The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  It was Esyld’s father and, evidently, they were in the barn adjoining his workshop. He still wore his dusty apron over a black shirt, which strained to contain his broad shoulders. Behind a closed door, wood crackled in the forge’s hearth, its orange light pulsing between the panel boards.

  ‘Esyld, saddle the horses, we need to leave within the hour!’ he informed her, as he led the boy towards a ladder giving access to a passageway.

  They climbed without waiting for her, following the passageway to a small door upon which Master Orbey gave three rapid knocks followed by two slow. Over the railing Laerte glanced down at Esyld. She was busy preparing the horses, looking scared. In her haste she dropped the saddle she was carrying and swore at herself with a sob in her voice. She had seemed so resolute when she had come back to find him in the woods. How he would have preferred to stay with her and take her in his arms. At least he was sure of managing that.

  The door creaked as it opened. Behind it two guards with hands on the pommels of their swords eyed the two new arrivals suspiciously. Recognising Orbey, they drew apart to let them enter. The room was cramped, with a few crates full of blacksmith’s tools and a wide anvil retired from service placed in one corner. A man with a thin face marked with scars was seated at a table close to the single window overlooking one of Aëd’s Watch’s streets. Master Orbey’s forge had been built in the highest part of the town. From here they had a view all the way to the big square at the foot of the church. Upon the table rested a county guard captain’s helmet, recognisable from the dragon’s head with the open maw above the nose guard. The man placed an iron gauntleted hand upon it.

  ‘Captain Meurnau?’ Laerte exclaimed in surprise, his throat still dry.

  If he was here hiding in Master Orbey’s workshop it meant the situation was even worse than he had imagined. Meurnau stood up and with a brisk nod of his head indicated a small stool by the crates.

  ‘Sit down,’ he told the boy in a firm tone.

  Then, turning his back on Laerte, he invited Orbey to join him by the window.

  ‘There are a great many of Azdeki’s soldiers searching the area surrounding the town,’ the blacksmith informed him in a murmur.

  Passing a hand through his ash-blond hair, Meurnau inhaled deeply as he listened to the other man. It was as if they both trying to exclude Laerte from their conversation. He would surely not have heard anything if he had sat down as the captain had instructed.

  ‘They will come back when they find nothing and then we will be unable to leave by the north. We have to leave Aëd’s Watch now, Orbey.’

  ‘I know,’ the blacksmith nodded. ‘My daughter is already saddling the horses. But after that?’

  ‘After that, we’ll decide. The southwestern baronies have always respected the count and some there were open about sharing his vision of the world. We need to find a safe haven where we can organise the uprising.’

  ‘The uprising? Meurnau, surely you’re not contemplating that?!’ Orbey exclaimed indignantly.

  ‘Captain . . .’ said Laerte.

  But the two men by the window were not listening to him. Orbey was seeking to draw the captain’s elusive gaze. In the distance, in the square in front of a church, Laerte watched a gallows being erected.

  ‘It’s not what the count wants!’

  ‘It’s exactly what he wants, blacksmith,’ retorted Meurnau. ‘The Empire is dying, it’s time for a change of governance.’

  ‘Not by force!’

  ‘Captain!’ Laerte repeated, stepping forward a pace.

  He balled his fists and felt the blood boiling in his veins. And in his head, one question was supplanting all the others . . . but no one was paying him any attention.

  ‘Since the Empire is depriving the Saltmarsh of its master without the consent of its people, then the Saltmarsh will declare its independence!’ roared Meurnau. ‘We’ve bent the knee long enough to the whims of a tyrant. To call Uster an outlaw and treat him with such contempt after all he has done for those barnyard roosters, it’s disgraceful. Disgraceful!’

  ‘Captain Meurnau!’ Laerte yelled.

  The two men spun round, seeing the boy’s determined expression with astonishment. Meurnau had trained him in duelling several times, without hiding his doubts as to the boy’s aptitude as a swords-man. Of Uster’s three children, Laerte knew he was the quietest, the least forthcoming, the most timid on all occasions. For him to raise his voice like this, without arrogance, but with an authority similar to that of the count, surprised even himself. But he was so filled with anger that he could not remain silent.

  ‘Where is my father?’ Laerte demanded. ‘My mother?’

  ‘Laerte, we are trying to deal with the situation as best we can,’ explained Meurnau. ‘I must request that you remain in your—’

  ‘Tell me what is happening here!’ the boy exploded, locking eyes with the captain. ‘Where is my family being held? Why has nothing been done to prevent this? Tell me!’

  The captain blinked. It was the first time that Laerte had given him an order, from all of his twelve years of age. But in view of the respect Meurnau owed him, he was ready to defy the man in order to obtain answers. The blacksmith intervened instead, approaching the boy.

  ‘Sir, there is a great deal of commotion within the town,’ he started by saying. ‘Captain Azdeki has come to arrest your father the count and your brother, accusing them of high treason against the Empire. Your mother and your sister have also been taken, we’re unable to—’

  ‘Your father is no traitor, Laerte,’ the captain muttered angrily. ‘This is all political manoeuvring by the Azdeki family and others,’ he added in disgust.

  ‘But why are they inventing such lies?’ asked Laerte, in a dazed tone. ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘I fear the Order of Fangol wants to reassert its status,’ replied Meurnau. ‘And the Emperor, in his weakness, has not opposed this.’

  ‘Your family . . . possesses many things that make men jealous, sir,’ Orbey added with an uncomfortable air.

  Although Laerte had heard him, it was not what he wished to know, not the most important thing. Fear bore a hole in his stomach.

  ‘Where is he now? Where is my father?’

  His voice was trembling now. He imagined the worst.

  ‘Master Orbey! Where is my father?’

  The blacksmith took one step to the side, revealing the window behind him, and stood with his head bowed.

  ‘They have already judged him, sir . . .’

  In the distance, behind the wooden roofs of the houses below, the gallows could be seen. Someone was about to be hung. Laerte looked back and forth between the window and the men beside him. He didn’t understand. He did not want to understand. In the end the why, how, when mattered little to him. The only thing he took angry note of was the guard captain’s failure to take action. Obeying the inner rage that invaded him, he lost all self-restraint.

  ‘And you’re going to let him die?’

  ‘Laerte . . .’ Meurnau sighed.

  ‘Go and rescue him! Stop this from happening!’

  ‘Laerte, calm down!’

  ‘You coward!’ the boy screamed. ‘Go and fight! You are under our orders! Obey me! My father is your count! Save him!’

  ‘By all the gods, sir!’ intervened Orbey. ‘Get hold of yourself!’

  Would they listen, take up arms and rescue his father? And liberate his mother, his brother and his sister? No. Neither Meurnau nor Master Orbey, nor the two soldiers present, seemed prepared to act. Overcome with anger, Laerte rushed to the door, taking all of them by surprise. He bolted down the passageway, reached the ladder and let himself slide down, his legs hugging the uprights. Behind him the captain’s stern voice rang out.

  ‘Laerte! Come back!’

  He gave no thought to the risks he was taking. His reason had been obliterated by fear. This same fear was turning into a fierce determination. He had to see, with his own eyes, what was taking place on t
he forecourt of the church. The idea that he was powerless to prevent it did not even occur to him.

  ‘Laerte?’ said Esyld in astonishment as she saw him pushing open the barn doors.

  ‘Sir!’ Orbey was calling from the passageway.

  Meurnau was already descending the ladder. Without even giving the girl a glance. Laerte mounted the horse she had just finished saddling. As the captain rushed forward to stop him, he spurred his mount and galloped away through the deserted streets of Aëd’s Watch. The absence of the town’s inhabitants did not worry him, for in the distance the sound of the crowd guided him. Their clamour was joined by the sound of the rain, like the roll of drums. When he was only two streets away from the square, spying the halberds held by soldiers in black uniforms at the corner of a house, he slowed down and covered his head with the patched hood of his cloak. He dismounted, releasing the horse without even attempting to tether it, and continued forward. He almost retreated, heart pounding, when a squad of soldiers passed in front of him, their boots stamping across the ground swept by the rain shower. He finally thought of the danger he was courting, of the folly he was committing with this sudden outburst of passion. The Empire was hunting for him. His father was going to be executed. Instead of fleeing, he had thrown himself in the wolf’s jaws. What could he possibly do against an entire army . . . ?

  Yet something forced him on. A strange fire burned inside him that he could not name or even describe. Perhaps hope still ran in his veins, to make his heart beat so fast. He had the sense that his clothes had suddenly become too small for him. He walked to the forecourt. A crowd pressed round the wide gallows that had been hastily erected. There was no joy, no enthusiasm, only cries of dismay, and some of outrage. And for good reason. His father stood straight and proud, gazing into the distance, on the platform, ready to be executed. At his side, his eyes lowered despite his attempt to remain dignified, his elder brother was murmuring a prayer. A rope was knotted around his neck and his hands were tied behind his back. Laerte almost fell to the ground.

  He inhaled deeply.

  ‘Silence! Silence!’

  At the front of the platform, a man with a gaunt face and a hawk-like nose tried to calm the crowd’s ire with quieting gestures. He wore silvery armour and a wide red cape attached at his shoulders and falling to his heels. An eagle was painted upon his breastplate, crushing a snake in its talons.

  Led by a man in light armour, undoubtedly a young knight, spear-men positioned themselves in front of the gallows to hold back the crowd. Laerte made his way through the spectators without anyone noticing him. Just as he paid no attention to them. He hunched slightly, lowering his head towards his chest. The rain made his cloak even heavier. He was allowed to pass and no one recognised him, all those present stunned by the spectacle of their beloved count standing at the end of a rope. When Laerte drew close to the line of soldiers at the foot of the gallows, he read upon their faces a determination that sent a chill down his spine.

  ‘Silence!’ repeated the man on the platform.

  There was a semblance of quiet during which he looked out over the crowd with a piercing gaze.

  ‘I, Captain Etienne Azdeki, am here in the name of His Majesty the Emperor Asham Ivani Reyes, to judge the traitors you see before you . . .’

  He pointed an accusing finger at the two prisoners standing a few feet from him and then looked back at the crowd with a grim expression.

  ‘The man who has governed you all these years has fomented a plot against your Emperor, spread false words and sowed dissent and doubt in your hearts and minds! His Imperial Majesty himself has observed his high treason. The Order of Fangol has also laid charges—’

  Protests rose from the crowd. Huddled together near the gallows, a group of monks in black habits tried to maintain brave faces.

  ‘—charges against him,’ Azdeki continued. ‘Count Oratio of Uster has committed numerous offences and, despite many warnings from our Bishop of Emeris, has expressed no remorse! In light of the many accusations against him and despite the Emperor’s sorrow, it is with sad resignation that I must now pronounce their sentence!’

  Resignation? Azdeki showed no sign of it. Laerte gave him a baleful look, taking care to memorise the tiniest feature of his face. This man had brought calamity into the boy’s life and now he knew his name: Etienne Azdeki. Nevertheless, Laerte still did not believe for a single second that his father and his brother would lose their lives. In the next few instants, surely someone was going to rescue them.

  ‘My hand . . .’ said a quiet voice beside him.

  Laerte became aware of people shifting about behind him and, turning his head, he met Esyld’s stricken gaze. He immediately lowered his eyes.

  ‘Hold my hand. Take it,’ she insisted in a murmur. ‘Hold it tight.’

  The young woman’s fingers slipped between his. He gripped her hand as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Her skin was smooth, her warmth comforting. Her presence alone slowed the beating of his heart. He fought a mad urge to seize her in his arms for fear that she might escape.

  ‘Lord Oratio Montague, Count of Uster, has been found guilty of high treason against the Empire and His Imperial Majesty Asham Ivani Reyes, and of offending the gods and their representatives, the monks of the Fangolin Order. For this, and as prescribed by law, he and all his descendants shall suffer the penalty of death.’

  An angry growl ran through the crowd. The guards brandished their spears to pre-empt any attempts to interfere. The monks stepped back, lowering their hoods over their shaven heads, and started to chant. Azdeki turned towards the count and met his black eyes without any trace of hesitation. Sure of his power, he stepped towards the condemned man.

  ‘Death . . . by hanging,’ he added, staring deep into the count’s eyes.

  There was dried blood on the prisoner’s white shirt and in his full beard, and bruises beneath his tired eyes. His split lips twisted into a snarl.

  ‘Smile, Count,’ whispered Azdeki, feigning a downcast expression for the benefit of the spectators. ‘You’ve bitten the hand that feeds you . . . and now here you are . . . at the end . . .’

  Azdeki brought his mouth close to Uster’s ear and murmured:

  ‘. . . of a rope . . .’

  How filthy and worn-out the count looked in his rumpled clothing, despite the dignified bearing he struggled to maintain before his people. At his side, his elder son choked back a sob. The count had defended his family, he had opposed their arrest, fought the Imperial soldiers in the hallways of the keep. But his valour had not been enough. Now here he was, on the gallows, in the company of his first son, and dreading the fate awaiting his wife and daughter. There were only two things that let him stand tall and proud at death’s door: the need to die a martyr, so that his life’s work would not be swept away by his last breath, and the comfort of knowing that one member of his family was still at large. Laerte. His little Laerte had wandered off again, into the marshes with the blacksmith’s daughter. There was at least one Uster that Azdeki could not torture and then execute in public.

  ‘Squeeze my hand,’ Esyld’s said in the boy’s ear.

  ‘Hangman!’ Azdeki called out loud and clear.

  And at that moment, among the crowd, the count was horrified to see the sad, grave face of his younger son.

  ‘Do your duty!’

  ‘Squeeze it as hard as you like . . .’

  For the first time in his life, Laerte saw fear in his father’s eyes.

  The hangman lowered a lever abruptly. There was a drumming sound . . .

  And the sharp crack as the boards gave way beneath the condemned men’s feet.

  Two thumps . . .

  And then only the sound of the wind blowing the rain over a crowd struck dumb with horror while two bodies dangled at the ends of their ropes. Laerte closed his eyes, his chest squeezed by an unbearable pain to the point of drawing tears from his eyes. His hand still gripped Esyld’s and he bent his knees, feeli
ng a cry growing in his throat. She put her arm about him and took him through the onlookers as they slowly began to stir from their state of shock.

  ‘People of the Saltmarsh!’ hailed Azdeki. ‘You have been freed from the rule of a usurper! You have returned to the light of the Holy Empire!’

  Laerte was not seeing the light. He could barely make out the figures of those in front of him, among the raindrops, among the tears. They passed a squad of soldiers marching slowly towards one of the streets leaving the square and Esyld dragged him beneath a coach gate. When they came to halt, and after making sure no one could see them, she lowered her hood and took the boy’s face in her hands.

  ‘We have to leave, we must leave now . . . Be courageous, proud little lord, be the bravest of us all . . .’

  She brushed the boy’s cheeks, her sad gaze connecting with his.

  ‘My father . . .’ he managed through the sobs, ‘my brother . . .’

  Terror seized him then as his mouth twisted in pain. His throat was squeezed so tightly, his heart scraped so raw, he could not say another word. His mother and his little sister were still being held prisoner, alone and helpless. Unless Meurnau had freed them? Yes. He must surely have.

  ‘You will weep for them later,’ Esyld said gently. ‘But please, do not run off again. Your life is precious to us.’

  She let her fingers climb along his face and she pressed her brow against his, closing her eyes.

  ‘Your life is precious to me,’ she added in a murmur.

  Through the haze, everything became clearer for Laerte. He concentrated on this one single priority: follow Esyld wherever she went, wherever she wished. All the questions he was asking himself, all the torments afflicting him, were covered by a warm veil. He allowed himself to be taken back to the barn, looking haggard and bereft. Meurnau did not say a word to him. Orbey treated him with kid gloves. They hid him in the back of the covered cart again. Then they left the town in the greatest of secrecy while men belonging to the county guard, still loyal to their dead master, distracted the Imperial soldiers by taking them on in a series of skirmishes.