The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  He halted for a moment, looking over the camp with an eye trained to spot the slightest suspect movement, then glanced over at his apprentice just in time to see Frog almost stumble over a root.

  Focus, stay focused, and watch where you put your feet! Dun-Cadal silently yelled. Just a few feet from the boy, the guard picked up a spear that had been leaning against the post he had pissed on.

  Don’t falther, lad. Don’t retreat, the general repeated to himself, as if hoping Frog might be influenced by his thoughts. Now the lad would prove his mettle. His worth would be decided the moment he plunged the sharpened wood into—

  ‘Hey!’

  Dun-Cadal froze next to a large wooden wheel, in the shadow of the catapult. He had just started to make his move, about to pounce on the soldiers, when he saw Frog fall to one side, burying his head in the grass. The general had to restrain himself from intervening, his hand twitching at the pommel of his sword.

  ‘Is this how you were taught to stand guard?’ a voice bellowed.

  The lad had disappeared in the grass, a good thing with two rebel soldiers now standing over the very spot where he had been.

  ‘What? I was just havin’ a piss . . .’

  They were close, so very close to Frog. Yet they hadn’t seen the outline of his body on the ground in the darkness. The general could guess where the boy was hiding, however, and tried to consider all the possibilities. His trapped apprentice might attempt a rash assault, or else remain in place, petrified with fear. Whatever happened, Dun-Cadal needed to be ready to act. He was squeezing his sword hilt so tightly he could no longer feel his fingertips.

  ‘Don’t ever leave your post without warning the others,’ the newcomer growled.

  ‘We only arrived yesterday,’ the soldier said in an insolent tone. ‘Us lot, we don’t know what’s up yet, do we? They just told us, line up the catapults.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Avrai Wood, Cap’n. There’re fifteen of us.’

  Even from a distance, the general could see the shine of clean if somewhat worn boots. The officer wearing them must have been a member of late Count of Uster’s guard. Dun-Cadal was certain of it. He leaned against the catapult and carefully observed the robust man bearing a large sword reprimanding the new recruit. Fomenting a rebellion with the support of the local rabble was one thing. Maintaining order in the ranks with people who had neither the vocation nor the sense of duty to be proper soldiers was another.

  He looked back at the catapult, at the distraction firing it would offer, and in his mind’s eye pictured the trajectory the ball would follow. His smile returned, now tinged with a degree of savageness. They were pointed directly at the rebels’ camp . . .

  *

  ‘You should always be—’ the officer was saying before his voice strangled as he noticed the catapults’ odd alignment. ‘What on earth have you done?’

  ‘We lined up the catapults, didn’t we?’

  The officer advanced a pace. One single pace. And in the dim light, his experienced eye spotted the outline of a prone body. At the sound of his sword being unsheathed, Dun-Cadal’s apprentice finally reacted. Was it out of courage or fear? Either way, he rolled to one side, snatched something up and then quickly stood.

  Come on, lad . . . come on . . .

  ‘You?’ the man gasped. ‘How?’

  Sword in hand, he was ready to lunge at the intruder, but instead he just stood there, astonished. He had wide shoulders, a bald head and a split lip. A scar ran from his right eye to the corner of his mouth. Frog was shaking as if his legs were going to give way at any second.

  Now! pleaded Dun-Cadal silently, as he crept along the catapult without taking his eyes off Frog. Either do it now, or flee!

  ‘What are you—’

  The wood perforated the man’s throat with such force that neither the victim nor his comrade in arms had time to react. Frog screamed and, moved by a wild rage, let go of the wounded man before shoving him away with a kick. Frantically fumbling with his hands, the officer sought to yank out the wooden stick lodged in his neck. He spat blood and tilted his head back with a grimace before falling to the ground in convulsions at the feet of the stunned soldier. The man responded clumsily, pointing his spear at the boy with shaking hands. His gaze seemed lost. Sweat dripped from beneath his dented helmet, tracing crooked lines down the olive skin of his brow. Sweat . . . just like the tears that spilling from Frog’s brimming eyes.

  Dun-Cadal could no longer wait. He took a deep breath, grimacing from the pain stabbing his chest, and pictured the torch by the catapult breaking in two. The flaming tip fell upon the grease-covered ball resting within the bucket.

  In the corral, the horses were growing restless. The captain lay still upon the ground, his eyes now glassy.

  ‘Sound the al—’ a voice started to say in the distance.

  The rest of the sentence was covered by a sharp twang, followed by a whistling sound. A ball of fire rose into the air in a perfect arc before plunging down towards the tents pitched a hundred yards away. Flames blossomed upwards and with them came screams. A shadow ran behind the line of tall torches, which toppled in succession at its approach. As the torches fell, their flames set light to the balls waiting in the weapons’ buckets.

  The horses whinnied.

  Dun-Cadal controlled his breathing as best he could, pulling on an invisible thread as if he were snatching the torches down, using the animus to pull them over, then he disappeared into the darkness like a ghost and, without drawing his sword, severed the rope restraining the loaded arm of each catapult. When he felt he had caused enough chaos in the heart of the camp, he leapt on top of a wheel of one of the devices. Below him, the two remaining guards were gaping at the boy, who was confronting one of their own in the light of the flames spreading through the camp. They had no time to comprehend what came plunging down on them. A sword pierced the armpit of the first, in the space between his light armour and his arm, before whipping around in a circular motion and a spray of blood to slash deeply into the other man’s throat.

  ‘Lad!’ the general shouted.

  A few yards away, near the edge of the camp, Frog was still in a muddle. Facing him, the soldier didn’t look like much of a challenge, hesitating with the spear trembling in his hand. The man attempted a jab. Frog backed up too fast and fell on his rear end. Against the grey tents being devoured by red and yellow flames he could see the dark and blurry silhouettes of more soldiers running in their direction. The moment of surprise was gone.

  ‘Lad!’ Dun-Cadal roared as he rushed towards the boy.

  The guard saw a dark mass charging at him from out of the night.

  ‘We . . . we . . .’ he stammered, ‘we’re under attack!’

  That was it; his own fear made him turn and flee. He dropped the spear without paying heed to the boy and disappeared among the tents. The sound of voices grew louder in the distance. Men were approaching and the clatter of swords against their armour rang like chimes. When he reached his pupil, Dun-Cadal had to stop himself from wheezing out loud, one hand on his leg. He had over-taxed himself, both his muscles and his bones reminding him how far they still were from being fully recovered. Kneeling down, he took hold of the boy’s arm and the pair of them regained their feet, stumbling.

  ‘Come on,’ urged the general. ‘Come on, let’s go!’

  In just a few steps, they reached the corral. An arrow sped past their ears.

  ‘Mount up! Quickly, lad!’

  He opened the gate and pushed Frog towards the horses. Another arrow landed at the knight’s feet. Glancing up, he saw an archer near the tents nocking an arrow, his slender figure haloed by the flames. And more soldiers were arriving, still mere silhouettes, shadows detaching themselves from the blazing camp. Frog grabbed a horse around the neck and hoisted himself onto its back, almost falling back down when the animal whinnied and reared.

  ‘Ride!’ ordered Dun-Cadal, looking grim.

  ‘Bu
t you . . .’ the boy mumbled in protest.

  ‘Ride!’ the general yelled in rage.

  ‘There’s a legend that tells . . .’

  With a firm hand, he slapped the rump of Frog’s horse and the beast went off at a gallop.

  ‘It’s no legend. Me, I was there in the Saltmarsh, I saw it!’

  In the night, horse and rider was soon no more than an indistinct shape. Dun-Cadal spun round.

  ‘I was there too, and he was all alone.’

  There were at least twenty of them running in his direction as he limped towards the catapults. With a flick of his sword, he deflected an arrow, groaning from the effort.

  ‘Months . . . months, I’ve been out here and you think, right now, right here, that I’ll give up . . .’ he muttered.

  ‘There’s a legend that tells of a man who stood alone at the Saltmarsh and set fire to our army.’

  ‘I am Dun-Cadal Daermon, of the House of Daermon! Remember that name!’ he cried as the shadows threw themselves at him.

  Without moving a foot, he parried a blow from the left, then a blow from the right. His breathing became slower, quieter, as cool as the wind caressing the grass. He felt the life all around him, each sprig, each tree, each heart beating in those surrounding him. He blocked the blows aimed at him and struck in his turn, hacking and slashing with his sharp blade, punching with the pommel of his sword. There were always more opponents, still more coming for him, and in the distance, the shadows of the archers lifting their bows to take aim.

  His heart slowed, his vision became clearer and it was as if he were everywhere at once, hearing each of their breaths, feeling the blood run from their wounds. He was ready.

  ‘It’s no legend, I fought him . . . and I fled before him like the others.’

  He knelt and struck the ground with his sword’s hilt, one single blow. And a powerful blast spread from it, like the wave caused by a pebble thrown in a river. His assailants were flung backwards a dozen yards. The arrows turned on their archers, the flames grew larger, the tents swayed, the catapults collapsed on their sides.

  ‘He caused more damage than the assault on Aëd’s Watch by ten thousand of his men! Him, we feared . . . because he was no mere general . . .’

  Over in the grass, soldiers lay moaning. Some of them were only dazed. The general used up his last remaining strength reaching the corral.

  ‘If there was one hero in the Saltmarsh, just remember his name . . .’

  He set off at a gallop, dashing into the night like a phantom, leaving a landscape of devouring flames and limp bodies behind him. When reinforcements reached this section of the camp, the survivors with their livid faces and trembling hands could only utter the name:

  ‘Dun-Cadal Daermon.’

  6

  A SON

  How ironic:

  I was always so good at sowing death.

  But I was never able to sow life . . .

  ‘Words are like knots around a package, you know . . .’

  His wrinkled old hands surrounded a tankard filled with wine. His gaze was lost in the blood-red liquid as if he was hoping to drown his memories there, those fleeting but sharp-edged images, those figures he had hated, loved, despised, protected . . .

  ‘Many things are said, many things told. Words can be a far cry from the truth.’

  There was a scraping sound as Viola pulled her chair towards her before sitting down. It had been easy for her to find him again, sitting in the same tavern where they had spoken the night before. After chasing the assassin, Dun-Cadal had given up, shaking all over. Right here he’d found the means of quelling his mental as well as physical pains . . . or at least put them to sleep. He was already working on his second jug of wine. Apart from the young woman and himself, the only other customer was some poor old man seated at a table by the big window, silently laying down cards from a tarot deck.

  ‘Words dress everything up.’

  Slouched forward, he looked up and his features softened when his gaze met the young woman’s placid green eyes. She was so calm, beautiful and sweet, her cheekbones sprinkled with small freckles. Although her pink lips were half-opened, she did not utter a single word. She simply listened, to him, the relic from a glorious bygone era, as useless as a blunt sword.

  ‘I heard it told,’ he said with an embarrassed laugh, ‘that I fought no less than three hundred men when I fled from the Saltmarsh.’

  He lowered his eyes, pensive, and shook his head.

  ‘I counted them, you know. I’ve always been able to take a quick count . . .’

  His voice was muffled, as if he were no longer addressing anyone but himself.

  ‘There were fifteen of them. Fifteen boys, barely twenty years old. No combat training. Fifteen boys, two of whom hung back to shoot at me.’

  Once again, his gaze met Viola’s serene eyes.

  ‘And it was as if I had become a legend . . . without winning any battles. Just putting the devil of all fears into them. The story spread from mouth to mouth, village to village. Like a tumble of snow becoming an avalanche. Words dress everything up. A mere trifle becomes a . . . a titanic deed . . .’

  He paused and raised the tankard to his mouth. He grimaced as the edge of the drinking vessel caught on his chapped lips.

  ‘So here is your historic figure, Viola I-don’t-know-who from the Republican city of Emeris . . .’

  He emptied the tankard in a single gulp and placed it back on the table with a thump. Everything inside him seemed to be breaking up and his body was so dry he couldn’t even shed tears over his fate.

  ‘Teach me . . . I’m not ready.’

  His thoughts wandered aimlessly through a past that had been torn apart, in pieces . . . and still bloody.

  ‘A councillor was killed in plain daylight,’ Viola said at last. ‘A man of the Republic was assassinated.’

  ‘And he won’t be the last,’ Dun-Cadal snarled.

  ‘The Republican Guards are looking for the assassin.’

  ‘And they’ll still be hunting for him tomorrow . . .’

  Delicately, she placed her hands on the table and blinked as if she were trying to soothe some sort of annoyance.

  ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ she surmised.

  ‘The councillor?’

  ‘The killer.’

  He leaned back in his chair, perplexed. This was something far removed from the concerns of a historian. Had she developed a new-found passion for justice?

  ‘And if that were the case, what would it change?’

  ‘There’s a connection somewhere with your personal history, isn’t there?’

  Her lips were pinched and there was a gleam of mischief in her eye.

  ‘And I am a . . . historian,’ she added.

  ‘What about the rapier?’

  ‘You’ll give it to me. I can be persuasive,’ she said, leaning forward slightly. ‘But your story interests me too.’

  He picked up the jug on the table and filled his tankard with a sigh.

  ‘And what makes you think I have any desire to tell you my story?

  ‘Because you’ve already started the telling . . .’

  He put the jug back down with a faraway look in his eyes. She was right. Painfully right. Her lavender scent had bewitched him; he felt the urge to confide in her with no thought at all as to the consequences. Mildrel had warned him against it but he didn’t care. Something about Viola made him trust her. Or perhaps he really wanted to confess it all, drain away everything that was weighing him down inside and preventing him from moving on. She looked at her now joined hands with a pensive air and took her time, as if measuring each of her words before uttering it. Dun-Cadal saw her hesitate and was curious. At last she said:

  ‘People still believe in the Liaber Dest. As for me, I’ve never been able to decide if I should believe in it or not. Being a daughter of the Republic and all . . .’ She gave him an embarrassed smile. ‘But ever since I left my village, I’ve met people who r
eferred to the Sacred Book. It always seemed strange to me . . . that they believed in something they had no proof even existed. And it’s still more complicated for me, now that I am a historian. The Order of Fangol does not like the idea that we might re-examine history, which previously they alone had the right to recount. They even said that we wanted to – how did they put it? – oh yes, that we “dared to rewrite history” . . .’

  She stifled a nervous giggle. Dun-Cadal listened to her patiently, unsure where she was heading. He watched her search for the right words and felt no pleasure doing it. He simply waited, feeling somewhat dazed.

  ‘In short . . . all I mean to say is that I really have no opinion about the Liaber Dest, or about your beliefs,’ she continued. ‘Even though I know very well that someone like yourself has always kept the old faith. So if what they say about the Liaber Dest is true, if the destiny of men is inscribed there, then everything has already been played out in advance, am I right? So it was written that the great Dun-Cadal would end up here, at death’s door.’

  ‘You think I’m at death’s door?’ he asked mockingly.

  Her glance at his full tankard gave her answer. And then she seemed to abandon her reticence.

  ‘You have the keys, at least,’ she said simply. ‘All these years, since the fall of the Empire and during your wanderings, haven’t you dreamt of someone like me? Haven’t you ever hoped someone would take an interest in you? In what you did? You were important! If the moment came, when someone was ready to listen to the whole story, would you really let the occasion pass by? Don’t you think it was written that one day General Daermon would tell his true tale?’

  He looked away. She had an answer for everything and how could he refute that? For years he had tried to forget what he had been, and what he was becoming. She demanded he lead her to that ancient sword, to the emblem of a fallen empire. Nevertheless, if the rapier was her main goal, she was also interested in the man. He would have denied it if anyone asked, but her interest touched him deeply. No one, except Mildrel, worried about his fate and, worse still, no one in Masalia cared about the ordeals he had endured in the course of his long life.