The Path of Anger (3 page)

Viola did not move a muscle. She simply looked at him leaning
against the façade of a house, his boots covered in mud, his cracked leather vest, his wine-stained shirt sleeves soaking in the rain.

‘So tell me.’

2

THE BATTLE OF THE SALTMARSH

My childhood ended

The day I hesitated,

For the first time . . .

Fifteen years ago. The air had been fresh despite the overcast sky but there was a rumbling in the background. A dull roaring which continued to swell, sweeping over the tall grasses of the marshes. There were no signs of any storm, just heavy clouds of sparkling white, edged with hints of grey as if to better define their shapes. There was no need for direct sunlight to blind the men at their posts in the trench. The dazzling clouds alone achieved that effect.

There was no storm, or even anger, in the air, only a sense of fulfilling one’s duty.

‘You should step back, Dun-Cadal,’ advised a voice.

A black shape came hurtling out of the sky in a perfect arc, followed by a sharp whistle. Even before the sound lowered in pitch, the ball of rock and tow, covered with burning grease, crashed to the ground right in front of the knight without his taking the slightest step to avoid it.

‘You think so . . . ?’ murmured Dun-Cadal as he stared at the horizon.

Before him stretched saltwater marshes and swamps, so long and wide that the most distant portions were blurred by haze. He could hardly make out the outline of the enemy camp. Lowering his eyes to the boiling crater at his feet, he observed the streams of smoke coming off the hot ball. He turned it over with a kick.

‘Negus,’ he said in a pensive tone. ‘I’m getting the sense they’re growing restless over there.’ He spun round with a mocking smile on his lips. ‘Shall we give them a rude awakening?’

The small round man, squeezed into his armour, raised his eyes to the sky before replying:

‘If you are thinking up ways to get yourself killed before even crossing blades with them, then it would indeed be quite rude on your part.’

They had been waiting on the edge of the Saltmarsh for two weeks now without a single blow being struck. Just a few catapult shots that never managed to hit their targets. The Imperial Army had not even made use of its own artillery yet. The Saltmarsh revolt was, if possible, to be suppressed without bloodshed. Tucked up in the warmth of his palace in Emeris, the Emperor believed that the fear generated by his regiments would be enough to persuade the insurgents to lay down their weapons. But although no sword had been unsheathed during the last two weeks, neither had any been abandoned on the field of battle . . .

Dun-Cadal joined his brother-in-arms and patted his shoulder.

‘Have no fear, Negus. I can always detect the smell of death. And here, except for salt, nothing has pricked my nostrils.’

He had short brown hair, which the wind barely ruffled. A small goatee surrounded his thin lips and his face, while still youthful in appearance, was marked by a life of combat. This was not his first battle and he was counting on it not being his last. He had just arrived and had insisted on assessing the situation himself before other generals could paint the picture for him in a more flattering light. He jumped down into the trench and waited for his friend to do the same before continuing his inspection.

He had lost count of the fights they had come through together, from small skirmishes to great fields of battle. Of all the Empire’s generals. Negus had always been his closest friend, a kindred spirit who dismissed the rumours about Dun-Cadal and accepted his rough character. Dun-Cadal came from the House of Daermon, whose title of nobility only dated back a century. Negus’s line-age, on the other hand, had been associated with the aristocracy, from the first Kingdoms right up to the Empire. Affable by nature, Anselme Nagolé Egos, more commonly known as Negus, had never seen their difference in social standing as reason to despise a
man who had repeatedly saved his life in the midst of chaos. Their friendship, known to all, was unstinting, as deep as the rift valleys in the wild territories and as enduring as the stones from the Kapernevic mines. The dangers they had faced together only confirmed it and the bond between them resembled something like true brotherhood.

All along the dug-in line, soldiers were studying the horizon, spears at their side. As the two generals passed, they tried to look sharp despite being tense, saluting with a fist pressed against their chest. They all knew of Dun-Cadal and his bravery in combat. All of them felt a sincere admiration for him. Seeing him walk past at Negus’s side might have been reassuring in other circumstances but, although it was heartening, the commanders’ presence was not enough to dispel the prevailing mood. The troops were distressed by the waiting, and the situation was becoming unbearable – as witnessed by the excrement stagnating at the bottom of the trench and the terrible odour. It had been two weeks since they had arrived and already the camp was suffering from the poor conditions in the Saltmarsh. Mud and swamp combined to prevent the soldiers from disposing of their waste properly.

‘They’re terrified,’ observed Negus.

‘They don’t look too frightened.’

‘They dare not. They belong to Captain Azdeki’s unit.’

‘Azinn’s nephew? That young good-for-nothing?’ Dun-Cadal exclaimed in surprise.

‘Didn’t they warn you at the border? He’s been in charge of the region for the past two years. He’s the one who’s held it since the revolt began.’

‘Held it?!’ scoffed Dun-Cadal. ‘That idiot can’t even keep a hold on himself.’

‘There hasn’t been a battle up until now,’ retorted Negus as he climbed a makeshift ladder leading to the edge of the camp, ‘so one might argue he has held it.’

Really?
Etienne Azdeki, nephew of Baron Azinn Azdeki of the East Vershan baronies, was not known for his level-headedness and still less for his ability as a strategist. The fact that the Emperor had placed him in charge of the Saltmarsh region could pass for a mere mistake, but now that war had come to these lands he was supposed to control he became a risky proposition. Etienne Azdeki had been
appointed captain without any experience of combat. Acting as he
should
never entered his mind. Acting as he
pleased
, on the other hand, was his sole rule of conduct.

‘No matter,’ Dun-Cadal said aloud. ‘The Emperor sent me here to coordinate the troops. Azdeki will have to content himself with following my orders.’

‘Cocky as always, Daermon?’ said Negus with a smile.

‘Out here I feel like I’m in a courtesan’s arms!’ Dun-Cadal replied with a wide grin. ‘In love as in war, in war as in love!’

Tens of thousands of dark green tents stretched across the marshes, standing among the reeds and the tall grasses. Here and there, knights were training in single combat, surrounded by circles of attentive spectators. The waiting was an even more serious risk than battle itself. Boredom blunted the soldiers’ readiness. It gave them too much time to contemplate the dangers they faced. It robbed them of any spontaneity once combat was engaged. Two weeks was not much in the course of a war, but was far too long without even a skirmish to break the enforced idleness. Dun-Cadal feared the Salt-marsh rebels were counting on this lethargy to impose their own rhythm on the forthcoming battle.

But as soon as he drew aside the flaps of the command tent erected at the centre of the camp, he knew it was too late to deal with the revolt swiftly.

‘They’re massing most of their forces here . . .’

Bent over a large model representing the Saltmarsh, a knight in black armour pointed to a line along the edge of a small forest. Facing him, a thirty-year-old man with a gaunt face and an aquiline nose jutting over thin pinched lips was listening attentively, his hands clasped behind his back. His silver breastplate depicted a proud eagle holding a serpent in its talons. It was the emblem of the Azdeki family, an heirloom of their rise to glory during the great battles between the civilised forces of the Empire and the nomadic Nâaga, before the latter were finally subjugated.

‘Our scouts have tried to get as close as possible, to accurately determine the number of their catapults, but they’ve been spotted every time. Two of them did not return.’

There were five knights surrounding this small-scale model of the battlefield, all of them wearing family colours which identified them as members of the provincial nobility. Their families had sworn
allegiance to the Emperor and sent their sons off to the military academy in order to serve with honour in the Imperial Army. Only the most experienced among them ever reached the rank of general, but owing to his appointment as captain of Uster county, Etienne Azdeki had authority over those present. They were merely reinforcements and, despite their superior military rank, were bound to comply with his commands.

All of them except Dun-Cadal. Upon catching sight of him, the young nobleman stiffened.

‘You’d better count on there being twice as many catapults as you saw when you controlled this situation, Azdeki,’ said Dun-Cadal as he advanced towards them, not even acknowledging the soldiers’ salutes with a glance.

‘General Daermon,’ Azdeki greeted him tersely.

He made a slight bow. Even that simple gesture seemed to be an effort.

‘Azdeki,’ Dun-Cadal replied with a smile, before addressing the entire group. ‘What a pleasure to see you again, and so eager to kick peasant arses!’

‘You didn’t waste any time getting here,’ the man in black armour observed gleefully.

‘I came as quickly as I could, Tomlinn. Although I’m having trouble understanding why the situation has not evolved since the uprising began.’

Dun-Cadal caught a glimpse of Azdeki’s lip curling in a bitter grimace The Emperor respected his general’s judgement more than that of any other man. There were rumours about why this was so, but few could claim to know the truth behind them. The idea that there might be a bond of friendship between the Emperor and this provincial nobody, despite his promotion to the highest rank, was simply inconceivable to most aristocrats. But instead of feeling hurt by this, Dun-Cadal responded to their restrained contempt with an unstinting flow of withering comments. No one would dare complain.

For he was here at the request of His Imperial Majesty, to redress an extremely . . . embarrassing situation.

‘Now, explain what’s going on,’ requested Dun-Cadal.

His tone had become less stern. Although these generals might dislike him, he nevertheless had complete confidence in them. Two
of them had even been his classmates during military training and he felt a certain affection for them. Although the feeling was not mutual, Dun-Cadal felt at ease in their company. He knew these men were gifted when it came to battle and that was really all that mattered to him. Tomlinn, the man in black armour with a bald head and a large scar across his face, began to speak as he walked around the model. He was one of the few on friendly terms with Daermon.

‘The county of Uster has demanded its independence. The rest of the Saltmarsh region has rallied to its call.’

‘I did what I had to do,’ Azdeki immediately broke in to say.

A heavy silence fell, which his quavering voice tried to dispel.

‘For two years, I’ve tried to keep hold of the region, but these peasants won’t accept that the Count of Uster betrayed them. I was only applying the law!’

Azdeki may have been acting in accordance with the Emperor’s orders, but Daermon could not have cared less. Nor was he interested in the reasons behind the revolt or the manner in which it had been dealt with. Only the consequences warranted his attention.

‘These peasants have raised the army which stands before you and does not appear at all frightened by the might of the Empire,’ observed Dun-Cadal.

‘I deemed it preferable not to attack,’ Azdeki replied. ‘And the Emperor trusted my judgement. I’m not a warmonger.’

‘That, I don’t doubt for an instant,’ the general replied scornfully.

‘Daermon,’ sighed Negus from behind him.

Azdeki was visibly seething, standing straight with his hands joined at his back. For a brief instant Dun-Cadal thought the man might dare to respond, but instead he drew in a deep breath and kept still.

‘The strategy might still work,’ conceded Negus. ‘Once they realise we have more than a hundred thousand soldiers, plus a thousand knights capable of employing the
animus
. . . surely they will see that any combat would be in vain. And we’ll keep the Empire intact without shedding even a drop of blood.’

‘The Count of Uster was well-liked in these parts. Many doubt he betrayed the Empire,’ Tomlinn interjected as he approached Dun-Cadal.

‘They no longer trust us,’ added a massively built man wearing blood-red armour.

Standing at Azdeki’s side, he pushed forward a wooden block representing an Imperial legion.

‘Rebellious sentiment has made them bold, but when they see exactly how many we are, they will recognise their error and order will be restored.’

‘So you hope, but you’re wrong. You should have attacked them from the very start,’ declared Dun-Cadal, sweeping away the blocks of wood with his hand. ‘You should have shown them, rather than waiting for them to see for themselves, General Kay. All this means nothing; they have been lulling you into a false sense of security. Believe me, I can sense this sort of thing.’