Authors: Antoine Rouaud
Supported by the halberdiers, Anvelin moaned, his bare feet trailing on the floor, with dried blood visible along his legs covered in filth.
‘No . . .’ he mumbled, short of breath. ‘You only see . . . what . . . you want to see . . . you don’t understand . . .
I
am the Order of Fangol. Not them . . . not them . . . they’re heretics, they’re—’
His words died with a gasp when he was thrown to the floor in front of the impassive monks. Azdeki needed their support. If he was recognised by the last upholders of the faith, he would have legitimacy. Enough to seize power? To overthrow the Republic? He couldn’t hide his apprehension, clenching his jaws. Footsteps, quick and determined, were approaching the chapel.
‘I have freed the people from the yoke of the Reyes dynasty,’ insisted Azdeki.
At the monks’ feet Anvelin sought to rise, leaning on the palms of his hands with difficulty, the muscles in his thin arms straining from the effort.
‘This madman spoke in your name, but he knew the
Liaber
was in the hands of the Usters. He hid the danger from us; he denied the word of the gods. Recognise me! What is happening this evening is not the result of chance.’
Two shadows grew at the entrance, sliding to the feet of the soldiers posted by the first statues and then shrinking back under the footsteps of Laerte and Dun-Cadal as they passed the threshold, swords in hand. There were signs of fresh panic among the councillors, which died down as the soldiers placed themselves behind the newcomers, cutting off their retreat. Some began to believe Azdeki had planned this all along, while a greater number persuaded themselves that this event must have been written too. As if to encourage the idea, Azdeki concluded in a quiet, icy tone:
‘The gods do not play at dice.’
Although Dun-Cadal had turned at the rattling of spaulders against breastplates behind him, Laerte only had eyes for the councillor standing before the altar. The sputtering flames in the bowls froze the moment for what seemed an eternity, barely broken by the footsteps of Rhunstag and Bernevin. They joined Azdeki, who was placing the Book upon the holy table. A few yards away Azinn shrank into the group of Fangolin monks as if hoping to find protection
there. Most of those present recognised the figure in the green cape who had created such a stir since the murder of Enain-Cassart by the port. Few, on the other hand, could put a name to the old man in armour who accompanied him.
‘Oh, joy . . .’ grumbled Dun-Cadal, before drawing alongside his former apprentice, who had come to a halt in the middle of the guard of honour that had awaited them.
The general was surprised and disgusted when he caught sight of the gaunt Anvelin Evgueni Reyes at the monks’ feet. He had never forgiven the bishop for his betrayal years before, but did the man deserve such a cruel fate? Anvelin had helped him many times when Dun-Cadal had been a young cadet, aspiring to the Knighthood. Whatever crimes he had have committed, in the general’s eyes he remained the Bishop of Emeris.
To either side of the chapel, the statesmen observed the two intruders with thinly disguised fear. Only one relatively young councillor, bearing a scar beneath his right eye, seemed more curious than afraid. He tilted his head to one side as if trying to see something of the face hidden beneath the golden mask.
‘Arrest them!’ his neighbour shouted angrily.
The young man gave him a strangely amused look.
‘This was not what was planned, Azdeki!’ added another, standing in the opposite row.
The councillors all started to speak at once, urging the soldiers to attack the assassin and his companion. At the feet of the first monk, Anvelin had turned around upon his elbows, a blissful smile stretching his wrinkles slightly.
‘You’re here . . . you came,’ he whispered, delighted
‘Councillor?’ called Rhunstag, drawing his sword.
Azdeki did not respond. Nothing mattered to him at this moment but the golden mask and Dun-Cadal’s weary face. They glared un-spoken challenges, measuring one another, evaluating their respective strengths, certain that their blades were going to cross. Everything had to end here, it was written. The tension in the air was so palpable that silence returned of its own accord, the councillors losing hope of obtaining any answers from their leader. He had no need to raise his voice in order to be heard.
‘I know who you are,’ declared Azdeki. ‘I know what anger drives you. I understand it. Worse still for you, I respect it. But I can’t let
you stand in the way of my responsibilities. The truth lies with in the Book, Laerte of Uster.’
Astonishment ran through the ranks of the councillors. The name had been spoken aloud. It was a myth returned to life, a terrible legend for all those involved in founding the Republic. Hadn’t Laerte of Uster tried to seize power, according to Azdeki, just after the Emperor had been overthrown?
‘No, the truth is you’re frightened, Azdeki. And you have reason to be!’ said Dun-Cadal.
Azdeki could not contain his laughter.
‘Of what? Of you, Daermon? Of your spectacular entrance, worthy of the boor you have always been? You will die here, you know, along with the Uster boy. I know my destiny, and I can deduce yours. You won’t be able to prevent anything.’
Although he was trying to sound confident, fear tightened his features. Bernevin and Rhunstag hesitated briefly before coming down from the altar. The master and his pupil were reunited and, although time had passed, these two men at least knew what they had represented during the revolution. Azdeki also took a step forward, glancing briefly at the Fangolins.
‘Brothers? I need your benediction.’
The monks remained mute beneath their hoods. Before them, Anvelin struggled to remain propped on his elbows, his eyes now filled with tears. Laerte brought his hand to his mask and removed it before letting it slip from his fingertips.
Near the altar, Aladzio retreated slowly, trying to catch Laerte’s gaze. But Oratio’s son kept his eyes on the three councillors before him who, despite their age, seemed ready to fight.
‘There will be no benediction,’ Laerte promised. ‘No vote of confidence from your councillors. Your book is not so eternal as you claim, Azdeki. Nor does it contain the destiny of men. The Republic shall not fall beneath your yoke.’
‘I am not seeking the fall of the Republic,’ retorted Azdeki with the poise of one who has no doubts. ‘I seek to defend it!’
He took a deep breath.
‘Your benediction?’ he asked again of the monks.
One of them tilted his head slightly to the side, and then a muffled voice said coldly:
‘You have it.’
‘Now arrest them,’ Azdeki ordered in a weary tone.
Azdeki knew that it would not be easy, that he would have a part to play in the combat about to ensue, that both Dun-Cadal and Laerte knew how to employ the
animus
and would not bend before the soldiers. But he would gain some time.
While Azdeki’s men launched their assault, Aladzio huddled against the last statue at the rear of the chapel. Things were not going according to plan: Laerte should have attacked the
Liaber Dest
immediately. He should have run it through with his sword and everyone would have fled, losing all faith in Azdeki’s claims. Fear gripped the inventor’s heart.
And pain seized Dun-Cadal’s heart when he crouched, knees creaking, to avoid a spear thrust. He threw himself forward, rolling across the floor, from where he lifted his sword to parry Azdeki’s stroke which swooped down on him. Their blades clashed but his chest was on fire. He thrust the palm of his free hand towards three councillors who were charging at him. The
animus
only pushed them back a few feet; but that was enough to allow the old general to regain his feet.
Behind him, Laerte allowed his intuition to guide him, confronted by ten soldiers and the dumbstruck faces of the remaining councillors, who were starting to panic again. Each time he parried he followed up with a slashing stroke, each time he dodged a spear he grabbed the shaft, drew the soldier towards him and pierced him with his blade. Never before had he used a sword as light as Eraëd, as easy to wield, like an extension of his arm. It did not merely block thrusts, it broke steel; it cleaved through armour and bone, sparkling in its lethal dance. Not for one moment was he in any difficulty, not for one instant did he feel overwhelmed. But time was running short. He drew a breath.
His entire body seemed to plunge into flames.
Surrounded by the five soldiers still standing, he dropped to one knee, striking the marble floor with his fist.
The
animus
threw the soldiers into the air like bits of chaff. One flew so high that he crashed into the torso of a statue. The watching councillors rushed for the doors without further ado. When Laerte stood up and turned towards the altar, he saw Dun-Cadal fending off, as best he could, his former companions in arms. His belly full of rage he ran towards his winded mentor, evening the odds with their
enemies. Dun-Cadal sidestepped, so that he was left facing Bernevin alone.
‘No! No!’ screamed Anvelin, only a few feet away.
Forgetting his fatigue, overcoming his pain, he was wrestling with one of the monks. When the Fangolin had placed his hand upon the
Liaber Dest
resting on the altar, the bishop had wrapped his arm around the man’s neck and tried to drag him away. Beneath the gaze of Azinn Azdeki, who remained at a safe distance from the fighting, the monk bent backwards, almost toppling on the former bishop. Then, wrenching himself from Anvelin’s embrace, he gave the old man a vicious elbow blow to the ribs. The bones cracked. His face turning purple and glassy-eyed, the old man fell into one of the huge fire bowls by the wall. The hungry flames enveloped him as the freed monk returned to the altar. He seized the Book without a glance at the bishop who had been set alight.
The swords continued to clatter and screech as blow followed blow. Parry, thrust, cut. Azdeki and Rhunstag were hard-pressed by Laerte’s fury. He was steadily gaining the upper hand over his two opponents. He plunged Eraëd deep into Rhunstag’s chest, grabbing the man by the back of his neck to pull him onto the blade completely.
Completely engulfed by the flames, Anvelin let out a harrowing cry. The pain shook him like a loose puppet and it endowed him with enough force to stand up suddenly. But then his legs started to fold beneath his weight and he reeled against a hanging drape. The flames promptly raced up the cloth to reach the wooden beams that crossed the vaulted ceiling.
Bernevin’s blade stabbed towards Dun-Cadal’s knee, penetrated the gap in his armour below his thigh and tore through his trouser leg to strike muscle. With a moan, the general staggered. His heart labouring painfully, he managed to lift his sword before him with a delicate twist of his arm and deflect his enemy’s killing blow.
Standing in the shadow of a statue, Aladzio saw the bishop throw his flaming body, with a last gasp, into the midst of the Fangolin monks who were seeking to flee. The fire spread to their homespun habits. Frightened, Azinn had taken refuge behind the altar. All around the room, fire was running across the beams to propagate itself upon the hangings. The chapel quickly became filled with a thick acrid smoke accompanied by the pungent odour of burning flesh. Two Fangolin monks were rolling on the floor, trying to
remove their tunics. The one who held the Book in his hands hurried towards the exit.
A beam gave way above him with a terrific crash.
The monk was crushed beneath it, the
Liaber Dest
falling open near his hand. Flames started to lick the exposed pages.
Amidst the chaos, Dun-Cadal was still holding Bernevin off, while Laerte confronted Azdeki. Each passage of arms was accompanied by wheezing breaths. But it was Laerte’s voice that carried furthest, and it was Azdeki’s silhouette that retreated first into the smoke. Laerte could make out his adversary’s eyes, reddened by the fire and his lean, slender body. At times he saw the gleam of the councillor’s blade crossing Eraëd before bending. The image of his father hanging at the end of a rope sprang into his mind.
Laerte struck so powerfully that he heard steel break. Azdeki let out a yell of dismay. Immediately Laerte lunged and swept the air with his sword. He felt Azdeki’s knees resist the blow, before they were breached by the ancient blade. Straightening up, he tore the veil of smoke with his arm to seize his fallen enemy by the hair.
He met Azdeki’s gaze, and saw fear and disbelief in them, followed by stark terror when Laerte lifted Eraëd.
He brought the sword down upon the man’s neck and, one fist retaining its grip upon the grey locks, felt the weight of Azdeki’s body disappear. The councillor’s head dangled from his fist, its eyes eternally open.
He let it drop. He did not even hear it roll across the floor. His belly was burning. Laerte wanted to vomit, to die, to disappear. His anger still tortured him, and he was short of breath. And then he saw it lying on the ground a few feet away, fallen by an open hand. The
Liaber Dest
. Flames were dancing on its pages without consuming them. Any of them. It remained intact, protected by an unknown magic. But it was something else that made him kneel, his heart pounding fit to burst. Something besides the Book’s astonishing invulnerability.
Beneath the flames he saw an ancient engraving, surrounded by strange glyphs. It showed a knight in plain armour sitting beneath a tree. At his feet a child dressed in rags, similar to the ones he had worn in the Saltmarsh, watched him sleep, with a sword in his right hand. And in his left hand . . .
‘Frog—’
Dun-Cadal had crawled to a statue and turned over on his back, his head resting against the base. He was smiling, but there was a strange sadness in his eye as he stretched his arm towards Laerte. Crossing the caustic smoke, the young man joined him and knelt at his side to take his hand. The old general had a gash in one knee and a trickle of blood ran from his lips but no other wounds were apparent. Laerte understood: it was not a sword that had felled him. They exchanged a glance in silence. Not for from them lay Bernevin, his throat slit.