The Path of Anger (19 page)

‘A little over a year ago he became the leader of the revolt here in the North. The general in command at the time managed to push him back as far as Kaperdae, but it cost him his life.’

‘And in this cold the rebels are still holding their positions?’ enquired Dun-Cadal.

Negus reached the top of the tower and used the parapet to hoist himself into the lookout post. Some heavy logs tied to one another with braided ropes provided a thick platform protected by planks. Wooden poles rose from each of the four corners to support a sloping roof. Two guards paced back and forth keeping watch on the horizon, bows in their hands. A third guard was seated near an old sack and was whittling the tip of arrow with a big knife. Upon seeing Negus arrive he stood up as if caught doing something he
shouldn’t. Without saying a word Negus waved him away with a scowl. The man drew back and let them approach the parapet. Their hands resting on the edge, the two generals contemplated the forested expanse covered in a thin white blanket which stretched out below them. The horizon merged with the blindingly white sky.

‘That’s their territory,’ Negus commented grimly. ‘They know every nook and cranny in these woods, all the way to the mountains a little further north. They’re at home out there.’

‘Just like in the Saltmarsh,’ acknowledged Dun-Cadal.

‘In the Saltmarsh they sent the rouargs against us. Here they promise freedom to the miners . . . and stir up the dragons . . .’

These lands belonged to the Empire, but what general could claim to know them completely? Most of them had grown up in Emeris and when, like Dun-Cadal, they hailed from elsewhere, they had usually spent their youth cooped up in a castle. The war continued, quite simply, because the bonds joining them to the people had been broken. And the Emperor himself was unaware of the fact. For the first time, in all the fighting Dun-Cadal had known, he had the strange feeling that the Empire was really crumbling.

‘Do you see that basin over there?’ asked Negus, pointing his finger at a spot in the distance.

In spite of the trees covering it all the way to the foothills of the mountains, Dun-Cadal could make out the form of a valley.

‘That’s the only reason we haven’t been defeated yet,’ admitted Negus. ‘The dragons are hemmed in by the forest. They don’t try to fly over it to attack Kapernevic. You see? They simply charge into the trees, once Stromdag has drawn them out of their lair. It’s the only reason we’re still holding on here.’

‘Animals,’ groused Dun-Cadal. ‘Just animals . . .’

He knew that dragons were almost as dumb as sheep, but to that extent? The advantage they gave the rebels might turn out to be a weakness, after all.

‘Animals, certainly, but ones that can tear our men to pieces, even when they remain on the ground,’ Negus replied. ‘Imagine what will happen the day one of them decides to fly over to this side of the valley . . . So far, they’ve kept to the mountains.’

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Dun-Cadal assured him. ‘It’s always the same with these dragons. You herd them into a corridor,
under an open sky, and they’ll follow it like stupid rats. Things never change, Negus.’

‘Yes they do,’ Negus said in a whisper, his eyes lowered. ‘Some things do change.’

He drew in a deep breath before saying, as if it were a dead weight he wanted to be finally rid of:

‘Nothing will ever be the same as before. This war has gone on for too long. You’ve just come from Emeris . . . haven’t you felt it?’

‘Felt what . . . ?’

‘The vipers’ nest, my friend. The Emperor is receiving poor advice. Uster’s son, Laerte, is still at large. He’s embarked on a campaign near Eole, word has it. But although we know there’s a revolt there, nobody can confirm that he’s the one leading it. He seems to be everywhere at once, at the head of every rebellion that breaks out. They arrested rebels at Serray, you know. They were interrogated. They captured some others around Brenin. All of them said that Laerte was there, but none of them could say what he looks like. The man is so completely disembodied he’s become merely a rumour. And do you know happens to rumours? They collect at the Imperial palace. Rebellion is brewing there too . . . People fear most the things they can’t see. Certain noblemen have already rallied to Laerte’s cause. The ideas Oratio of Uster was peddling are becoming attractive. We made a martyr of him when we hung him. Laerte has realised this: he’s waging a political war, through accusations and hearsay . . . That’s what’s going on in Emeris. A war using no weapons but words.’

Standing with his forearms on the parapet, Dun-Cadal let his gaze drift over the strangely silent landscape. How peaceful Kapernevic seemed. The distant trees swayed gently, caressed by a slight breeze.

‘Are there any suspects?’ Dun-Cadal asked grimly.

The very idea that Emeris might be infested with traitors was unbearable. The palace was his refuge, his lair . . . his heart. He had protected the Emperor in inadmissible ways before later serving him as honourably as possible. And now the perfect world he had built for himself was tottering like some poorly made tower . . . as rickety as the wooden watchtower on which he now stood.

‘There are rumours about noblemen from families close to the Saltmarsh. The counties of Asher and Rubegond, the duchy of
Erinbourg, not to mention refugees from the Saltmarsh itself . . . certain ones in particular.’

Fight. Strike. Attack. That was familiar ground for Dun-Cadal. But the struggle for influence in high places was totally foreign to him. He felt himself at a loss. On edge, he slowly straightened up.

‘What are your plans for countering Stromdag?’ he asked.

He might as well stick to discussing things he’d mastered.

‘My friend . . .’

Negus placed a hand on his forearm, looking sorrowful.

‘The Emperor is wary of refugees from the Saltmarsh who are now in Emeris. Don’t you understand?’

Dun-Cadal took a deep breath. Yes . . . he understood. He had fully grasped the inference, but he refused to take it seriously. With a quick motion, he shook Negus’s hand from his arm and left the parapet.

‘Dun-Cadal,’ called Negus.

‘He has no need to be suspicious of Frog! No more of him than anyone else,’ the general said coldly without turning round.

He prepared to descend the ladder, placing a foot on the first rung.

‘Listen to me!’ implored Negus as he joined him with an urgent step.

‘He won’t betray the Empire!’ Dun-Cadal said angrily.

‘Perhaps not, but be on your guard,’ Negus advised. ‘Some of those close to the Emperor think he is dangerous.’

Seeing his friend’s stricken expression, Dun-Cadal responded with a savage smile. Frog was only a boy, yet the guileful advisers who were poisoning his Emperor with their vile words were afraid of him. There at least was one point all could agree upon.

‘
They
have reason to be frightened of him.’

The idea pleased him. He knew nothing of politics and had no particular liking for the games of power. All that mattered to him was the respect earned by deeds, not empty words. Frog had risked his life so many times fighting the rebellion that to imagine, for a single instant, he could be accused of sedition was intolerable.

During the rest of that day, as he and Negus inspected the troops, Dun-Cadal kept thinking about what awaited them in Emeris. Although he was close to the Emperor, did he carry enough weight to defend his pupil if . . . ? No, it was inconceivable.

When he joined Frog again in the cosy warmth of the inn he was
still not reassured. The lad held a small wooden horse in his hands. Dun-Cadal had seen him contemplating this particular object before, a child’s toy he must have picked up on the road from the Saltmarsh. He brought it out on the eve of each battle they fought. The fact that he was holding it now did not augur well.

‘The troops look tired, don’t they?’ Frog said as his mentor sat down at his table. A fire crackled with bright red flames in the inn’s wide hearth. They danced above the logs, revelling in their wavelike movement, spreading a saving warmth throughout the room. All around them soldiers were making the best of their meagre hot meal. At the counter, some of them were getting drunk in silence, gazing blankly into space. A feeling of great lassitude reigned, as if the cold here at Kapernevic had frozen every desire.

‘Weren’t we the same at the foot of the Vershan mountains?’ Dun-Cadal said lightly as he clasped his hands together on the table. ‘Or at Bredelet after three weeks of fighting? You’d wear the same look if you’d been here as long as they have, believe me.’

‘That’s possible,’ agreed Frog, looking down at his plate.

The remains of his meal rimmed the porcelain. With a nonchalant gesture he seized his steaming tankard and drank a mouthful. The scent of it reached the general’s nostrils and he recognised the smell of hot berry juice with distaste. Too sweet for him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a serving wench with an impressive bosom filling a jug from the spout of a barrel. He beckoned to her and then brought his attention back to his pupil. He seemed troubled.

‘Where’s Aladzio?’

‘He went back to the house he’s been occupying to pack his bags. Is it true we’re leaving tomorrow?’

‘We have a mission. We’re under orders to accompany this inventor back to Emeris. He’s too much at risk here and there are important people worried about his safety.’

‘I’d like to give him a thump,’ Frog declared flatly.

Dun-Cadal bit back a chuckle.

‘Don’t laugh, Wader,’ Frog said, looking aggrieved. ‘All he does is blather . . . words, words, words. He’s more at risk spending ten minutes with me than he is staying here for the duration of the war.’

‘Come now,’ the general sighed. ‘You’ll get used to it. The trip won’t last that long. And that’s not what’s bothering you. Out with it.’

Frog hesitated.

‘Are we going to leave all these people here?’ he asked.

‘Negus is protecting them.’

‘I heard talk of dragons . . . of a red dragon, in particular. It seems it’s the worst sort of beast in the entire world, attacking whole villages and not leaving any survivors.’

‘So that’s it,’ smiled Dun-Cadal.

The lad wanted to slay dragons. He was longing to fight, to act, to do something concrete. Rather than serve as guard to a blithering inventor.

‘Dragons are stupid beasts.’

‘Not the red ones—’

‘They’re a little smarter, I’ll grant you that . . . bigger, crueller, and it takes a certain knack to kill one, but they’re just beasts. Beasts that only attack men out of necessity.’

‘The Nâaga don’t say that. According to them, dragons are more than just beasts, they’re the ancient ones.’

The fact that his apprentice was taking the Nâaga seriously did not please Dun-Cadal at all. Those savages worshipped anything covered with scales, arguing that they were the ancestors of men. To them, dragons were worthy of respect.

‘Where did you hear that twaddle?’

Frog scowled.

‘The Nâaga are brutes,’ growled Dun-Cadal. ‘They believe in the power of dragons, but they also believe they can acquire other men’s strength by eating the prisoners of their tribal wars. They’re . . . beasts, just like the dragons, Frog. Remember that. And anyway, this dragon is not our business. It’s only stirred up because it’s caught between Stromdag and us. The day this war comes to an end it will go back to its lair, believe me. Has it attacked Kapernevic? No, never. People are talking about it because it’s . . . folklore. It’s dangerous because there’s a war going on. And we can’t stay here, you know that.’

‘Why not?’ Frog exclaimed. ‘You’re a general. And I know how to fight. We’ve won battles together.’

‘We’ve also lost some.’

‘Not many! Between the two of us, we’ve changed the course of this war many times!’

‘Is it because of these people that you want to stay and fight?’

‘You don’t understand anything,’ muttered Frog, looking downcast.

The serving wench came to their table at last, depositing a tankard in front of Dun-Cadal which she immediately filled with a tilt of the jug. He gestured to her to leave everything. A single glass would not be enough. She immediately began to clear away the boy’s place, bending slightly forward at his eye level. His gaze was inevitably attracted by her corset and then moved upward to her vertiginous cleavage before fixing on the smooth skin of her bosom. Dun-Cadal bowed his head, one hand over his mouth to hide his smile.

Frog was truly no longer a child. When the wench left the table, carrying away the boy’s plate, Dun-Cadal broke the silence.

‘On the side, just there,’ he jested, pointing to a corner of his lips.

‘What?’

‘You’re dribbling.’

The lad did not appreciate the joke, having naively almost wiped at his mouth. Looking piqued, he shook his head as he put the small wooden horse back into the pocket of his leather jacket.

‘This girl . . . the one you see in Emeris,’ said Dun-Cadal, gradually becoming serious again, ‘you love her, don’t you?’

Frog looked him in the eye for a moment and then drained his tankard in a single gulp.

‘Come now, word gets around. Word always gets around in Emeris,’ his mentor assured him in an amused tone. ‘She’s the same girl you found at Garmaret after our escape, isn’t she? She’s from the Saltmarsh too. Did you know her from before?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ the boy replied brusquely, getting up from the table.

He crossed the inn and went out with a violent shove of the door. Dun-Cadal remained seated, pensive, his hands surrounding his tankard. He raised it to his lips and drank the entire contents. The wine ran down his throat, its pungency spreading a gentle warmth through his veins. He put the tankard back down, hesitated over whether to serve himself another drink before he went outside in his turn. He found Frog on the front porch leaning against the façade with his arms crossed and his hood pulled over his head.

Dun-Cadal paused before descending the steps and tramping across the snow with a crunching sound. The moon was full and luminous, sailing high in the sky. The entire village was tinted blue in the quiet night. On top of the closest watchtower, two guards looked out beneath the light of a wavering torch.