The Path of Anger (29 page)

Led by a man in light armour, undoubtedly a young knight, spear-men positioned themselves in front of the gallows to hold back the crowd. Laerte made his way through the spectators without anyone noticing him. Just as he paid no attention to them. He hunched slightly, lowering his head towards his chest. The rain made his cloak even heavier. He was allowed to pass and no one recognised him, all those present stunned by the spectacle of their beloved count standing at the end of a rope. When Laerte drew close to the line of soldiers at the foot of the gallows, he read upon their faces a determination that sent a chill down his spine.

‘Silence!’ repeated the man on the platform.

There was a semblance of quiet during which he looked out over the crowd with a piercing gaze.

‘I, Captain Etienne Azdeki, am here in the name of His Majesty the Emperor Asham Ivani Reyes, to judge the traitors you see before you . . .’

He pointed an accusing finger at the two prisoners standing a
few feet from him and then looked back at the crowd with a grim expression.

‘The man who has governed you all these years has fomented a plot against your Emperor, spread false words and sowed dissent and doubt in your hearts and minds! His Imperial Majesty himself has observed his high treason. The Order of Fangol has also laid charges—’

Protests rose from the crowd. Huddled together near the gallows, a group of monks in black habits tried to maintain brave faces.

‘—charges against him,’ Azdeki continued. ‘Count Oratio of Uster has committed numerous offences and, despite many warnings from our Bishop of Emeris, has expressed no remorse! In light of the many accusations against him and despite the Emperor’s sorrow, it is with sad resignation that I must now pronounce their sentence!’

Resignation? Azdeki showed no sign of it. Laerte gave him a baleful look, taking care to memorise the tiniest feature of his face. This man had brought calamity into the boy’s life and now he knew his name: Etienne Azdeki. Nevertheless, Laerte still did not believe for a single second that his father and his brother would lose their lives. In the next few instants, surely someone was going to rescue them.

‘My hand . . .’ said a quiet voice beside him.

Laerte became aware of people shifting about behind him and, turning his head, he met Esyld’s stricken gaze. He immediately lowered his eyes.

‘Hold my hand. Take it,’ she insisted in a murmur. ‘Hold it tight.’

The young woman’s fingers slipped between his. He gripped her hand as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Her skin was smooth, her warmth comforting. Her presence alone slowed the beating of his heart. He fought a mad urge to seize her in his arms for fear that she might escape.

‘Lord Oratio Montague, Count of Uster, has been found guilty of high treason against the Empire and His Imperial Majesty Asham Ivani Reyes, and of offending the gods and their representatives, the monks of the Fangolin Order. For this, and as prescribed by law, he and all his descendants shall suffer the penalty of death.’

An angry growl ran through the crowd. The guards brandished their spears to pre-empt any attempts to interfere. The monks stepped back, lowering their hoods over their shaven heads, and started to chant. Azdeki turned towards the count and met his black
eyes without any trace of hesitation. Sure of his power, he stepped towards the condemned man.

‘Death . . . by hanging,’ he added, staring deep into the count’s eyes.

There was dried blood on the prisoner’s white shirt and in his full beard, and bruises beneath his tired eyes. His split lips twisted into a snarl.

‘Smile, Count,’ whispered Azdeki, feigning a downcast expression for the benefit of the spectators. ‘You’ve bitten the hand that feeds you . . . and now here you are . . . at the end . . .’

Azdeki brought his mouth close to Uster’s ear and murmured:

‘. . . of a rope . . .’

How filthy and worn-out the count looked in his rumpled clothing, despite the dignified bearing he struggled to maintain before his people. At his side, his elder son choked back a sob. The count had defended his family, he had opposed their arrest, fought the Imperial soldiers in the hallways of the keep. But his valour had not been enough. Now here he was, on the gallows, in the company of his first son, and dreading the fate awaiting his wife and daughter. There were only two things that let him stand tall and proud at death’s door: the need to die a martyr, so that his life’s work would not be swept away by his last breath, and the comfort of knowing that one member of his family was still at large. Laerte. His little Laerte had wandered off again, into the marshes with the blacksmith’s daughter. There was at least one Uster that Azdeki could not torture and then execute in public.

‘Squeeze my hand,’ Esyld’s said in the boy’s ear.

‘Hangman!’ Azdeki called out loud and clear.

And at that moment, among the crowd, the count was horrified to see the sad, grave face of his younger son.

‘Do your duty!’

‘Squeeze it as hard as you like . . .’

For the first time in his life, Laerte saw fear in his father’s eyes.

The hangman lowered a lever abruptly. There was a drumming sound . . .

And the sharp crack as the boards gave way beneath the condemned men’s feet.

Two thumps . . .

And then only the sound of the wind blowing the rain over a
crowd struck dumb with horror while two bodies dangled at the ends of their ropes. Laerte closed his eyes, his chest squeezed by an unbearable pain to the point of drawing tears from his eyes. His hand still gripped Esyld’s and he bent his knees, feeling a cry growing in his throat. She put her arm about him and took him through the onlookers as they slowly began to stir from their state of shock.

‘People of the Saltmarsh!’ hailed Azdeki. ‘You have been freed from the rule of a usurper! You have returned to the light of the Holy Empire!’

Laerte was not seeing the light. He could barely make out the figures of those in front of him, among the raindrops, among the tears. They passed a squad of soldiers marching slowly towards one of the streets leaving the square and Esyld dragged him beneath a coach gate. When they came to halt, and after making sure no one could see them, she lowered her hood and took the boy’s face in her hands.

‘We have to leave, we must leave now . . . Be courageous, proud little lord, be the bravest of us all . . .’

She brushed the boy’s cheeks, her sad gaze connecting with his.

‘My father . . .’ he managed through the sobs, ‘my brother . . .’

Terror seized him then as his mouth twisted in pain. His throat was squeezed so tightly, his heart scraped so raw, he could not say another word. His mother and his little sister were still being held prisoner, alone and helpless. Unless Meurnau had freed them? Yes. He must surely have.

‘You will weep for them later,’ Esyld said gently. ‘But please, do not run off again. Your life is precious to us.’

She let her fingers climb along his face and she pressed her brow against his, closing her eyes.

‘Your life is precious to me,’ she added in a murmur.

Through the haze, everything became clearer for Laerte. He concentrated on this one single priority: follow Esyld wherever she went, wherever she wished. All the questions he was asking himself, all the torments afflicting him, were covered by a warm veil. He allowed himself to be taken back to the barn, looking haggard and bereft. Meurnau did not say a word to him. Orbey treated him with kid gloves. They hid him in the back of the covered cart again. Then they left the town in the greatest of secrecy while men belonging to the county guard, still loyal to their dead master, distracted the Imperial soldiers by taking them on in a series of skirmishes.

Night fell quickly upon the Saltmarsh. Aëd’s Watch was lit up by a thousand torches upon the wooden ramparts. And throughout the region, Azdeki sent his men to ensure his domination.

In a hamlet by the marshes, a few miles from the town, Laerte saw the flickering flames in the dusk, like the fragile light from a past life. He could no longer cry. Behind him, Meurnau was arranging watch duties with the handful of men who had joined them. There were barely a dozen wooden houses in this salt harvesters’ village, but Azdeki would leave no stone unturned to find the count’s missing offspring. The entire region would be put to the sword in order to eliminate the House of Uster.

‘Where is my mother?’ asked Laerte without detaching his eyes from the town in the distance.

There was no reply.

‘And my little sister?’

‘I’m sorry . . .’

He had sought them out with his eyes during the chaos of their flight, as he was carried away roughly by Meurnau’s guards. Since their departure from Aëd’s Watch, this was the first time he had spoken. Esyld emerged from the shadow of the house they had chosen to spend the night. She placed herself to his right and their fingers brushed.

‘They killed them too?’ he asked with icy calm.

She burst into sobs.

‘I’m sorry, Laerte . . . so sorry,’ she repeated, burying her face in her hands.

In a single day, Laerte of Uster had lost everything. His entire family, his town, his future . . . He was no more than an empty husk, ready to be broken.

She tried to take his hand but he moved away from her. For the first time he snubbed her, without his usual fear of alienating her affections. He fished about in the pocket of his trousers and brought out the small wooden horse. How many times had he played with it? How many battles had he led against imaginary hordes? His fingers closed about the polished curves of the tiny sculpture and he squeezed it so tightly he thought his palm would bear the mark forever. Then, with a swift gesture, he threw the toy as far as he could away from him. The wooden horse disappeared into the night. There was no more Esyld, no more Aëd’s Watch, no more Meurnau, no
more Orbey. It was only him and his rage. And he realised what he desired above all else.

One day, he would be the greatest knight in this world . . . and, all on his own, he would bring the Empire crashing down.

2

HUNTED

He shall have no rest, no refuge.

Whether by day or by night,

Wherever he goes he shall be

No more than game

Fleeing from the hunt.

They fled. Constantly. Endlessly. They roamed the Saltmarsh region in silence, penetrating the marshes, making their way through the tall grasses and the mud. From village to village, from makeshift camps in isolated spots to the thick of the swamps, their only goal was to protect Laerte and to keep him as far as possible from the growing shadow of Etienne Azdeki. The boy felt it at his back, menacing and vicious. Sometimes he looked back, fearing he would see the Imperial captain’s proud figure challenging him with his gaze. But there was never anything but whichever bumpy road they were following.

Their party numbered twenty in all, for the most part soldiers of the county guard who had left their armour behind them, playing the role of simple peasants. Often they placed the boy in the back of a cart, Esyld at his side, and all of them wearing rags; they travelled like poor wretches leaving the war-torn region. Azdeki’s troops continued to comb the area, searching the columns of refugees. The few times they were stopped they came close to being unmasked. Each time Esyld drew close to Laerte, taking his hand in hers and whispering soothing words in the hollow of his ear.

And always the soldiers ordered them to be on the way, looking frustrated. Who could claim to recognise Laerte of Uster? Who even knew what he looked like? And what inhabitant of the Saltmarsh, who crossed his path, would been vile enough to hand over an
innocent child to be put to death? Oratio of Uster had been loved by his people. His death was a cause for grief and surrendering his last living child to the Emperor’s wrath would have been an insult to his memory. The registers were burned. Mentions of Laerte, erased . . . The few people who knew the boy’s age and appearance kept quiet.

This silent form of support protected them during their flight, a silence accepted by all as the only possible defence against the folly of a captain of the Empire. No tongues wagged and Azdeki was forced to acknowledge that he’d made his first mistake. In his haste, he had let a single child, a mere boy, slip away from him. The rumour of his survival was enough to foment rebellion. Little by little, people took up arms, farms rebelled and hamlets were transformed into fortified camps. Revolt was stirring. And Captain Meurnau was prepared to do everything in his power to make it become a loud roar.

‘Drink,’ he said to Laerte, one day when they were halted by the side of a road.

Sitting in the rear of the cart, a wide, thick cloth covering him from head to toe, the boy extended a pale hand and took the flask proffered by the captain. They had been travelling for months now with no real destination, if there had ever been one. And during that time Laerte had only uttered a few words. He often remained mute, as if absent, and his gaze grew darker with each passing day.

The boy took a gulp and returned the flask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Meurnau did the same as he took a seat to the boy’s right, on the edge of the cart. He sighed as he contemplated the marshes bordering the road. In the distance, thick black smoke rose into a charcoal-grey sky.

‘They’ve burned the village of Aguel,’ he murmured.

At the approach of winter, the villages nearest the Watch had risen up following the example set by more distant towns. Once the stupefaction caused by the summary judgement of their beloved count has passed, anger had taken hold.

Even dead, Oratio of Uster remained a thorn in the Emperor’s side . . . Worse still, his memory stirred the crowds to the point of rebellion. Aguel was not the first village to be razed in this fashion by Azdeki’s troops, and it would surely not be the last.

‘Do you know why they’re doing that?’ asked Meurnau.

Laerte had been asking himself the same question. Just as he tried to understand why his entire family had been judged unworthy by
the Empire it served. He had always imagined Emeris as a city of wise men, where everything was decided, watched over by a benevolent Emperor. And, like an omniscient god, he took care of the world . . . He had so often been proud of the fact that his father was the Emperor’s representative here in the Saltmarsh.

‘They thought we were idiots,’ the captain answered himself.

He passed a hand over his sunken-cheeked face before smoothing his fine jet-black moustache with his fingertips.

‘They thought that once your father was dead, we would all bend our knee. But Oratio of Uster is stronger than the Emperor, here. It was he who governed. It was he who was loved.’

Laerte remained beneath his cover, his gaze blank, giving no response. He heard, he understood, but in the end it made little difference to know why, how, or even who . . . Only two things mattered to him: why he had been spared and why he had been unable to save his family . . .

‘That’s why he was killed,’ admitted Meurnau. ‘That’s why he was judged. Because he was loved. But the Emperor decided—’

‘He wasn’t a traitor,’ Laerte said bluntly.

Surprised to hear the boy’s voice, Meurnau remained silent for a moment, observing him out of the corner of his eye. But the child had once again become as still as a statue.

‘No, not really,’ agreed Meurnau, getting down from the cart, his gaze turning towards his men seated not far from them, engaged in a discussion.

Close by the ragged-looking soldiers, Orbey and his daughter were busy hiding swords in big canvas bags.

‘But your father’s dreams ran contrary to the Emperor’s rule,’ continued the captain. ‘He wanted the world to be free from the decisions of a single man . . . He thought that people were capable of choosing for themselves. It’s too complicated for you to understand now, but always remember one thing, Laerte: if your father is dead, above all he died for his people. He would never betray them.’

The boy lowered his eyes when Meurnau turned to face him. No, he didn’t understand. Nor did he feel any urge to try. The present moment did not count. Nor did any thought of tomorrow enter his mind. There was nothing but emptiness.

‘In a few days we will be stopping at Braquenne,’ the captain announced coldly. ‘There we’ll teach you how to fight. And we will
prepare the revolution. Do you hear me, Laerte?’

Yes, he heard the captain, but there were tiny pebbles upon the road and Laerte preferred to look at them rather than this austere captain always spouting words devoid of any significance. The pebbles were so small, so brown, lying upon a grey earth that had started to crackle from the frost.

‘Laerte,’ insisted Meurnau.

But the boy no longer paid him any mind. Weary of it, Meurnau swept the air with his hand before moving away.

And they continued on the road for days on end. One morning, a new column of black smoke rose into the sky. Another burnt village. Laerte was surprised not to feel anything as he pictured the villagers being consumed by the flames. They reached Braquenne at last, a small village composed of fifty broad single-storey houses built of stone, in the middle of the marshes. They had been travelling for months . . . and yet Braquenne was no more than two days from Aëd’s Watch. What a complicated path they must have taken to throw off the Imperial troops, But at last they had a place where they could stay, somewhere they could hide. Oddly enough, the safest place for them right now was as close as possible to their enemy. Azdeki had sent his troops out over greater and greater distances, convinced they were fleeing towards the other counties.

While Meurnau endeavoured to plan the rebellion, Laerte fell into the care of a bald colossus named Madog. Sturdy and proud, he had been Meurnau’s second-in-command within the Count of Uster’s guard. The scar running from his right eye to his upper lip instilled both fear and a certain respect, and Madog was charged with training Laerte for combat. During the year that followed, he tried to teach the boy to wield a sword properly. Without success.

Although Laerte’s general attitude changed for the better, he remained sullen during classes. Between the wide houses he railed, sword in hand, after falling on his arse. But he was still far more interested in the moments he passed with the blacksmith’s daughter, avoiding the tedious attentions of his master-at-arms.

Madog took him aside. The first time, he refrained from scolding the boy for leaving the village and risking his life. It wasn’t Azdeki’s men who worried him, truth be told; there had been no patrols within two days of their hideaway. But the rouargs were populous in the area. The second time Laerte ran away, Madog seemed to realise
that nothing would stop him short of attaching the boy to a stake, and that he would have to make the best of a bad situation. He therefore gave the boy an unusual present.

‘This is a whistle.’

‘A whistle?’ asked Laerte in surprised.

Seated on a bench along the wall of one of the stone houses, he examined the strange piece of hollowed wood.

‘A rouarg whistle,’ Madog explained. ‘When you’re out roaming the countryside, I can’t protect you. If the Imperial soldiers spot you, I hope you can run fast. But as far as the rouargs go, you won’t be able to shake them off.’

He pointed to the whistle.

‘This whistle imitates the growl of a male rouarg. It’s the females who hunt, rarely the males. So when a male approaches, the females flee out of fear of . . .’

A carnivorous smile lit up the man’s marked face.

‘. . . of receiving one hell of a thrashing. If rouargs are chasing you, use it.’

Very fortunately, Laerte had no occasion to do so in the following months and, while Madog spent hours searching for him in the village to keep up pretences, the boy escaped out into the marshes in more pleasant company. With Esyld, he could forget who and where he was, and no longer thought about or dreaded what might become of him. The girl devoted her attention to studying frogs. One spring day, she spotted an Erain frog. Dull green in colour with golden stripes, it was nonchalantly hopping through the tall grasses. They followed it, and the risk of running into Imperial soldiers only added spice to their expedition. The fear spurred them on rather than slowing their progress. Hearts beating, they watched the frog rush towards an upturned cart. It surely belonged to fugitives, like themselves, who had had an accident and been forced to abandon their load here in the middle of the marshes.

‘Shh,’ Esyld ordered. ‘We mustn’t frighten it. Look.’

She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing her smooth knees, and halted a few yards away from the creature. Slowly, she knelt down upon the damp earth and, placing a gentle hand on Laerte’s shoulder, invited him to do likewise.

‘It’s hunting,’ she remarked. ‘There’s a hornets’ nest over there, do you see it? And do you see how it’s changing colour? And underneath
its eyes, look closely and you can see the skin there fluttering like insect wings. It’s pretending to be a whole group of hornets. They can’t see the difference . . . they think it’s part of the hive.’

In the bottle green of the tall grasses, sitting on a wet rock, the frog turned a darker shade, while its golden stripes lightened to a bright yellow. The slow swelling of its throat produced an oddly hypnotic effect. Esyld and Laerte remained completely still, watching the amphibian. There was nothing to disturb its apparent repose. In a corner of the cart, a barely completed hornets’ nest quivered. All around the oval shape covered in a brown resin, the big insects went about their business without being alarmed by the frog’s presence.

‘My grandmother told me it can wait like this for days,’ whispered Esyld, an admiring smile on her lips. ‘Some hornets will come out to look at it, but it won’t move. Then, when it feels the time is right, it will attack and they’ll have no idea what’s happening. Do you see how beautiful it is?’

But Laerte was no longer looking at the frog. He was watching the long curling hair slipping over the delicate nape of her neck, her shoulders lightly covered by a dusty dress, and her slender, fragile fingers joined in a worshipful pose. His heart was beating so hard, and without any pain. Quite the contrary.

‘What?’ she asked, noticing him staring at her with a rapt face.

‘It’s not beautiful,’ he replied timidly. ‘But you are . . .’

He turned his eyes away. And Esyld placed her hand on his without either of them uttering another word.

When evening arrived he could still feel that sweet warmth upon his skin. He hoped life would go on like this, that the commotion caused by the loss of his family would die away. He continued to train with Madog, for days on end.

‘Lift your sword,’ yelled the colossus. ‘Keep your grip! Arggh! Meurnau told me you were clumsy, but I never thought you were such a butterfingers.’

Weeks on end.

‘Watch your footing,’ scolded Madog. ‘Be careful, blast you!’

And summer followed spring.

‘Come on, Laerte!’ encouraged Esyld, seated on a barrel near one of the houses. ‘Come on! Defend yourself!’

‘You can parry better than that! Parry!’ ordered Madog.

Although he gradually improved he was far from standing any
chance in actual combat. He was too stiff and while he memorised certain sequences, he reproduced them without any great conviction – to the despair of his instructor. Perhaps he didn’t take after his father at all . . .