Authors: Antoine Rouaud
Viola exchanged a weary gaze with her companion. A faint smile played beneath Rogant’s tattoos.
‘My name is Viola. I am a historian working at the Great College of Emeris.’
‘What of it?’ Dun leaned towards her with a mocking expression. ‘You could at least wait until I’m dead and buried before studying me like some relic. In my day people were less impatient.’
‘It’s not
you
I’ve come here to study.’ Viola scowled.
Dun wagged his head, eyebrows raised. The girl was pretty, although a little too young for his taste. But her academic’s spectacles and her blood-red hair with the two stray locks trailing down over her ivory skin were appealing to the eye. Moreover, she carried a faint, delicious scent of lavender which awoke gentler memories. His drunken state overrode his good sense and for an instant he wanted to charm her. He let his guard slip.
‘I’m searching for something and I believe you can help me find it,’ Viola explained. ‘I have crossed the former Kingdoms and spoken with many traders and travellers . . . and one of them mentioned an old soldier he met in Masalia.’
The old man let out a sigh, both hands gripping his tankard, with a glassy look in his eye. But when he turned his head towards the Nâaga his face grew rigid again. Rogant was so discreet he’d almost forgotten the barbarian’s presence.
‘And?’ hissed Dun.
‘And he said this soldier told the most astonishing story,’ she continued. ‘That during the final hours of the Empire, when you were posted in Emeris, you fled the Imperial capital . . .’
She drew in a breath and lowered her eyes, as if searching for the right words. Dun stared at her as he took another gulp.
‘. . . and that you took the Emperor’s sword with you.’
The old man remained still, tankard concealing the lower part of his face, the wine trickling gently through his lips. There was a fleeting glimpse of something like sadness in his eyes. The hubbub within the tavern seemed to fade away, replaced by the tumult of a battle echoing in his head. The bustling surroundings drew him back to here and now, but his heart beat more quickly and more forcefully. He felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest and breathed deeply as he lowered his tankard to the table, his gaze drifting over the grainy wooden surface.
‘You’re seeking Eraëd—’
‘We’re seeking Eraëd,’ agreed Viola.
‘And you think I have it,’ said Dun with a wry smile.
‘No.’
She shook her head, lifting one of her locks with a gloved hand. Then she took hold of the jug and started to fill the tankards the serving girl had left them. The red wine poured into the ochre tankards like blood upon the ground. Dun ran his hand through his beard, his eyes vague.
‘But you know where you hid it—’
‘And what if I were lying that evening; boasting to make myself seem more important?’ suggested Dun, scratching his chin.
‘I don’t think so,’ Viola replied.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I am certain of it. I was told you spoke of the Eastern territories, beyond the Vershan mountains. That’s where you hid it, didn’t you?’
‘Even admitting I ever had Eraëd in my possession, why would it be of interest to the Republic?’
‘The sword served the Imperial family for years, and before that, the royal dynasties of the Caglieri, the Perthuis, the Majoranes . . . I can go back even further if you like.’
‘I’ve never been fond of history lessons.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
Dun looked away, not sure what to make of her.
‘That sword represents everything your Republic hates,’ he said, meeting Viola’s eyes once more.
‘That sword is reputed to be magical. It has been wielded by many heroes . . . it has even fought dragons. It’s part of the history of this world, regardless of whether an Empire or a Republic currently determines its destiny.’
Dun’s eyes narrowed and his lips began to twitch. He leaned back and gave a thunderous roar of laughter which drew attention from the neighbouring tables. A plump woman sitting on the lap of an old merchant who looked as fragile as a dry twig, visibly pricked up her ears. But one baleful gaze from the Nâaga quickly discouraged her from eavesdropping.
‘Heroes?’ Dun guffawed. ‘Dragons? Listen to yourself. There’s nothing easier than being a hero. Or slaying dragons. Do you know what a dragon is? Have you ever come across one?’
Viola hesitated before shaking her head, looking ill at ease. The old soldier’s sneering tone did not sit well with her. But she would have to put up with it. She’d been forewarned, after all.
‘They’re just lizards,’ Dun continued. ‘Big stupid lizards like the ones your guard dog here venerates.’
He tilted his head towards Rogant.
‘Now, let me guess. You and your friend here are going to ask me to accompany you to the Eastern territories in search of Eraëd. And what dangers shall we face along the way?’ His tone wavered between mockery and contempt. ‘Fighting monsters no one has ever heard of, saving besieged castles, slaying dragons? Ha! You’re young. And you remind me of someone else I knew who was always dreaming, always believing in great deeds, always imagining a
destiny
. That’s exactly what you’ve got with your . . . Republic. The world belongs to you, eh? You have nothing to fear, you can just forge ahead. But in the end you know nothing about the world that surrounds you . . . and when reality comes rushing in—’
He clapped his hands suddenly and gritted his teeth.
‘It will crush you like a bug. You believe all the legends and waste your energy trying to write your own. You think you can succeed at anything, at the dawn of your life, because you possess
the truth
. Well, here’s some truth for you.’
With a wave of his hand, he beckoned Viola to draw closer. And leaning forward, he whispered:
‘You don’t get to choose. No, no. You’re not that important. You’ve convinced yourself that your destiny belongs to you, that you just have to create the right opportunities. Well, know this: men’s destiny has never been anything but the murmur of the gods.’
Keeping his gaze locked on Viola’s he straightened up, nodding.
‘Nothing but a murmur . . . The gods sealed our fates when they created this world. But you, with all your grand ideas, have forgotten that, haven’t you? You don’t believe in anything. I’m surprised you haven’t burnt all the churches.’
‘The Order of Fangol is respected, despite what you may think.’
‘You don’t know the meaning of the word respect,’ Dun scoffed, shaking his head in contempt. ‘You’ve forsaken the Book, renounced it.’
‘Each individual may choose to believe or not. It’s a new world.’
‘It’s not mine,’ the old man said with a grimace, glancing at the Nâaga.
Viola did not doubt for a single instant that he was the man she’d been looking for. But perhaps she needed a different strategy to find a way to prod him into giving up his secrets.
‘Who’s speaking now? The soldier skulking far behind the battle lines, or the drunk old man?’ she asked. ‘Both, perhaps? I have trouble telling them apart, they’re so alike in their cowardice.’
The old man’s face stiffened.
‘You insult me,’ he muttered.
‘Really, Dun? What do I know about you, apart from the fact that you fled Emeris after stealing Eraëd?’
Dun wasn’t drunk enough to succumb to his anger, but nor was he lucid enough to consider the consequences of his next act. He stretched out his hand towards the jug and, without his fingers touching it, it began to slide across the table towards him. Viola was speechless, her eyes widening in astonishment. She slowly pushed her spectacles up to the bridge of her nose with the tip of her index finger as if to reassure herself that she was seeing clearly. His arms crossed, Rogant grew very still.
The
animus
. Only the great knights of the Empire knew how to use it. And since the Empire’s fall, there were few left who could have given such a demonstration. The gift had been lost.
The carousing in the tavern had become a distant buzz, the customers no more than ghostly silhouettes. Viola and Rogant only had eyes for the jug before them. It had well and truly moved and Dun suddenly realised what his simple gesture, born of annoyance, would cost him. Here, where he had always acted the part of an ordinary soldier, he had revealed his true face to a chit of a girl just graduated from the Great College of Emeris. She had barely known the Empire. How would she judge him? As one of the butchers of the former Kingdoms, an enemy of the Republic she served? How could she, escorted by a barbarian, an enemy from his previous life, possibly understand him?
‘You’re n-not simply a s-soldier,’ stammered Viola. ‘You’re a knight.’
‘Bah!’ said Dun dismissively, looking away. ‘The Knighthood died along with the Empire . . .’
Dun
. She repeated the name to herself, trying to recall as much as possible from her history classes.
Dun
. . . the name was familiar to her.
‘Dun-Cadal,’ she whispered.
The old man’s eyes shone with sadness.
‘You’re Dun-Cadal, General Dun-Cadal of the House of Daermon,’ Viola continued. ‘Dun-Cadal, the commander at the battle of the Saltmarsh, you—’
‘And was I cowering far behind the battle lines, then?’ the old man interrupted her.
Viola was at a loss for words. The battle of the Saltmarsh was noteworthy in history for its consequences, but above all for its terrible violence. Few had survived. Dun-Cadal had been trapped in enemy territory for months before he managed to slip through the lines and return to Emeris. He’d accomplished his fair share of great deeds, but, of them all, his escape was the feat that stuck in people’s memories.
‘The sword is in the Eastern territories. Go and look for it there and stop pestering me. Go ahead, take what’s left of the Empire and expose it for all to see.’
‘So you admit you carried it—’
Dun looked distracted, his gaze lost in the distance, his eyelids beginning to droop.
‘I say many things when I’ve been drinking,’ he fumed. ‘You’ll spill your venom on that blade and its guard will seem quite dull compared to your arrogance,’ he added in a low mutter.
He wanted nothing to do with her, or with the Nâaga, or with what he had once been. Here, he was simply Dun and that was enough. Viola observed him closely, noting the details of his time-worn face, the brown wrinkles marking his cheeks. Dun-Cadal, the glorious general, now gone to ground in the slums of Masalia. He had not come here looking to make a new life for himself, but in search of death. She then noticed he was seated with his back to the door, so that any cutthroat could take him by surprise. If he was recounting, night after night, how he had been a soldier of the Empire, perhaps he hoped that someone seeking vengeance would finally put an end to his torment.
‘You await death here,’ Viola said.
‘I await whatever is given to me. Another jug, for example?’
With a sad expression, he upturned the empty container on the table with a trembling hand and gave the Nâaga to his right a twisted scowl. As was his wont, Rogant did not react.
‘Help us,’ pleaded Viola. ‘That sword is more important than you can imagine. I must find it.’
But amidst the raucous noise of the tavern her request seemed to go unheard. The smoke from the pipe of a fat man seated at an adjoining table drifted between the old general and herself.
‘I beg you, Dun-Cadal . . .’
He slowly waved away the cloud of smoke, lost in his thoughts. She was wasting her breath. He wasn’t listening any more. Rogant leaned towards her and the look he gave her was eloquent enough to need no words. She swallowed and ran her gloved hands over her cape which had barely had time to dry. Then she stood up.
‘Very well,’ she declared. ‘I suppose it’s useless to plead with you.’
She slowly drew up her hood so that only the sparkle of her green eyes penetrated the darkness masking her face.
‘I thought I was speaking to the great General Dun-Cadal but I’m forced to conclude I was mistaken. Look at you . . . you’re not even the shadow of what you once were. You’re an empty husk without
any dignity, only fit to raise a glass in bitterness. I can scarcely believe the legend of your deeds at the battle of the Saltmarsh can be true. Seeing you like this, I’m forced to doubt you ever had greatness in you.’
He did not once lift his eyes to hers while she spoke.
‘Yes . . . you came here to find death. You haven’t understood: you’re
already
dead. You can try to hide your true identity, to protect your reputation, but you’re wasting your time. When the world learns what has become of Dun-Cadal Daermon . . . the only tears shed will be of pity, not of sorrow.’
She disappeared into the crowd without waiting for a reply, followed by the Nâaga. As the fresher air in the alley cleared away the stale smell of sweat and alcohol, she was still asking herself if she had found the right words, and she slowed her stride as they walked through the pouring rain.
‘Have faith,’ Rogant advised.
Have faith?
When she hadn’t even been warned she’d be dealing with Dun-Cadal Daermon, not some ordinary soldier.
‘I’ve known
him
longer than you have,’ Rogant was saying. ‘
He
knows what he’s doing.’
As if to confirm this statement, a voice called out from behind them.
‘Hey!’
Viola turned round slowly. Dun-Cadal was an even more miserable sight standing on the tavern step than he had been seated at his table. The rain dripped down his face and it was possible there were tears mixed in with it.
‘What do you know of Dun-Cadal?’ he snarled with a quaver in his voice. ‘You come
here
, you sit at my table and you spit all over what I was. What I am . . . what I will still be . . .’ He balled his fists, tottering on his feet. ‘But what do you know?’ he raged. ‘What has the Republic taught you?’
He took a few paces and then slumped against a wall. A flash of lightning illuminated his wrinkled face. He seemed so . . . ravaged.
‘What do you know of my story?’ he asked, lifting his eyes to the sky. ‘What I’ve seen, what I’ve done? What do you know about the battle of the Saltmarsh?’