The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘Or are you just working off some excess energy?’ she guessed again. ‘I know men like to fight, but I thought it took two to make things interesting.’

  Hidden in shadow, her smile vanished when Laerte stood up, more intimidating than ever.

  ‘I’m here if . . . well . . . if you want to talk about anything,’ she offered weakly. With a flick of his wrist, he turned his sword. The blade slashed the air. ‘You were gone all day . . . and you returned just as night fell . . . And . . .’

  He looked at her, his eyes shining in the dim light. He said nothing, and did not smile, maintaining a stony expression. She linked her fingers together nervously before her.

  ‘You so rarely speak . . .’ she sighed.

  ‘Go inside, Viola,’ he said, his voice hoarse and carrying no hint of friendliness. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘I may be young but that doesn’t mean you can treat me like a child,’ she complained, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Go inside,’ he repeated more forcefully.

  ‘Such a nasty temper,’ she immediately fumed, her fists balling at her sides.

  But she reluctantly obeyed, stalking back into the salon. Stretched out on the divan with a pitcher of wine in his hand, Rogant barely raised an eye when she passed him, grumbling to herself.

  ‘I just wanted to help,’ she groused.

  And meeting Dun-Cadal on the stairs, she snapped:

  ‘You know, the two of you share the same vile character!’

  The old general frowned, halting in the middle of the staircase to let her pass, without her giving him another glance. Seeing the girl in this state, her face flushed with anger and framed by locks of her red hair, was the last thing he’d expected.

  The sound of footsteps on the gravel in the courtyard had roused him from his torpor and, curious, he had decided to come downstairs and see what was going on. When he entered the salon, however, it wasn’t Rogant who drew his eye but the jug of wine in his hand. After two days without drinking a drop the temptation was too strong; he rushed over to the drowsing Nâaga and seized the pitcher before the other man could react.

  ‘Hey! You miserable old ghost!’ growled the colossus as he leapt up from the divan, still glassy-eyed.

  Dun-Cadal paid him no attention, too busy pouring as much wine as he could down his parched gullet. Almost choking, he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand while halting the irritated barbarian with the other.

  ‘You,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘I’m starting to like you a little more.’

  With his fist raised, ready to smash the old man’s jaw, Rogant froze. Dun-Cadal was nodding, looking so contented and smiling that the Nâaga could not contain his laughter. He snorted and finally let it burst forth.

  ‘It’s true,’ Dun-Cadal insisted. ‘You don’t seem like such a bad sort after all . . .’

  ‘Go on, then,’ Rogant said, between chuckles. ‘Keep it.’

  With a firm hand, he patted the old man’s shoulder before bringing his smiling face close to his.

  ‘You were once a great warrior, old ghost,’ he muttered with a touch of derision. ‘But wine puts you to sleep. So go ahead: get drunk. I’m not sure how much Laerte will like it though, and then . . . Well, then I’ll be eager to see how you’ll settle your little dispute. Believe me.’

  Through the open door to the courtyard, Dun-Cadal could make out Laerte’s shadow. That explained the sound he’d heard in his sleep: the whistling of the blade through the air, like an echo from the past. No, not an echo . . . a deformed reflection. This boy wasn’t the Frog he had known. Stopping on the doorstep he took another gulp, savouring the fruity taste of the wine as it ran down his throat. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Rogant sit down on a corner of the divan with his arms crossed and a sly grin upon his face. No doubt he was hoping that Laerte would start another fight. He would be disappointed: Dun-Cadal didn’t plan to defend himself. He felt so tired.

  ‘I don’t know what you have in mind,’ he said finally, as Laerte slashed at the air with his blade. ‘But it seems to me it’s off to a bad start.’

  Laerte halted, slightly out of breath. The moonlight lent a pale gleam to the outline of his silhouette. He turned towards the general, his head lowered.

  ‘Anger,’ sighed Dun-Cadal as he sat down on the low step in front of the door. ‘You always had so much in you and now I understand why . . .’

  If he was expecting a reply, he drowned his disappointment with another mouthful of wine. Laerte remained silent and still, eyeing his former mentor grimly.

  ‘So much hatred towards me . . .’ the old general continued. ‘Is it an irony of fate, or the will of the gods, to give a man the chance to nurture his own enemy? It’s so . . . so humiliating that I had no—’

  ‘You were right,’ Laerte said suddenly.

  He sheathed his sword with a sharp move. On the front porch, Dun-Cadal raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Right about Esyld. Her father organised the rebellion in Emeris while I—’

  His throat constricted, Laerte felt tears about to flow along with the rage boiling within him. Fists balled he took a step towards Daermon, but the former general didn’t flinch.

  ‘While I fought at your side, betraying her. The only thing that mattered to me was Reyes . . . and the prospect of slamming my sword through his heart.’

  His voice rose and the tears brimmed in his eyes.

  ‘I was so blind, and I didn’t know it. So ignorant, young, stupid . . . Reyes was never to blame. Nor were you, you were never anything but a . . .’

  Seeing Dun-Cadal’s lined face and weary gaze he could not continue. The old general was so ravaged, his skin weathered by the southern sun as well as by years of drinking. He drank again before tossing the pitcher away. It broke on the gravel.

  ‘I loved her . . . I’ve always loved her,’ Laerte admitted as he turned his back to the old man, seeking comfort in the lights of Masalia below.

  No. Not seeking comfort but to hide the tears he could no longer contain. He’d been trying to convert his pain into slashed air and broken torches, but the mere sight of his former master looking so bruised and pale had drained his aggression. Now he was afraid he’d overplayed his hand and, for the first time, he saw a real possibility that he might fail.

  ‘She’s here, Wader. She’s getting married to . . .’

  He clenched his fists.

  ‘To Azdeki’s son,’ he managed to say, strangling a sob. ‘So . . . where does the real irony lie?’

  His tears dried in the heat of his renewed rage. He inhaled before turning on Dun-Cadal, looking into his dull eyes.

  ‘Tell me,’ he ordered in a firm voice.

  ‘Logrid! You scum. You piece of filth! Logrid!’

  Laerte scowled. For a brief instant he felt a jolt of pain in his shoulder which quickly faded. A memory . . . someone had cursed him.

  ‘You are nothing to me,’ Dun-Cadal said tonelessly. ‘I loved a boy called Frog. And you killed him. I could curse you for that.’

  They glared at one another. Looking at them together, it was difficult to see they’d ever they felt anything but pure hatred for one another. With the help of a hand pressed against the door frame, Dun-Cadal rose to his feet, an expression of disgust twisting his features.

  ‘You’ve already done that,’ Laerte assured him without blinking.

  ‘Logrid!’

  Dun-Cadal’s face darkened. He remembered; he understood. The Empire’s final moments . . . it all made sense now.

  But could he imagine how much Laerte had suffered that day? Did he have the slightest idea what the boy had endured during the following days? The hatred in the old man’s eyes slowly faded and Laerte thought he detected a hint of a more familiar expression. The look he had whenever he was worried for Frog.

  ‘Yes,’ said Laerte. ‘You cursed me on the eve of Reyes’ death . . .’

  He had just left Dun-Cadal. On the morrow the Imperial city would come under attack. The rebels had a major
advantage: Aladzio had feigned a lack of success with the cannon that could offer the Empire a decisive victory, while the rebels had made good use of the inventor’s own plans. Their big new guns were gathering in the vicinity of Emeris and would soon roar unchecked.

  Laerte regained his quarters, already imagining the fury of the final battle while he raced through the palace to reach the panic-stricken Emperor. The young man would remove his mask, look him in the eye, and watch the fear creep into the sickly ruler’s face as he realised who Laerte was.

  And after that?

  He felt a strange distress come over him as he imagined plunging his sword into the tyrant’s heart. What would happen after that?

  He arrived at the door to his chamber. There were no cadets loitering in the hallways, they had all hurried off to the academy refectory. Now that he was knighted, and already experienced on the fields of battle at General Daermon’s side, Laerte himself was excused from following their ordinary schedule.

  He’d just touched the door handle and was turning it when a violent blow from behind sent him stumbling into the room. He hit the edge of his bed, reeling from the impact. The door shut silently behind him. Instinctively, he reached for the pommel of his sword but he was too slow to grasp it. A powerful hand gripped his forearm and, with a perfectly executed manoeuvre, twisted it with ease. Laerte yelled with pain as his arm was wrenched up to touch his shoulder blade. He ignored it as he straightened and leaned against his assailant, pushing hard to force him to step back. He kept pushing and the dull thud of their bodies against the closed door barely covered his cry of pain.

  Stunned, the man loosened his grip for an instant, enough for Laerte to break free, his shoulder on fire. He spun round and was not very surprised to see Logrid, his gaunt face just visible within the shadow of his hooded green cape.

  If the Emperor’s personal assassin had been sent to kill him, did it mean Laerte’s true identity had been revealed? He had no time to worry about it. Logrid drew two daggers from his belt in total silence. Laerte barely evaded the first blow by leaning backwards, the blade leaving a furrow of blood on his cheek. The following strikes were quick, precise, and would have been fatal if Laerte hadn’t been nimble enough to dodge them. He seized the hilt of his sword to draw it at the very moment when the assassin charged at him and the blade blocked the daggers with a sharp clang. A sudden movement of his arm forced Logrid to drop both weapons and Laerte kneed the man sharply in the belly. The assassin doubled over with a gasp, one arm folded tight against him.

  ‘Splendid,’ he managed to mutter between his teeth.

  It was now or never for Laerte; to strike hard and fell his enemy. His heart was pounding, his cheek stung and his shoulder was on fire. When he lifted his arm to deliver the mighty blow he was convinced the duel was over.

  Still bent over, Logrid drove his free hand towards him and, with incredible force, he projected the boy against the wall opposite. Laerte struck the edge of the chamber’s small window before falling heavily onto the book-covered table beside his bed. It cracked and collapsed beneath his weight.

  ‘If you only knew how long I’ve been waiting for a match with you,’ Logrid murmured.

  With a lithe movement, the assassin drew his own sword and advanced on Laerte. A stabbing pain ran through the boy’s temples. Lying in the shattered remains of his table he rose up on his elbows, full of rage and brashness. His best chance was to use the animus, to use it and hold nothing back. He breathed in deeply, feeling the blood beading at the edge of his nostrils. Suddenly, time seemed to pass more slowly, the world became clearer to him, as if each wall, each object, each sound, even the beating of Logrid’s heart, registered in his mind. Ignoring the pain squeezing his lungs, he pounced like a wolf upon his prey.

  The duel resumed with a fearsome clash of blades. Thrusts, parries . . . the two men moved gracefully in the cramped space. Splinters of wood flew through the air and the walls crumbled as their bodies slammed into them, but they continued to strike, dodge and counter each other without either gaining the upper hand. They were like two reflections trying to foil one another.

  A particularly powerful blow forced Laerte to draw back. He immediately held his sword out horizontally, hoping to block another thrust, but Logrid surprised him: dropping down, he stretched out his leg to sweep the boy off his feet with a swift kick. Laerte fell to the floor, hitting his head sharply on the edge of his bed. The ceiling became hazy and bells chimed in his ears . . . the animus began to slip from his control, his heart stumbling with the force of it, and blood continued to run from his nose. His eyelids seemed turned to lead.

  He had barely regained his wits when Logrid’s shadow fell over him. The assassin’s knees pressed down on the boy’s arms, pinning him to the floor while a gloved hand covered his mouth. As the sword blade sliced through his shoulder, his cry was stifled by the leather, and could only be heard inside his head. The tearing pain ran through his body, forcing him to arch his back. Distress shone in his eyes when he glimpsed Logrid’s sardonic smile above him.

  He could not die. Not here, not now, not like this. The assassin continued to muffle his scream with a firm hand, whispering something incomprehensible in his hissing voice . . . It was unbearable and yet hypnotic. If only he would stop speaking! Along with the pain! If only this would all end . . .

  No, Laerte could not let himself to succumb. He needed to breathe deeply, fill his lungs, and resist this blade tormenting his body. He had to fight; that’s what he had learned to do these past years, fight to avenge his family. The ghostly image of his father hanging from the gallows haunted him. The silhouette of his brother dangling from the end of a rope . . . the murder of his raped mother, of his little sister . . .

  He could not contain his tears. Rage was keeping him afloat. Neither despair, nor his sense of loss, and still less this damn pain was going to stop him. He would not give up! Force of will alone reasserted his control over the animus—

  —a chair slammed into Logrid’s head, shattering into pieces. Barely dazed by the blow, the assassin turned and Aladzio stepped back, furious, holding two broken chair legs in his hands. One arm freed from beneath Logrid’s knee, Laerte seized this opportunity, lifting a widespread hand. And the animus did its work.

  Logrid was lifted into the air. But he did not fall back down. He remained suspended there, spinning slowly, one hand upon his chest, his fingers bent as if trying to remove something piercing his chest. Laerte felt his pain. He lived it, endured it, desired it. He felt the assassin’s heart throbbing; like an orange being squeezed in his hand, a wretched thing to be crushed between his fingers. And as he squeezed it, he saw the life slowly draining from the suspended body.

  When he felt no more than an icy sensation and saw Logrid’s head hanging limply, Laerte lowered his arm. And fainted.

  *

  A distant voice pulled him from the darkness, when his only desire was to immerse himself in it completely. The words became sharper and more urgent. The creaking of the floor sounded like an entire forest being chopped down.

  ‘Frog? Frog?’

  ‘Laerte . . .’ he murmured hoarsely.

  Just saying the name felt like needles clawing his throat.

  ‘No, don’t move,’ the voice told him.

  By the time his mind took in the instruction it was already too late. He had attempted to sit up, and the wound to his shoulder had made it clear it was a bad idea.

  ‘I removed the sword and I tried to make a quick bandage.’

  ‘Your two students, Dun-Cadal . . . how ironic.’

  Kneeling beside him, Aladzio was looking at him with great sorrowful eyes. Laerte glanced at his shoulder. It was wrapped in a piece of blood-stained cloth.

  ‘Your two students fighting one another . . . Who would you have wagered upon, hmm, Dun-Cadal?’

  ‘You passed out for a few minutes. I-I did what I could,’ the inventor stammered.

  ‘Thank you . . .’

 
Next to him, Logrid had fallen to the floor, lying motionless on his green cape, one leg bent beneath him, his twisted hand still clutching at his chest. The cape . . . Aladzio helped Laerte to stand up.

  ‘That’s the Hand of the Emperor, isn’t it?’

  ‘He was,’ corrected Laerte with a sigh. ‘I’m glad you were here.’

  ‘de Page,’ said Aladzio with an embarrassed expression. ‘He asked me to keep an eye on you . . . You need to flee, Frog. If the Emperor sent his assassin after you, you’re no longer safe here. They must have discovered something—’

  ‘No,’ he snapped, making his way to Logrid’s body with determination.

  It was now or never, flee or fight, succeed or give up altogether. Like the Erain frog creeping as close as possible to its prey, he would take on the appearance of his enemies one last time.

  ‘And that’s how . . .’

  Despite his wounded shoulder, despite his fatigue and Aladzio’s advice against it . . .

  ‘. . . that’s how . . .’

  . . . he donned the leather jacket, the boots and the gloves. And he disguised himself in the Hand of the Emperor’s green cape, drawing the hood over his head, its shadow hiding his face.

  Hadn’t he always planned to become the Emperor’s assassin?

  ‘And that’s how you had the idea . . .’ repeated Dun-Cadal.

  Seated on the doorstep, he contemplated the shards of the pitcher scattered across the gravel. The young man had reined in his emotions, savouring the quiet of the city below, illuminated by a thousand fires. At night, Masalia’s torches rivalled the stars above.

  ‘Logrid!’

  ‘So it was you I saw . . .’ recalled the general in a low voice.

  ‘Logrid! You scum. You piece of filth! Logrid!’

  ‘You thought you were cursing Logrid . . . but you cursed me.’

  Laerte saw the general again in his memories, being escorted to the double doors by the soldiers, hurling a thousand insults at him. He had looked away, unable to bear the sight of his mentor’s tears, and his face twisted by hatred.