‘That won’t be able to pierce armour,’ Frog whined from behind his back.
‘That’s not the idea,’ Dun-Cadal replied calmly.
He stood up, stifling a groan when he felt a pain run through his barely healed leg, like a dagger scraping against the femur. But it would withstand the ordeal ahead; he wasn’t an old man yet. He was a general and had lived through other battles, other wars. His bones would not break this time.
Standing next to the horse, Frog stared at the ground, looking nervous. He held the reins loosely and gave the impression that he’d rather be anywhere but here. A few hours earlier, however, he’d been more enthusiastic as they left their camp. Dun-Cadal deduced from his change of mood that he was just anxious to see action. The lad was boiling with impatience and then closed up like a clam when confronted with the slightest obstacle. Although real clams never complained.
‘We need to hurry, we can’t stay here all day.’
‘We’ll wait for nightfall before trying anything,’ Dun-Cadal replied as he went to join him.
He tossed the wooden sword to the boy without warning. Frog caught it in mid-air without difficulty. He was keen. Anxious but keen. That was good.
‘The woods are only an hour’s march away!’ Frog pleaded. ‘And in two hours, we could put this whole region behind us! There are very few soldiers in this area, I told you. It will be child’s play.’
Dun-Cadal moved forward to face him. He expected him to lower his eyes again, but the lad was determined to be heard. Smiling faintly, the general spoke in a soft voice.
‘When children play, they rarely plant a spear in a man’s back.’
‘But—’
‘Nightfall,’ Dun-Cadal insisted, before hoisting himself onto the horse’s saddle.
The beast had lost all its sheen, its bones sticking out beneath its brown coat, the hooves as dry as old sticks. Even so, it had survived the past few months in the Saltmarsh, transporting Frog to Aëd’s Watch on numerous occasions. During these trips, the lad had not merely stolen food, but also gathered crucial information about the development of the revolt. He had even been able to learn the precise disposition of the enemy’s forces. Once, he’d laid out their lines beneath the shelter of the cart with the help of twigs and pebbles, he left the strategy to the knight’s better judgement.
Dun-Cadal had taken stock of the situation and instantly saw where to strike. But to have the best chance of success, they would need the cover of darkness. Having pushed Azdeki and his men back, the insurgents had spread their forces across the whole northern boundary of the Saltmarsh, forming a wall of camps which stretched for miles. There might only be a few thousand seasoned warriors in the entire ragtag army, but the ordinary people who had taken up arms remained formidable. Their numbers meant Dun-Cadal couldn’t hope for a discreet crossing. He had felt a distinct relief when he spotted a possible breach in the alignment marking out the front. It was obvious once he saw it, at the very spot where they kept their catapults. Standing slightly apart from the camps and not protected very closely, it offered an ideal crossing point.
‘We’ll stop here,’ Dun-Cadal ordered.
They had finally reached the edge of the woods. Coils of grey smoke rose into the air above the tree tops; the rebels had poked up their campfires as soon as the blue sky began to darken. A few stars sparkled in the twilight, barely veiled by the thin clouds that slowly slid before them. The soft rustle of the evening wind was accompanied by the hooting of waking owls.
Dun-Cadal dismounted and began to unsaddle the horse.
‘They’re just on the other side of these woods,’ Frog affirmed, darting nervous little glances all around.
He was afraid a patrol would discover them. Dun-Cadal was amused by this. The lad still needed to learn patience and to use the last peaceful moments remaining to calm his nerves. Otherwise they risked paralysing him when the hour for combat arrived.
‘I know,’ he murmured.
He threw the saddle down at the foot of the tree, removed the horse’s bridle and gave it a slap on the rump with the flat of his hand. When the animal was no more than a silhouette galloping towards the darkness of the marshes, Frog approached his mentor.
‘Did you like him?’
‘He was just an old nag,’ Dun-Cadal replied with a smile.
‘No . . . not the horse.’
The general’s smile vanished as the image of Tomlinn being snatched up by the rouarg came back to him. He studied the horizon with a gaze as dark as his thoughts.
‘He was a good general and a noble knight.’ He turned round abruptly and then, placing a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, he added: ‘And, above all, he was my friend.’ With a slow step, he climbed a small hillock that extended into the woods. Frog followed him. ‘But we knew the risks. I’d just always believed he would die under a rain of arrows rather than be torn apart in the jaws of some nasty beast.’
As he leaned back against a tree to catch his breath he noticed the worried expression on his pupil’s face. Tucked into the boy’s belt, the sharpened stick hung like a sword. A wooden stick . . . against armour. He glanced down at his own weapon, the pommel gleaming at his waist. Could they really escape the Saltmarsh like this? Did he truly believe that? A limping knight and a . . . a lad from the marshes with a wooden sword?
‘Do you know what’s in store for you over there?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.
‘I . . . yes, we’re going to fight—’ ‘No,’ interrupted the knight with a shake of his head. ‘Are you ready to inflict death?’ There was a fraught silence, so fraught that Frog turned his gaze away. ‘There’s nothing worse than watching someone pass away, Frog. Nothing worse. The last breath, the last gleam in the eye looking at you. It’s not a game. There’s nothing innocent about it.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘It’s not just them you’re going to kill. Whatever the reason for your acts, whether you can justify them or not, there will never be any excuse for taking someone’s life.’
‘I’m ready,’ repeated Frog, with insistence.
‘Listen to me!’ Dun-Cadal growled, coming off the tree he was leaning against. The boy retreated abruptly, surprised by the glow of anger in the knight’s gaze. ‘You’re still just a lad. Once you’ve plunged that stick into the flesh of a man, what will happen? Will you break down like some little girl?’
‘Never,’ Frog hissed the word between his teeth.
‘It’s your own innocence you’ll kill over there, lad. And believe me, I’m the first to regret that.’
The boy nodded, finally averting his eyes.
‘But you said we can do this and I’m crazy enough to believe you.’
With a closed fist, Dun-Cadal punched the trunk of a young ash tree. He was not assailed by any sudden doubts before their mad attack, but fear was nevertheless slowly tightening its grip on his guts. He had seen men barely older than this boy march proudly into battle, only to find them later, kneeling in tears in the middle of the fighting. What would happen to his pupil? He was only a lad . . . just a mere lad.
‘There’s nothing left for me here,’ Frog declared. His voice was quiet but his tone was firm. ‘I’m no longer anyone . . . not here.’
Dun-Cadal looked at him, pensive. The opportunity was too good to let pass by.
‘And who were you, before this?’
Frog glanced briefly at the marshes bathed in the falling night.
‘Not much of anything interesting,’ he confided as if talking about the weather. ‘A child who wasn’t much good at anything. I’ve never been very gifted.’
‘And now? What are you?’
The lad gave him a look that would make the bravest man tremble. Determined, passionate, feverish . . . no one would be able to stop him.
‘At least I’m trying to do my best.’
What more can anyone ask of him? the knight said to himself. An owl glided over their heads and the wind strengthened, bending the short grass at their feet. T
he lapping of the water in the marshes seemed no more than a distant murmur. The lands of the former Kingdoms were spread behind these woods. Only the insurgents’ front line separated them from friendly territory. Dun-Cadal sat down at the foot of the closest ash tree and raised his eyes towards the sky.
‘We’ll wait here and attack in the middle of the night when their sentries will be somewhat . . . sleepy.’
He smiled faintly as Frog approached him. The lad hesitated as if waiting for his master to grant him permission to sit down. But Dun-Cadal looked away, plucking up a blade of grass and placing it in his mouth. As he chewed on the end, he let his gaze drift over the shadows growing at the edge of the woods. Frog settled down to his right, looking distracted, until the hoot of an owl broke the silence.
‘Do you remember what I taught you?’ Dun-Cadal asked suddenly, without a single glance at the boy.
‘Yes,’ Frog replied sullenly.
‘What I asked you to do?’
‘Yes.’
And with his left hand he pretended to seize something, while the right mimed striking a blow.
‘As soon as I attack the guard, from behind, I block him with my arm and strike him, just once, below the shoulder blade.’
‘And your hand?’
‘My hand goes over his mouth to stifle the cry. All of these actions, at the same time.’
‘Good,’ Dun-Cadal sighed. ‘Nothing else, just that, no direct confrontation . . .’ From the corner of his eye he saw the lad sitting with his head bowed, casually pulling at tufts of grass between his outstretched legs. ‘You don’t like that very much, do you?’
He waited a moment for a reply. When none came, the knight continued:
‘You’d prefer something more grandiose. That’s the picture you have of knights, am I wrong? Courageous, brave . . . is that it? Facing the enemy head-on, like death itself . . .’
‘I’ll do what you told me to do,’ the boy murmured.
‘Good,’ said Dun-Cadal, satisfied.
He contemplated the stars that were coming out one by one in the darkening sky.
‘Do you see these gloves?’ And without turning his eyes away from the celestial spectacle, he held out his iron gauntlets to Frog, certain that curiosity would force the lad to look at them. ‘They may not look it, but they’re covered with blood. From battles and other combats, but not just those.’
‘There’s no blood on them,’ noted Frog quietly.
‘Oh no? That’s because it can’t be seen anymore. But me, I can sense it. And that’s what matters in the end. Never try to avoid the responsibility; always face up to what you’ve done.’
‘So you weren’t only a knight, were you?’
The lad had already asked him the question. And truth be told, this time it was more like a statement than a real question.
‘No. Before I became a knight, I was what you don’t want to become.’
He turned his head towards the lad, curious to see his reaction.
‘I was an assassin,’ he admitted.
Frog didn’t even blink. He bore Dun-Cadal’s scrutiny, frowning slightly, waiting for the rest.
‘I don’t see much difference between the acts I committed as an assassin and the ones I committed as a knight of the Empire. In both cases, victory or success, call it what you will, requires the deaths of others. Of people who surely had a family, friends . . . duties of their own.’
His voice had grown harsh, his tone more serious . . . and his gaze more evasive.
‘So killing people from in front or from behind, what difference does it make? As long as it’s done quickly and done well. Without them suffering before they go off to the heavens . . . Strike quickly and strike well, Frog.’
He stared at the lad for a long moment.
‘Strike quickly and strike well,’ he repeated.
‘I shall,’ Frog promised.
Without taking his eyes off his mentor he put on a pair of darned woollen gloves, which he had stolen from a trader at Aëd’s Watch a few days earlier.
The lad’s feigned calm did not fool a seasoned warrior like Dun-Cadal. How many times had he seen young soldiers – although older than Frog – similarly stiff, hoping to disguise the fear inside? No, the general wasn’t taken in, especially not when he saw the boy rubbing his woollen-gloved hands together. He wasn’t wearing them because of the cold. Frog was doing his best to build up his nerve, the general knew. Just as he knew the real reason the lad had stolen these gloves: to stop his hands being stained with blood.
What a vain hope.
The hours that followed seemed like days. When Dun-Cadal finally stood up again, a bright swathe crossed the sky, as if to lead men from one end of the earth to the other. Not a single cloud masked the twinkling of the stars. The wind slowly lifted the foliage. There was a sharp crackling sound. Dun-Cadal glanced over his shoulder to see Frog standing frozen, one foot poised over the twig he had just snapped.
‘Be careful where you tread. We can’t afford any mistakes.’
He turned his head slightly, his chin brushing his shoulder, eyes half-closed.
‘I won’t wait for you,’ he breathed, before drawing his sword.
Dun-Cadal moved off into the woods without making any noise. He had just signalled their departure without any preamble or comforting speech, but only the advice: ‘Be careful where you tread’. One false step meant certain death. He’d insisted on that. Their plan had been studied, rehearsed and memorised over the past few weeks, and they had gone over it again the previous day. Frog had given the knight full information as to the enemy’s numbers, its positions and when the sentries were relieved. Too many troops passing through Aëd’s Watch had been talkative around a tavern table. Why burden this moment with futile words? The lad was already anxious enough. He’d seen Frog train hard, watched him grow up in a very short space of time. Any encouragement now would be a waste: the lad’s pride would suffice. Although Dun-Cadal continued to call him ‘lad’ out of affection, he’d started to consider Frog a soldier. And unlike boys, men of war did not need to be coddled.
There was only the wind in the boughs, which helped to disguise the brush of his clothing against low-lying branches. No one could have heard them coming. An owl flapped its wings nervously before taking flight. After sneaking through the woods for almost half an hour they reached the far edge. Dun-Cadal knelt and with a sharp sign of his hand ordered Frog to get down. A few feet away, at the base of a last beech tree, was the beginning of a row of patched grey tents. To the right and to the left, the enemy camp stretched long and wide, dotted with a thousand fires. Silhouettes armed with spears marched slowly down the lanes between the tents. Were there really so many of them? How was that possible? They couldn’t all be from the Saltmarsh . . . Or else all of its inhabitants – children, adults, old people – had risen up against the Empire. Dun-Cadal brushed the grass with his fingertips. This was the last moment in which they could retreat, change their minds, or postpone this act of folly until tomorrow . . .
Here, at this moment, the future was decided.
Before him stood some fifty catapults. He could only see four guards, armed with crudely made spears, but the major part of the camp lay just a few yards away. Others were on watch from the shelter of their illuminated tents. Luckily, the career soldiers, those who had real combat experience, were not to be found in the vicinity. The troops manning these catapults were green. And they were fools.
In the light from the tall torches, Dun-Cadal was astonished to see that the catapults arms were cocked and their buckets loaded with grease-smeared balls of rock. His entire body tensed as he looked carefully at the aligned weapons and the torches by them. The stupid buggers . . . each catapult was ready to fire! This was the only way out for him and for Frog, and here he may have found the means of making good their escape.
The general advanced very slowly, bending forward as he went. The first guard didn’t see him approaching and barely felt the blade slide int
o his back as a heavy hand fell across his mouth to suppress his cry of surprise. The knight carefully lowered the body and, keeping his eyes on the other two guards at the foot of a catapult, he beckoned Frog to join him. When the lad drew near he indicated the last soldier, who was urinating on the post of a tall torch. Then with an imperious finger he pointed to the corral at the edge of the camp. On this cloudless night, the curved shapes of the horses grazing inside could be clearly seen. Everything was proceeding better than expected. Dun-Cadal would take care of the two guards next to the catapults while the boy disposed of the fourth man, now whistling as he struggled to buckle his belt.
Like a predator stealthily approaching his prey, he slowly crouched forward with his back and knees bent. Behind him, Frog adopted the same posture and was headed for the guard at the foot of the torch. Just a few more steps. Out of the corner of his eye, Dun-Cadal saw the lad gripping the wooden stick with all his might. His other hand was trembling. He hoped the lad would remember all the moves they had rehearsed, over and over, down to the tiniest detail. The arm across the neck to choke his opponent, then a quick jab below the shoulder blade, rising towards the heart. Swift. Precise. Discreet. Don’t flinch. Don’t retreat. Don’t hesitate. The general would not be there to protect the boy. He began to inch away from Frog.
The knight’s silhouette slipped over to the tall wheels of the catapults. His shadow broke across the massive timber frame and the torchlight brought a fleeting gleam from the tip of his sword. Dun-Cadal immediately looked down. The wheels had dug a furrow in the earth, as if they had been recently turned. Arming the catapults for immediate use was one thing, but positioning them like this, so that none were even aiming at the front, was an enormous mistake.
The Path of Anger Page 9
