sun bestowed a golden kiss upon her cheek. It made her look twenty years younger. Dun-Cadal’s weary heart raced and he realized that, with her, he would never feel so alive again.

  ‘The Saltmarsh,’ he replied.

  ‘I know.’

  She turned, her face rigid with contained anger. A single misplaced word on his part, one single mistake, and she would let it burst forth. From experience, Dun-Cadal knew that her wrath was best avoided.

  ‘She asked you questions about Frog,’ she said, her tone stinging. ‘But don’t worry, you were in no state to tell her anything.’

  ‘Mildrel,’ he whispered, as if seeking some excuse he could offer her.

  She brought him the glass and held it out stiffly.

  ‘Drink. It’s Amauris berry juice.’

  Without further prompting he swallowed a gulp and then, despite the drink’s bitterness, drained the entire glass.

  ‘I know, it tastes bad,’ she observed, ‘but it will prevent you from having a stomach ache. There’s bread and some apples as well.’

  ‘Mildrel,’ he said, clutching her hand.

  He raised his eyes to her and it was worse than taking a sword point in the heart. She remained still, her eyes staring at the wall and her lips pinched. There was no need for her to repeat the same old reproaches, nor would he have been able to answer them. They had known one another for so long that even their most simple gestures spoke volumes. Sniffing the air, Dun-Cadal ventured a faint, tired smile.

  ‘Lavender,’ he said with a smile. ‘She smelled of lavender, just like you . . .’

  ‘She’s born of the Republic. And you know what the Republic has done to generals who failed to rally to its side,’ she said sadly. ‘Why did you talk to her? What were you thinking? You’ve been willing enough to lie until now, and suddenly you’ve given yourself away!’

  ‘What do I care about the Republic . . . ? It means nothing to me.’

  She snatched her hand from him and gave him a withering look, as if he were an unruly child who had done something naughty.

  ‘She can have you arrested at any moment—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he sighed as he rose to his feet.

  He walked painfully over to the basin at the far side of the chamber and was glad to see that it was already filled with warm water. He carefully undid the top buttons of his shirt and then, with a mounting impatience, he pulled it off over his head.

  ‘It matters to me,’ Mildrel insisted.

  She hadn’t moved from her spot next to the unmade bed, her hands clutched together. Looking over his shoulder he saw her haloed by the sunlight, so beautiful, so dignified, in her controlled anger.

  ‘I don’t represent anything to anyone here,’ he replied. ‘Not any more. It’s been too long . . . What danger could I pose to them? The girl knows that all too well.’

  He leaned over the basin, plunging his hands in and splashing his face. The warmth of the water soothed the worn skin of his face and he rubbed his eyelids, still sore from the effects of alcohol and the bright midday sun. His memories of the purges which had followed the fall of the Empire were as hazy as the steam rising from the water. So many knights had been judged by the Republic, so many proud, steadfast men had been sentenced, so much honour had been besmirched in public trials dictated by popular sentiment. He had survived it all, running before the heralds of the newborn Republic like a dog, even hiding out for two years in the forests of the North. And there Dun-Cadal Daermon and the others who had served the cursed Emperor were all finally forgotten . . .

  ‘That’s true. The only person you’re a danger to is yourself. And that’s been the case for longer than you think; it wasn’t the fall of the Empire that brought down the great Dun-Cadal Daermon.’

  He froze, his arms resting on the edge of the basin and drops of water running down his face. The young boy’s image haunted him, and every time it aroused the same feelings of pain and dismay. His memories were nothing but an open, festering wound.

  ‘Losing Frog destroyed you.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Really?’ She laughed, but it was a mocking, perfidious, disdainful sound. ‘And do you know what you’re talking about, with strange women? Did you even ask yourself what she wanted?’

  Mildrel walked slowly towards the door, keeping her eyes on the old warrior’s bare back. A large scar crossed one of his shoulder blades, the kiss of an axe, from the days when he’d defended his ideal of a glorious civilisation, heart and soul. How she had loved to feel that scar beneath her fingers . . .

  ‘She’s a historian from Emeris,’ Dun-Cadal said as he continued to wash. ‘She wanted to speak to a soldier of the Empire.’

  ‘And she stumbled across you by sheer accident,’ she mocked him, opening the door. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, it’s foolish to be nostalgic for the old times in Masalia. Especially when so many councillors have been invited to celebrate Masque Night in the city.’

  She waited for a reaction but Dun-Cadal was silent, his gaze lost in the steam from the basin. Since his arrival in Masalia he had paid no attention to anything but filling his tankard. Mildrel could bear it no longer. Only when she had shut the door behind her and her footsteps were no more than a distant echo did he straighten up.

  He could not be angry with her, not for being worried about him. She had always worried. Worse still, she was always right. He had said too much to this Viola without knowing anything about her or her real intentions, if she were concealing any. It was the first time he had told anyone the truth during his alcoholic ramblings. If she were actually seeking Eraëd, would she accept his refusal to tell her where it was, or would she threaten to denounce him? And would the name Dun-Cadal Daermon be of any interest to the august councillors of the young Republic?

  He was not even a shadow of his former self. The Knighthood had been dissolved along with the Empire. The animus had been forgotten. And still more serious in Dun-Cadal’s eyes, it seemed people no longer believed in the Book of Destiny and had little by little abandoned the old gods. Times were changing, as his aching body reminded him constantly. And, more forcefully, the sharp pains that ran down his right leg. He placed a trembling hand there as if hoping to calm them but it had no effect. He exchanged a glance with his reflection in the cheval glass.

  ‘Azdeki!!! You filthy piece of shit! Come back!’

  The pain was not merely physical. No, the real wound was located elsewhere, hidden deep inside.

  ‘Azdeki!’

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nbsp; He bore a scar of the worst kind, one which could not be seen but would be felt, burning and sharp, as long as his heart was still beating.

  ‘Azdeki! Tomlinn!’

  ‘Azdeki!’ he screamed as he lay in the swamp.

  At that moment, the thought that Azdeki might abandon him to his fate was only a vague, farfetched hypothesis. Stunned by the fall and pinned by the weight of the horse crushing his leg, he wasn’t capable of reason. He was lost, with his body pressed into the thick Saltmarsh mud. Attracted by his cries, the rouarg appeared above his horse’s carcass, its maw smeared with blood and its large nostrils flaring in time with its heavy breathing.

  ‘Come on . . .!’ snarled Dun-Cadal, adrenaline masking any pain . . . adrenaline and a sudden fever. Standing on the horse’s remains, the rouarg towered over the injured knight, its muscles bulging beneath skin covered with patches of long green-and-black fur. Keeping a wary eye on the beast, Dun-Cadal searched the mud for his sword. The rouarg’s eyes narrowed, slowly opening its maw to release a putrid breath and a low growl. In the tall grasses, the knight heard the sound of two more monsters gradually approaching, drawn by his sweat and blood. His hand sank into the muck without finding any trace of his weapon.

  ‘Godsfuck!’ he cursed.

  Pain shot up his broken leg, pinned and slowly crushed beneath the combined weight of the horse and the rouarg. The beast roared, stretching its neck in challenge towards its imprisoned prey. Any hope of locating his sword and slashing at its maw was vain. Only one solution remained before the suffering became unbearable and he fainted. Inhaling deeply, he drew in his arms, a grimace of pain twisting his sweat-and-mud-stained face. He needed to focus his entire being on listening to the world, feeling every vibration around him, rising above the pain and melting into the air, becoming one with everything around him . . . He felt the animus, he became the animus. His leg awoke with agony, broken bones rending his flesh like razor blades.

  The rouarg reared over him, ready to rip his head off with a swift snap of its teeth. Yet something prevented it. The monster stared at the trapped man with an air of disbelief; his hair was immersed in the stagnant water, his eyes half-closed, his features drawn with pain and fatigue. He stretched his hands forward, and the furious beast opened its jaws to reveal its steely fangs. The man had no means of reaching it and still less any hope of wounding it with his bare hands. And yet . . . an overpowering force propelled the rouarg, and the horse’s gutted carcass, far into the air.

  At that instant, Dun-Cadal felt a sickening dropping sensation, every part of him jolting with the violent impact of a fall. He screamed to the point of dislocating his jaw, and when his cry finally faded he passed out.

  In the distance, a snarling could be heard.

  When he came to his senses for the first time, he saw a frog spying on him, its eyes blinking rapidly and its throat swelling in fits and starts.

  When he opened his eyes again the frog had gone and he was alone with the tall grasses which seemed to be advancing across the marsh in slow waves. Raindrops formed craters in the black mud. The world was dark, but it was brighter than the blackness that engulfed him once more.

  His eyelids fluttered slowly. The tall grasses were sparkling, bathed in blazing sunlight. And somehow he was . . . dry?

  ‘Bloody hell . . .’ he croaked, his voice terribly hoarse, his throat on fire.

  He winced as he raised his head as far as he could. His neck was as stiff as an old piece of wood, but that was nothing compared to the rest of his body. He saw that he was stretched out on an old blanket, full of holes, spread over a patch of cracked earth at the edge of the marsh. He was shaded by an old cart lying on its side, propped up by two big wooden logs. A makeshift splint made from branches and twisted grass supported his broken leg, wrapped in a blood-stained cloth. How had he got here? Who had brought him? And how long ago?

  ‘Don’t move too quickly,’ a childlike voice said. ‘Your leg is far from being knit back together. I did what I could, now only time will heal it.’

  Seated beneath one corner of the cart, his legs folded under him, was a boy. Arms crossed on his knees, he stared at the knight with grey eyes and a solemn expression.

  ‘Your leg was a really ugly mess,’ he commented.

  ‘As bad as that,’ murmured Dun-Cadal.

  ‘There were bones sticking out in places,’ the boy said very calmly.

  ‘And you . . .’ His head ached and he had trouble moving, his body numbed by days of inactivity. But little by little, he regained his senses. ‘You brought me here . . . ?’

  The child nodded without revealing the lower part of his face, hidden behind his arms.

  ‘The horse,’ he said. ‘With the help of a horse.’

  He had a round face, just barely out of childhood, with tousled hair and a pale complexion. Dun-Cadal let himself fall back, short of breath. His head felt heavy and his vision was studded with tiny, fleeting stars. The blue sky rippled in his vision for an instant and then grew still.

  ‘You need to go easy,’ the boy continued. ‘You’ve been lying there for eight days.’

  ‘E-eight days . . .’ stammered the knight.

  He tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. Seeing him so, with his head tilted back, gasping like a fish out of water, the boy seemed amused. He stood up and approached Dun-Cadal slowly.

  ‘I left you something to drink, there,’ he said, pointing to a small flask made from a sheep’s stomach placed next to the knight. ‘It’s all I could find. There’s more salt water than fresh hereabouts.’

  Still eying his rescuer, Dun-Cadal sat up on his blanket with some difficulty, holding his injured ribs. He did not know what age to give the lad. Twelve, thirteen . . . perhaps fourteen years old, but not more. He was wearing a plain beige shirt, open at the collar, worn-out black trousers and boots held together with pieces of string. Brown locks floated across his brow and his face was so smeared with dirt he might have plunged headfirst into the mud.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dun-Cadal mumbled as he took the flask with a shaky hand.

  He drank a gulp and almost spat it out immediately. It tasted foul but his thirst was so great he forced himself to swallow, grimacing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his sword planted in the ground, not far from a pile of weathered crates half-covered with an old dark green cloth.

  ‘You’re a knight, aren’t you? A knight of the Empire,’ said the boy, his smile vanishing.

  Dun-Cadal nodded carefully. His neck was too stiff to move it normally.

  ‘And you are?’ he asked.

  The boy did not reply. He looked down at the dry earth where a slight breeze rolled bits of gravel across the ground between his boots. Dun-Cadal waited patiently but nothing broke the silence so he spent a moment scanning his surroundings in search of a landmark to indicate his position. The lad had evidently dragged him some distance to extract him from the marshes he had been mired in. In the distance he could see the oaks of the forest bordering the Seyman river. On the far bank lay only swamps bristling with tall grasses and rushes rustling in the wind. An odd heat haze shivered above their wind-blown tips. He wondered if Azdeki had managed to build the bridge and cross the river . . . and then he remembered Azdeki abandoning him, and he felt his anger rising.

  ‘The Empire crossed the Seyman four days ago,’ the boy announced, as he rummaged through some crates lying at the rear of the cart.

  So Azdeki had built the bridge.

  ‘And we took Aëd’s Watch,’ Dun-Cadal sighed.

  The revolt had been put down and Captain Azdeki was the hero of the battle of the Saltmarsh. He grimaced with his chapped lips. How ironic . . .

  ‘No,’ replied the boy tersely, coming over with some sort of box in his hands.

  He sat cross-legged beside the knight, the box nestled on his lap.

  ‘They tried but they didn’t succeed,’ he said evasively, before adopting a bossy tone which did not suit him at all. ‘Now give me that flask.’
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  ‘What do you mean, “they tried”?’

  Seeing Dun-Cadal would not give him the flask if he did not answer, the boy reached out and snatched it, looking incensed.

  ‘What are you going to—’

  ‘I’m not going to poison you,’ the boy said grumpily. ‘It’s something you need to drink to get better. Otherwise you’ll never be back on your feet.’

  Of course the boy wouldn’t poison him. Dun-Cadal had seen his sword planted in the ground not far away. The lad had already had eight days to kill him if he wanted to. But the fact that he was going to such lengths to aid a likely enemy was intriguing. The entire region was at war . . . Dun-Cadal could not afford to forget that and place his trust in anyone. He had to be cautious.

  ‘Are you from the Saltmarsh?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The boy slid the box lid open and his nimble fingers plunged inside. They emerged as a fist clutching a wriggling green shape. As he placed it over the flask, he added:

  ‘But I saved you from the rouargs.’

  ‘How?’ asked the knight, disbelieving.

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  Two long wriggling legs appeared from the boy’s closed fist. He squeezed and a steaming yellow liquid ran into the neck of the flask. Dun-Cadal understood what the boy held in his fist and looked away in disgust, saying:

  ‘Godsfuck . . . that’s a frog . . . you’re making a frog piss in the flask and I drank . . .’

  ‘It’s an ashala machal, a frog that lives in the rushes,’ the boy said as if reciting a lesson. ‘When they’re frightened they urinate and it’s very good for when you’re ill.’