The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘It’s revolting.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The boy smiled as he returned the frog to the box. ‘But the whole time you were unconscious I made you drink it. If your fever broke, it’s thanks to this. And I made an ointment from the mucus on their skin. The salt from the marshes was starting to eat away at the wound. But with the ointment, the pain was soothed. And their urine acts like a tonic so that you’ll get better.’

  Dun-Cadal swallowed. He’d drunk some nasty things in his time, but agreeing to gulp down frog’s piss was asking a bit much.

  ‘And you expect me to drink this—?’

  ‘Do you want to die out here?’

  They glared at one another while the boy held out the flask to him. No, of course he didn’t want to die out here. No more than he wanted to linger here. In the lad’s grey eyes he saw a determination that forced him to smile. The boy was willing to do anything to make him drink this concoction and, in his present state, trying to avoid it wasn’t a very good idea. To be sure, he could resist. He could even kill the lad, despite his wound. He was an Imperial general after all, not some small fry . . .

  But there was something in the child’s eyes, a longing and an anger that aroused Dun-Cadal’s curiosity.

  He drank a mouthful and it was now clear where the water’s foul taste came from.

  ‘Seriously,’ he murmured, narrowing his eyes, ‘who are you?’

  The lad’s gaze was lost in the distant mist as he gathered up some pebbles lying at his feet and began to pitch them distractedly into the weeds.

  ‘You must have a name. What do they call you in these parts?’

  ‘I have no name.’

  ‘No name?’ Dun-Cadal asked in surprise.

  ‘Not any more. I lost it,’ the boy sounded aggrieved and his pebble throwing became more vigorous.

  ‘What about your family?’

  ‘Dead. There’s a war going on here, in case you didn’t know,’ he said sarcastically, scowling at Dun-Cadal. ‘I escaped Aëd’s Watch a long time ago . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  The boy reflected for a moment. Recalling painful events? Or searching for an answer that would seem credible? The general reminded himself that his young saviour was a child of the Saltmarsh, probably a rebel sympathiser and possibly a traitor to the Empire. Not killing Dun-Cadal was one thing, but the lad might still be trying to gain his trust for some reason or another.

  ‘Because of the war . . . I was frightened.’

  As he swallowed another mouthful of the doctored water Dun-Cadal watched the lad carefully.

  ‘And the cart? Was it yours?’

  ‘No . . . it’s old. It’s my shelter. I was hiding out here and then one day I saw you lot going by. You were attacked by the rouargs . . . and now here you are.’

  The boy stopped pitching stones but his eyes remained lost in the distance, as if his mind were elsewhere.

  ‘There were three of them,’ remembered Dun-Cadal. ‘You fought off three rouargs all by yourself?’

  ‘I told you, I have a secret.’

  He sprang up suddenly.

  ‘You need to rest. I’m going to try to find something for us to eat this evening. There are frogs as big as your fist, hive frogs we call them. They’re a bit like chicken.’

  As the boy went to the rear of the cart to look for a bag, Dun-Cadal called out to him:

  ‘Lad! I appreciate your help, really I do, but I must rejoin my troops, they need—’

  The boy turned round, passing the bag’s bandolier over his shoulder.

  ‘Not yet. You’re still too weak.’

  And then he disappeared behind the cart.

  ‘Lad! Hey! Lad! Come back!’ the knight called.

  But shout as he might, there was no reply. He fell back wearily against his blanket and allowed his eyelids to droop, his head feeling incredibly heavy. He tried hard to think about what he should or could do to locate the Imperials’ camp, but his fatigue overcame him and he slept.

  When he awoke, the sun was setting behind the leaning cart and the boy was lighting a fire. Dun-Cadal struggled to rise up on an elbow. He felt as if his entire body had been trampled beneath the hooves of a furious horse. His wounded leg drew his attention in particular, wrapped in a bandage that was starting to smell like rotten meat. The boy saw he was awake but said nothing. Indeed, they exchanged no words at all until the boy brought him a small bowl filled with grilled frog legs. Witnessing the knight’s disgust, he stifled a giggle.

  ‘You find this funny, do you, lad?’ the knight sighed. ‘Seeing one of the invaders subjected to your . . . awful taste in food . . .’

  ‘The Saltmarsh has always been part of the Empire,’ replied the boy as he sat back down by the fire.

  Dun-Cadal was surprised, almost letting go of the frog leg he was lifting to his mouth.

  ‘Happy to hear you say that,’ he said before biting off a piece of meat.

  It did in fact taste like chicken. When he managed to forget the unpalatable appearance of the frog it came from, it wasn’t too bad. Night had fallen and only the glow from the wavering flames lit the boy’s face. His usual severe expression had softened.

  ‘This is how I’ve survived out here,’ he explained, pointing at the dish of frogs. ‘There are fourteen species in the western part of the Saltmarsh alone. In the entire region, there must be . . . thirty, forty different kinds of frog. They all have their uses. Some help to make poisons, others, remedies . . . With their skin, their drool, their urine . . .’ He pointed at Dun-Cadal’s bowl again. ‘And some can be eaten . . .’

  ‘Is this what they teach at school in Aëd’s Watch?’ Dun-Cadal asked sarcastically as he chewed.

  The boy bowed his head pensively as he slowly plunged the branch he was holding into the heart of the fire.

  ‘So, lad . . . tell me what happens next.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Yes, next. You saved me from the rouargs and then you cared for my wounds as best you could. And although you think the Salt-marsh has always been part of the Empire, you are and you remain a Saltmarsh lad. So what will you do next? It seems to me I’m your prisoner . . .’

  The boy let the burning piece of wood go and looked away.

  ‘Your friend’s horse is over there behind the cart.’

  Dun-Cadal rose higher on his elbows, taking care not to move his broken leg, and saw the Tomlinn’s mount’s ears visible above the cart.

  ‘True. So that’s how you dragged me here . . .’ he recalled.

  ‘I wound a rope around your waist,’ explained the boy, miming how he had harnessed the knight. ‘Then I passed it under your arms. I attached the ends to the horse . . . and here you are . . .’

  ‘And here I am,’ repeated Dun-Cadal.

  He stared at the boy while he finished his frog legs. He wasn’t very hungry, despite having gone eight days without eating, no doubt due to the pain. But as he swallowed the tender meat he slowly recovered his appetite.

  ‘You’re really something, lad,’ he said.

  For the rest of the evening, Dun-Cadal tried to get the boy to speak but it was like talking to a wall. As he was drifting off to sleep, his last thought was a terrible one . . .

  What if the lad turns me in to the rebels tomorrow?

  That fear haunted him over the following days. His leg was still healing, the pain from his ribs burned him and every breath he took was torture. Whenever he tried to stand up, he thought he would faint. The boy changed his bandage three times and on each occasion he was able to take stock of the damage. The large, leaking wounds had been crudely sewn up in several places where the bones had broken and torn through the skin. It was not the work of one of the Empire’s finest surgeons, but the lad had done the best he could.

  Several times the knight had sought to draw him out about himself, but to little avail. Dun-Cadal was more skilled at wielding a sword than asking questions. And several times the boy left their improvised camp, riding away on Tomlinn’s horse to some S
altmarsh village.

  Dun-Cadal tried to wait patiently during his absence, going over every possible strategy available to him if the lad betrayed him. But why then would he go to so much trouble to treat his wounds? Worrying over the paradox bore a hole in his skull. He tried to find a solution, any logical sequence that would allow him to guess at the lad’s real goal, until he finally decided to let matters take their course. Destiny was already written, he had no real control over the future. There was no fatalism or surrender in this idea, simply a quiet acceptance of events.

  Days passed and no rebels showed up to arrest the wounded general. Although the lad said little, he continued to take care of his patient as best he could. Dun-Cadal contented himself with that. When he was strong enough to stand on his feet, using a plank from the cart as a crutch, the knight told himself he had spent more than enough time in the marshes.

  ‘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.