The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  Dun-Cadal struggled to pick himself up from the ground, still dazed, and bellowing, he sought to find the pommel of the sword lying beside him.

  ‘Azdeki! By the gods! Show yourself!’

  Drawing his own sword, Balian Azdeki helped Esyld climb down from the barrels and she was immediately encircled by soldiers. Guards were now pouring into the courtyard, ready to pounce on the intruder, while the crowd, still reeling in surprise, wavered between fear and curiosity. An old man urging a councillor to come out and face him, wearing worn-out armour held together by aging leather straps, seemed more like theatrics than a real threat.

  In one corner of the courtyard, de Page was finding the situation not to his liking. Rogant joined him in the pandemonium caused by the general’s impromptu arrival and the Nâaga begged him to leave the scene, grasping his arm to push de Page and Viola towards the hall of mirrors.

  Out in the middle of the open space, Dun-Cadal faced his opponents, gathering his wits, a strange smile playing across his lips. He felt himself being restored to life. Although his bones ached from the fall and reminded him of his age, he hoped to show the world what sort of warrior he really was. To do it one last time. The guards surrounded him, their spears pointed in a menacing fashion. He had a sensation of déjà vu, and his smile faltered.

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty, he’s still just a child! You have no right!’

  The torches sputtered. There was no more laughter, no more music, nothing but a charged silence. Balian passed through the circle of guards, his weapon in his fist.

  ‘Arrest this man!’ he commanded.

  ‘You, blondie, should wait until your voice deepens before giving orders like that,’ sneered Dun-Cadal, before raising his own voice. ‘It’s Etienne Azdeki – Captain Azdeki – I’ve come for! Azdeki! Show yourself!’

  The guards hesitated as the shadow of a man emerged from between the double doors. On the threshold of the hall of mirrors, on the other side of the courtyard, de Page paused. Beside him, Viola seemed lost, glancing at the barrels piled on the platform before meeting Rogant’s determined gaze.

  ‘Leave now,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t interfere,’ ordered de Page, giving him a black look.

  ‘I won’t need to,’ the Nâaga assured him, his face grim.

  De Page could not be associated with what was about to happen. Whether it succeeded or failed, no one could learn of the duke’s role in this operation. Not simply for his own protection, but because of what would ensue from this night. Rogant followed the duke and Viola with his eyes and when they disappeared at the end of the hallway he slipped behind one of the door panels at the entrance.

  ‘Azdeki!’ Dun-Cadal yelled again.

  He swung his sword, almost dropping it. This would not be easy. The gesture no longer came naturally to him and it had been a long time since he last fought in combat.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ exploded Balian. ‘I order you to arrest this man. He—’

  ‘Daermon . . .’

  The voice had dragged slightly as if savouring the name. Standing on the threshold of the double doors, his eyes blazing behind his eagle mask, Etienne Azdeki tilted his head to the side, looking intrigued. At his back the shapeless mass of his uncle could be seen, wallowing in his large white toga.

  ‘Arrest him!’ repeated Balian.

  The soldiers were ready to obey this time, but they had barely taken a step when Etienne Azdeki called out:

  ‘Wait!’

  He came down the steps, one hand on the pommel of his sword, showing no sign of any emotion but curiosity. Feeling more self-assured, Dun-Cadal flashed him the grim smile of a man looking for a fight.

  ‘You weren’t expecting me, were you?’ he jeered. ‘Worried?’

  ‘I’m worried that an old wreck like you got through my doors so easily,’ replied Azdeki without losing his unruffled demeanour.

  Murmurs of excitement ran through the assembled crowd, few of whom were deciding to leave the courtyard and miss the spectacle being played out there. But although the knight in armour was ready for battle, the councillor remained indifferent to him. Still staring at Dun-Cadal he raised his voice:

  ‘How is this for a touch of Masque Night whimsy? A knight of the Empire has forced his way into the Palatio and ended up here! There’s nothing to fear from him. Look, he’s as rusty as his armour!’

  ‘Come and test that, Azdeki,’ proposed Dun-Cadal. ‘Come and pay for your crimes. You betrayed the Empire and now you’re planning to betray the Republic.’

  He swung his sword again, but this time the movement was slow and precise, his hand gripping the hilt firmly.

  ‘So the old dog still has some teeth,’ murmured Azdeki, his lips twisted in disdain, before he addressed the crowd again. ‘Please accept my apologies for this incident, it is more spectacular than dangerous! Amuse yourselves, there’s no need for concern!’

  ‘Let the celebration continue!’ Rhunstag called from behind him.

  The guards approached the general cautiously under the supervision of Balian, standing by the platform. Only a few feet away from him, dwarfed between two massive halberdiers, Esyld watched the scene, her face completely white. The councillor spun round and was about to pass back through the double doors when Dun-Cadal rumbled:

  ‘The Liaber Dest, Azdeki! Have you told them? Is Anvelin Evgueni Reyes still your prisoner? So explain to them, your guests, what awaits them all!’

  Dun-Cadal pointed to the people gathered in the courtyard with the tip of his sword, noting the stir that his words caused with satisfaction. The murmurs grew louder and with them a strange uneasiness, fraught and oppressive. Azdeki had halted on the steps, his shoulders hunched and his body stiff. A word, just one, could be heard in all the whispers: the Liaber . . .

  ‘Let them try to stop me, nothing will prevent me from reaching you,’ Dun-Cadal promised.

  Azdeki turned around, losing his haughty air. Furious, he pointed at Dun-Cadal and snarled at the soldiers, no more than a few feet away from the general.

  ‘Get this rubbish out of the courtyard! Chain him up!’

  ‘Come on, Azdeki, show me what you’re capable of,’ scowled Dun-Cadal as he slashed the air with his sword, darting a glance right and the left in anticipation of an attack by the soldiers.

  The crowd was becoming agitated. The halberdiers urged Esyld to make her way towards the hall of mirrors and Balian was walking around the circle of soldiers.

  ‘Throw him in a gaol cell!’

  ‘Draw your sword! Be a knight!’

  Their shouts covered the whistle of the arrow above their heads. Some caught a fleeting glimpse of the wavering flame and a trail of flying sparks.

  ‘You’re nothing, Daermon, you’re a dea—’

  The steel tip split the wooden barrel. And everything exploded.

  The fire took hold of the platform with a loud crackling as a thick black smoke rose from the debris. The power of the explosion had caused havoc, throwing Dun-Cadal to the ground and blasting the closest guests, while forcing the others to rush away from the blaze and into the extremities of the courtyard.

  Laerte had leapt from the balustrade at the very moment the arrow had lodged itself in the barrel. Using the animus, he had landed noiselessly on the ground, feeling his body vibrate from the impact. He sensed the heartbeats of the general lying at his feet and, reassured, swept his gaze around the courtyard. Dun-Cadal slowly regained his wits, his fingers digging furrows in the gravel. As planned, the explosion has just been enough to sow confusion. In front of the doors Azdeki was waving at the smoke, trying to dissipate the thick acrid veil that was obscuring his vision. He didn’t see the arrows which sliced through the smoke to plant themselves in the throats of the halberdiers at his side.

  And then a rain of steel fell on the courtyard, mowing down the men in arms. The panicked guests rushed towards the hall of mirrors, elbowing one another aside, trampling the poor wretches who still lay stunned on the ground and ov
erturning tables. On the steps Azdeki seemed to be paralysed. The cries, the smell of the powder, the trickles of blood, the smoke rising in coils, all of it was sheer chaos . . . in the middle of which stood a man in a green cape.

  Laerte waited, his hand on Eraëd’s pommel, the rapier’s point brushing the gravel. When he caught Azdeki’s gaze behind his eagle mask, he was triumphant. For the very first time he saw fear there.

  ‘You . . .’ he saw the man say. ‘It’s you . . .’

  ‘Oh buggering hell . . .’ grumbled Dun-Cadal as he stood up.

  The courtyard was rapidly emptying. Among the wreaths of smoke and burnt, floating shreds of the awnings, a starry sky appeared. In the torchlight and glow of the flames still consuming the platform, the sword of the Emperors sparkled. Inert bodies, bristling with arrows, were strewn across the ground. All of them were wearing armour or studded leather vests, all of them were still gripping their sword or their halberd. None of them had detected the mercenaries on the balconies, who were now rising before the stupefied eyes of Etienne Azdeki.

  Near the hall of mirrors, a few yards from the blasted platform, Esyld was kneeling on the ground, horror-struck, running a hand through Balian Azdeki’s dusty, dirt-streaked hair. An arrow jutted from his shoulder at the junction between his spaulder and the breastplate that slowly rose and fell in time with his breathing. He might have been asleep and suffering a nightmare, his mouth twisted in pain. The crackling of the flames covered the words his bride was murmuring to him. She raised her eyes to meet those behind the golden mask and her distraught expression suddenly vanished as anger tightened her features. Laerte eluded her gaze, his heart pierced.

  ‘So that’s how it is,’ said Azdeki as he watched the mercenaries abandon their positions.

  ‘The Liaber Dest, Azdeki,’ shouted Dun-Cadal. ‘Where is it?’

  Slowly, the councillor lifted his hand towards his face to remove his mask. The fear was gone from his eyes and there was a sad, almost mocking, smile on his lips.

  ‘Are there still any soldiers in the gardens? Or did your mercenaries finish them off as well?’ he asked, looking up at the now deserted balconies.

  Dun-Cadal wanted to take a step forward but almost tripped over a body. Laerte’s arm restrained him.

  ‘I can still stand,’ the old man growled.

  In his reddened eyes Laerte saw a curious spark and, almost involuntarily, he nodded.

  Slowly, Dun-Cadal straightened up, tilting his head to the left and right to remove the kink in his neck. There was no need for words; they were still linked by the bond that had formed when they first met. Both of them recalled their shared moments, from the Saltmarsh to Kapernevic, battling side by side, looking out for one another like father and son. Without consulting one another both of them lifted their swords towards Azdeki in a gesture of challenge.

  From the distant ballroom, coming down the hall of mirrors, the enraged voices of soldiers could be heard approaching. Perhaps he believed he would be saved? Azdeki drew his sword. But his face hardened when he saw the Nâaga at the entrance opposite. Rogant had appeared around the edge of a panel and, after a quick glance at the soldiers running down the hall towards them, he closed the double doors. Azdeki retreated up the steps on his side of the courtyard, breathing heavily. The trap was closing around him. There were no soldiers at his back to defend him; this private part of the Palatio had been mostly entrusted to the mercenaries. All that remained were those assigned to guarding the Book. When the door opposite was barred and Rogant had turned round, Azdeki spied the kneeling form of his daughter-in-law through the thick smoke. Lying before her, Balian raised a shaking hand towards the arrow poking out of his shoulder.

  ‘This it between us, isn’t it?’ asked Azdeki between two strained sighs. ‘Let them live.’

  ‘I am a knight, Etienne,’ replied Dun-Cadal, before adding almost scornfully: ‘I always have been.’

  The old general lowered his sword and stepped to one side without taking his eyes off the councillor. But Laerte turned his eyes towards the wounded man Esyld was helping to prop up as he took hold of the arrow, preparing to yank it out. He imagined himself leaping upon Balian and preventing him from removing it, striking him with all his might until he cried for mercy, and then, ignoring his pleas, plunging Eraëd into his heart. Tears traced dotted lines through the dust that covered Esyld’s face and the glow from the flames danced in her pupils. Even dirty and with her hair in disarray, she was beautiful; the same beauty he had always admired in the marshes of their birthplace.

  ‘I have your word, Daermon,’ declared Azdeki.

  His breathing. It was heavy, irregular, and had taken on a whistling quality as he retreated. He had already passed through the double doors and was backing down the hallway, keeping his sword hand slightly behind him. But his free hand was visibly lifting.

  ‘Laerte,’ murmured Dun-Cadal.

  Laerte tightened his hand around Eraëd’s hilt, his belly knotted and his throat dry behind the golden mask. Esyld occupied his thoughts, only her, nothing else could have freed him from his malaise. Not even the annihilation of Etienne Azdeki. Esyld had locked eyes with him and was standing, dignified despite her tears, one hand still holding that of her husband. White-faced, Balian remained on his knees.

  ‘The—’

  Dun-Cadal did not finish his sentence. Azdeki stretched out his free hand and the doors immediately slammed shut. The animus.

  ‘You son of a dog!’ bellowed the general as he charged towards the double doors.

  ‘No!’ Balian screamed, almost collapsing as he pulled the arrow from his shoulder with a sudden jerk.

  The father could wait; he wouldn’t leave the Palatio. Instead Laerte advanced resolutely towards the young man, who was now drawing his sword as he stood up, grimacing from the effort.

  With a violent kick, Dun-Cadal separated the two door panels, biting down a curse at the sharp pain in his knee, and stumbled into the hallway beyond before halting. Laerte wasn’t following him. Out in the courtyard there was a clatter of swords. When he turned round, he saw Balian and his former apprentice confronting one another, while Rogant struggled to keep hold of Esyld, burning sparks fluttering down all around them.

  ‘Laerte!’ he called.

  But the only reply he received was the clash of blades.

  ‘No, I’m begging you!’ implored Esyld.

  Sweat beaded Balian’s brow, only the force of will keeping him on his feet. He sought to find the right angle of attack but his adversary parried with far too much ease. Although Laerte knew that time was running short, he enjoyed this brief proof of his superiority. He turned his rapier with a brusque flick of the wrist which disarmed Balian, before punching him in the face.

  ‘No!’ cried Esyld, weeping.

  Eraëd sped towards the wounded groom’s throat.

  ‘Laerte!’ she sobbed, falling limp in the arms of the Nâaga.

  ‘Frog!’

  The voice was like thunder, so loud, so commanding, carrying with it so many memories. The point of the rapier scored just a drop of blood from Balian’s neck. Exhausted, a red, sticky stream running over his armour from his shoulder wound, the young scion of the Azdeki family fell back to his knees.

  ‘You haven’t waited all your life for this!’ protested the general coming up behind Laerte. ‘You are a knight! A knight!’

  Rogant pushed Esyld behind him and threw himself between Balian and Laerte before his friend finally took a step back. The Nâaga and the young knight glared at one another, neither willing to bend.

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ Rogant said. ‘Not him.’

  And as if trying to escape from the condemnation of his most faithful companion, Laerte spun round, stiffened by his bottled-up anger. His mentor waited for him on the threshold of the broken double doors. Behind him, a wide hallway extended into the building, lit by dozens of torches whose light danced beneath the caress of a night breeze. Laerte felt himself torn between two worlds,
two eras, two desires, each as burning and as disturbing as the other. Who was he? Laerte . . . Or Frog . . . ?

  Everything was suddenly unbearable to him: Esyld’s sobs as she threw herself upon Balian and folded him in her arms, the crackle of the flames around them, the smell of burnt wood, the bitter taste of the stagnant smoke, even his own breathing.

  ‘Frog,’ repeated Dun-Cadal, sorrowfully. ‘Are you a knight or an assassin?’

  Laerte inhaled deeply before taking a step towards the general.

  ‘I am a knight, Wader, the best there is,’ he assured him. ‘The greatest one of all. I promised you that.’

  ‘Then keep your promise.’

  There was a chapel undergoing restoration at the heart of the Palatio. At its rear rose an altar and the walls were lined with imposing statues of men and women in long robes. They had suffered with the passage of time: cracks ran over the stone, from the bases to their heads. Sitting against the altar a gaunt old man was moaning, his body bruised and his arms spread wide by heavy chains. A few strands of stringy white hair fell from a skull covered in brown spots. His half-closed eyes moved slowly from the right to the left as if he were seeing his surroundings for the first time. Between the divine statues hung bright yellow drapes and flames danced in broad bowls at the gods’ feet. Wide supporting beams crisscrossed the ceiling, masking a vault painted with a damaged fresco.

  Anvelin Evgueni Reyes, the last Bishop of Emeris and master of the Order of Fangol during the Imperial era, had known he was a condemned man for years. But far from resigning himself to the idea he was hoping, in these last instants, that someone would rescue him. He had seen him, he had spoken to him on so many occasions these past months. The man in the golden mask. He had told him all about the pact of the Book and the Sword, the importance of their separation, and the link between Uster and Reyes. No one, on this earth, deserved to possess both pillars of civilisation.

  ‘In my left hand the Book, in my right hand the Sword, and at my feet the World.’

  Reyes was deaf to the councillors’ panic. He simply waited. The sound of a distant explosion had made him smile. The storm that would save him was approaching. And the murmurs of the gods would be fulfilled. It was not his destiny to die here, like some poor wretch. Not when he had governed the Order of Fangol for so many years. Of all the men present only the one wearing the tricorne, who was huddled against a statue, showed any sign of compassion towards him. And of them all, he was the one who did not seem worried.