The Path of Anger (21 page)

He did not answer. He did not move. He did not even hear the strident howls of the approaching enemy warriors.

‘Frog! By the gods, get moving!’

They arrived like a tumultuous flood coming through the pines, of all ages and sizes, mercenaries, soldiers and peasants, skirting around the fallen dragons or climbing over their carcasses to jump into the melee. Their rage was the foam, their bravery the incessant waves. There was an indescribable pandemonium as blades clashed and arms, legs and heads were chopped off, the bodies slumping heavily to the ground, the death cries ripping through the night. The blows found their own rhythm, the roars of the trapped dragons echoing the screams of the wounded. Everywhere there was the same bestiality, the same violence, the same anger . . .

Frog parried a stroke and dodged another before thrusting his own blade home. With his free hand, he punched a second assailant in the head.

‘Frog! Over there!’

After delivering the coup de grâce to the silhouette facing him, the lad turned to Dun-Cadal, the point of his sword covered in black, sticky blood that ran down in a thin trickle. The general was battling a few feet away from him, for the moment simply warding off blows with the flat of his sword.

‘The dragon!’ he yelled.

The boy spun round. Ten yards further down the line, one of the beasts had succeeded in tearing apart the netting with great snaps of its jaws, crushing the unfortunate soldiers struggling to restrain it.

Without pause, Frog rushed towards it. The chaos of combat closed behind him.

‘Daermon!’ boomed Negus, close by him.

Negus’ sword slashed into flesh, severed limbs, clashed against other blades with loud rings. At times he stopped to spread his arms, generating a powerful
animus
about him which projected his adversaries several yards backwards. In spite of his weight he demonstrated a certain suppleness, avoiding blows and bending low to plant his sword in an enemy cuirass. No faces stood out from the others, there were only moving shadows. The generals were used to this confusion, a tornado of strangers rushing at them with no names, no history, nothing worth remembering. Their opponents doubtless had a life, a family, their own dreams and fears, but to think of their humanity in the midst of battle, to consider them kindred beings, would be courting death. The gestures of the two commanders were mechanical, simple reflexes at times, the result of years of combat training. Dun-Cadal felled one of the attackers without noticing another behind him. A mercenary brandished his axe and swung it down on the general . . .

‘Godsfuck!’ Dun-Cadal swore as the sound of the sword punching through the rebel’s body caused him to spin round.

The man fell to his knees, his face frozen in a stupefied expression. Negus stood behind him, a savage grin twisting lips chapped by the bitter cold. Dun-Cadal let out a sigh of relief.

‘I just saved your life, my friend,’ Negus remarked proudly, immediately placing himself at his comrade’s side.

The snow was nearly covered in blood, like an insult to its purity.

The pine trees bent beneath the struggles of the captive dragons. The black silhouettes of the combatants, dimly lit by the wavering torches, continued to engage in their lethal dance. Dun-Cadal desperately tried to locate the figure of his pupil among them. When he finally spotted him, Frog was clearing a swathe through the rebel ranks, spinning, rolling and leaping as he went. His blade sparkled with a reddish gleam each time he delivered a stroke and he was just a few yards from the big dragon, now busy tearing apart the net, which only restrained it above the shoulders.

‘It’s the red dragon,’ Negus groaned. ‘Dun-Cadal! The net won’t hold it!’

It was bigger than the others, its muscles bulging beneath bright
red scales, two spiral horns jutting out above the yellow eyes with their jet-black slits. Fumes of steam spurted from its nostrils, gracefully entwining in the air. It was an almost hypnotic sight to behold. Its roar halted the boy in his tracks and, with a final bite, the beast succeeded in tearing the net open completely and lifted its head in a circling motion. The mesh had been reinforced with metal barbs, it should have held! But red dragons were so rare and so aggressive that Dun-Cadal had never thought Stromdag capable of driving one towards the Imperial troops. Despite the risk of seeing the beast turn on his own army, the rebel chief had managed to make it his ally.

As it opened its maw wide to inhale, Dun-Cadal felt his friend’s arm restrain him.

‘Frog!’ he yelled.

‘Dun-Cadal, no!’ Negus bellowed.

In a brusque movement, the red dragon stretched out its neck, its jaws still gaping, to reveal a slender forked tongue. Deep in its throat two pink rolls of flesh contracted and a torrent of fire gushed forth. The hungry flames consumed the men standing closest to it and spread hungrily to the pine trees. The blaze was so sudden that Frog found himself hurled backwards. Stunned, he watched as the beast beat its wings and rose into the air with a rumble.

‘Frog! Run!’ Dun-Cadal bawled, shoving Negus aside and ready to rush to the aid of his apprentice.

‘Dun-Cadal! We need to sound the retreat!’

He spun round abruptly. The crackling flames, the weapons clanging against one another, all of it produced a deafening racket. Negus had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the din.

‘We have to retreat!’

‘We can’t withdraw!’

A few yards away, Frog had regained his feet, still groggy, his gaze tracking the furious beast’s immense shadow. It spewed out another tongue of fire before it slipped away over the pines. The screams of the soldiers, trapped in their white-hot armour, almost made him quiver in fear. The human torches flailed about as they were devoured by the flames, throwing themselves down on the snow in the hope of smothering them.

‘Frog!’ called Dun-Cadal.

Strident cries preceded the miners’ arrival. They surged between the trees, armed solely with pickaxes, determined to gouge flesh and break bones with each mighty swing.

‘Daermon!’

The two generals were quickly encircled and, back to back, they toiled to hold off the flood of their assailants. The pack closed in on them in waves. Thrust, parry, whirling blades,
animus
. . . Miners flew through the air, crashing against the burning pines and then falling heavily upon rocks covered in melting snow . . .

Negus . . . my friend . . .

All was lost. The liberation of the red dragon, which flew over the woods giving long, raucous, threatening cries, had broken their courage. The soldiers of the Empire began to flee.

The weapons continued to flash in the night, parrying, striking and slashing. And the miners were joined by more skilful mercenaries.

How long did the fight last? A few minutes? It seemed to last an eternity. If the two generals fell here, Stromdag would pounce on Kapernevic, stirring up the red dragon’s wrath until it burnt everything in its path. No army of the Empire would be able to stop it.

We could have died out there, together . . . Perhaps it would have been better if we had laid down our lives, side by side, when we weren’t so different from one another.

Until the scream was heard. An inarticulate, powerful, bestial sound. It was a cry of distress that tore the night asunder and disrupted the enemy assault. In the distance, above the tree tops, the silhouette of the red dragon could be seen, beating its wings vigorously, bathed in the light of the full moon. Still high in the sky, it was being dragged down to the ground by some irresistible force. It struggled and shook its head frantically, roaring as it tumbled. Fear switched camps. Panic began to creep into the enemy ranks. The beast bucked and twisted in every direction but could not free itself of the invisible force. It was an awe-inspiring sight to behold. Dun-Cadal and Negus both recognised the nature of the power at work. But never had they witnessed such a demonstration of the
animus
. Could any other knights of the Empire boast of such mastery? It required an unshakeable resolve to risk putting the
animus
to such use. Any loss of control would leave the caster with deep injuries to their entire body, right down to the bone . . . All around
them, terror spread among the rebels. Already the enemy troops were scattering, dreading the fall of their key weapon.

The red dragon finally vanished from view among the pines. Its impact was marked by the sound of splintering trees followed by a deep thud, not unlike a brief but violent earthquake.

‘By all the gods!’ Negus whispered.

It was the turning point of the battle. Word of the red dragon’s death spread like wildfire and Stromdag’s men retreated. Soon there was no sound but the crackling of the flames feeding on the carcasses, the sighs of the survivors and the rattles of the dying. But even after scanning the forest Dun-Cadal could find no trace of his pupil. He checked every corpse lying on the ground, every battered and burnt face, lifting the human remains in a frenzied rage. But Frog was not among them.

‘Dun-Cadal,’ Negus called, behind him.

Not this body here, nor that one over there . . . The only ones left were those of soldiers incinerated when the red dragon had torn itself free of the trap.

‘Dun-Cadal!’ Negus repeated.

He seized his friend by the shoulder and forced him to stand up.

‘He’s here,’ he announced.

In the clear night, under the flickering light of the flames, Frog came limping forward, his hood covering his head, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. And under his arm, he carried a horn . . .

‘You’re not ready.’

‘I can do it!’

. . . which he threw down at his mentor’s feet before falling to his knees.

‘I think . . . I think we won,’ he stammered.

Standing at Dun-Cadal’s side, Negus was dumbfounded. The lad had just displayed a greater mastery of the
animus
than any before him.

‘I shall be the greatest knight . . .’

Dun-Cadal remained at the door’s threshold, his fingers only slowly loosening their grip on the hilt of his sword.

You saved my life . . . at Kapernevic . . .

There, among some scattered scrolls and books, lay his former
comrade, eyes still open but devoid of any living spark. His head rested on the edge of a stone fireplace.

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save yours . . .

Leading from the hearth, a trail of soot circled around a spot near the dead body, then led off in a fading line which ended at the foot of an open window. Thin blue curtains rippled in a light breeze, allowing glimpses of the brown-tinted street outside.

‘Halt! Halt, I say!’ yelled the guard in the hall.

Dun-Cadal straightened up painfully under Viola’s worried gaze. Halt? While the assassin was still in the vicinity? Folly! Dun-Cadal crossed the office with a rapid step and was straddling the window by the time the guard entered the room. He ignored the man’s commands and dropped down into a paved alley that opened onto a busy avenue. His heart skipped a beat when he caught sight of the assassin’s athletic figure, weaving through the crowd. His face masked by a thin hood, and he was wearing a dark green jacket that fell to the top of his thighs. He glanced over his shoulder and quickened his pace.

‘The affairs of this world are no longer your concern . . .’

Drunk with fury, Dun-Cadal charged up the alley and then plunged into the steady flow of people moving along the main avenue. He bumped into a man as he passed, almost striking him with his sword.

‘Daermon!’

His heart pounding, he shook his head and spun around, searching for any sign of Logrid. But there were only people. Hundreds of people, some dressed in finery, some in rags, men, women, Nâaga, traders, notables . . . odours, spices, perfume, roses, lilies of the valley . . . sweat. Beneath the southern sun everything was mixed up, colours and perfumes, filth and stink. His head swam. And then he spotted him, running gracefully, moving without jostling a single passer-by. Dun-Cadal groaned and set off in pursuit, using his elbows without consideration. Cries arose at the sight of his unsheathed sword.

His legs were becoming heavy. His chest burned, his lungs wheezing with a rasping noise, his throat nothing but a scraped passage like a raw wound. And a few tears were streaming from his eyes. But he continued running, on and on, ploughing through a market stall with an almighty crash. He pursued the man down several streets,
each time believing he was gaining ground. Or was the assassin deliberately leading him on?

Behind him came the drumming of guards’ boots and with them citizens’ cries of alarm.

He was growing breathless and his heart was beating irregularly, leaping in his chest as if it were trying to escape. His temples were hammering. He was about to fall.

No!

He continued on. He had to continue. He had fought whole armies and roamed the Empire to its furthest regions. A simple footrace would not defeat him. His pride became a lifebuoy from which he drew support and he redoubled his efforts as he entered an alley in the shadow of two tall buildings. At its end, a pile of crates rested against a wall twice a man’s height. Trapped, the assassin stood motionless.

‘You . . .’ gasped Dun-Cadal, alarmingly short of air, taking great wheezing breaths. ‘You!’

‘Sometimes . . . I hate you.’

He brandished his sword before him with surprising difficulty. It seemed to have tripled its normal weight and required the help of his other arm to hold it straight.

‘Turn around,’ he ordered in a weak, hoarse voice. ‘
Turn around!
’

‘It was necessary, Dun-Cadal . . . I am the Emperor, I have to take the most difficult decisions. It’s my duty.’

Slowly . . . very slowly, the assassin obeyed. Not a single feature of his face could be seen in the shadow cast by his hood. The old man’s head echoed with memories from the past, as sharp as the edge of a sword. His legs almost gave way as he advanced towards Logrid.

‘Why . . . why did you kill Negus . . . ?’ he asked, still breathing heavily. ‘Why did you come back from the dead? Bring out your sword! Out with it!