The Path of Anger (32 page)

‘They told me you’d fallen! I did not believe it. A rouarg? Kick your arse? The arse of Dun-Cadal Daermon?’ the small man guffawed.

‘You were misinformed,’ Dun-Cadal said as he stepped back, ‘but I confess it was a close call.’

‘Tomlinn?’

Laerte’s mentor shook his head sadly.

‘And I would have ended up like him if this lad hadn’t saved my hide. Frog!’

With a wave of his arm, he beckoned Laerte to come forward and gripped his shoulder again.

‘This is General Negus, one of my closest brothers-in-arms. Negus, allow me to introduce Sir Frog.’

‘Frog? Sir Frog?’ Negus asked with a laugh.

‘That’s what I decided to call him,’ explained the general.

He talked about Laerte with a hint of disdain in his voice, as if he were some kind of pet animal.

‘What a proud look he has,’ remarked Negus.

‘He’s an orphan of the Saltmarsh, my friend, and he has a temper. But never mind. We have a lot to say to one another . . . before I grant myself the pleasure of finally taking a bath.’

‘Now that, I can understand,’ smiled the small man, looking back and forth between the general and the boy. ‘I could smell your stink for ten leagues.’

He led them into the heart of the tower, climbing the external staircase to pass through a small door, where they found themselves in a maze of hallways lit by weak torches. The entire edifice was made of large brown stones and there was a fine coating of dust on the floor. It had been built before the Empire had even arisen, when Garmaret was still a mere kingdom. Despite some recent renovations, it had a primitive appearance similar to all the fortifications dotting these lands. There was no delicacy in its architecture, no attempt to embellish the stone, just one shade away from dirt.

They entered a large room and Negus recounted to them the events that had led to the Imperial retreat towards Garmaret. They had sought to retake Aëd’s Watch but had been driven back by a much tougher army than they had anticipated. And for a good reason; one of the neighbouring counties had decided to throw in its lot with the rebels, proclaimed its independence and pledged complete allegiance to the new leader of the revolt. For a long time they had believed this was Meurnau, the former captain of Oratio of Uster’s guard. But in fact, persistent rumours mentioned the younger son of the deceased count: Laerte.

When he heard his real name the boy had the impression that Negus winked at him. His hands became clammy, his breathing laboured. He grew visibly pale and thought he was about to keel over when Dun-Cadal seized his wrist.

‘Frog, are you listening?’ he repeated.

He realized this was not the first time he’d been asked.

‘The boy is exhausted, Dun-Cadal. I’ll ask for someone to see to his needs,’ declared Negus, coming from behind the big table around which they had been conversing for more than an hour.

Laerte had only been vaguely following the discussion, distracted by his fear of being unmasked from one moment to the next. The simple mention of his name had finally scrambled his wits.

‘If you’re not feeling well, then say so,’ Dun-Cadal said in reproach as he helped the boy to the door.

A soldier was charged with taking him to a little room. Two serving women prepared a hot bath for him, into which he plunged, trembling. When he was alone, he almost burst into tears. The fear tormenting him was so strong he felt crushed. His arms dangling over the edges of the wooden basin, he stared blankly at the curls of steam intertwining over the hot water. Above the veil they formed, a
skylight admitted the glow of dusk and the martial sounds within the fort: hooves on the paved path, footsteps, and the clatter of armour . . . loud voices shouting commands. And the weeping of his people, lost here in Garmaret, so far from home. Little by little, he regained his strength and, stepping out of the bath, found a pile of clothing awaiting him on the small bed. He dressed, relishing the soft contact of clean cloth upon his skin. He had some difficulty pulling on the new, polished boots due to the condition of his feet, after wearing the bits and pieces of his old pair for so long. When he was finally clean and dressed from head to toe he lay down on the bed, absorbed by his thoughts. He had no idea what might become of him. Would he be able to see things through to the end without being discovered? Despite his doubts, giving up was out of the question.

He recalled the first time he returned to Aëd’s Watch after spending months out in the marshes. He had left the general dying by the cart, seeing his horse as the best means of reaching the town without expending too much effort. He became lost several times, but finally found the right path. He’d been greatly surprised to learn that Meurnau had not only escaped the attack by the Imperial troops, but had retaken the Watch.

Yes, he remembered his joy, his restored hope as he ventured into the peaceful streets . . . At least, until he reached the main square and realised that his entire life had been stolen from him. Laerte of Uster was alive and roaming the Saltmarsh, it was said. Laerte of Uster was leading the rebellion and had just won another battle, people murmured. Laerte of Uster was twenty years old? He seemed much younger . . .

They spoke of him everywhere . . . as if he were someone else. Here and there they told tales of the latest exploits of a man who was not him. And worse still, people believed it all without expressing the slightest doubt. While everyone guarded the image of his beloved father in their memory, who really remembered him? He was barely fourteen years old; no one would have believed him if he told them who he was. And he feared Meurnau’s reaction if he ever learned of the real Laerte’s survival. He feared the guard captain had taken advantage of the situation to seize power in the Saltmarsh, and would kill him at the first opportunity rather than repudiate the rumours of Laerte’s martial feats.

Laerte recalled all this and fell asleep with a heavy heart.

They spent four days at Garmaret, enjoying a restorative rest, and each day more refugees arrived. Dozens of columns of them, which eventually marched along the great road, once the portcullis was raised, in the direction of Emeris. Garmaret was only a stage in their journey. The Emperor had signed a decree promising every inhabitant of the Saltmarsh that they would find asylum in the capital. Laerte often stayed in his room, alone, excluded by a master too busy gathering information about the course of the war and haranguing the troops on duty near the gates. The boy was snubbed several times when he followed Dun-Cadal as he carried out these impromptu inspections. Very quickly he was forced to recognise that the general did not wish to have him underfoot, except during the few hours they set aside for training at the end of the day.

On the morning of the fourth day, when the portcullis was raised to allow a new procession of exiles to depart, Laerte decided to leave the tower wearing a blue cloak that a servant woman had kindly lent him. His face thus masked by the shadow of the cloak’s hood, he descended to the middle of the external staircase and, hand gripping the railing, he observed the wagons inching forward in a cloud of dust beneath the spikes of the portcullis. Soldiers were shouting to either side of the column, ordering the poor wretches to move more quickly.

Laerte continued to walk stealthily, keeping his eyes down, and skirted around the Army camp in the direction of the great road. He tried to make out a familiar face among the crowd, an acquaintance, anyone whose mere presence would have comforted him.

Between two large tents, in the middle of some barrels, he sharpened his gaze, examining each refugee passing only a few yards away from him. He watched them march by, heads bowed and listless. They had been dispossessed of everything, their dignity along with their goods.

‘Always remember one thing, Laerte: if your father is dead, above all he died for his people. He would never betray them.’

But in the end, what did it matter to the people that his father had died for them? Now they found themselves on the roads, with the only possessions they had worth defending: their lives. Wearied by this spectacle he decided to return to his room, feeling more despondent than ever. He wended his way through the camp and though he still kept his head down, it was no longer because he
feared being recognised but because he was taking stock of the cost of the conflict. What had he really seen up to now . . . ? He halted suddenly, and then lifted his head. A few feet away from him, a girl was crouched between two tents, removing a trembling hand from an open bag lying at her feet.

‘No, I-I . . .’ she stammered. ‘It’s not what you think. I found this bag, I didn’t . . .’

Her dress was dusty and her hair was tied hastily at the back of her neck. Despite her disastrous appearance, Laerte gaped at her.

‘Laerte . . .’ she murmured. ‘Laerte? Is it really you?’

Collecting his wits, Laerte glanced around to ensure that no one was watching them and almost threw himself upon her. But instead of kissing her, he pressed the palm of his hand over her mouth to stifle her words.

‘Frog,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m called Frog, don’t call me Laerte any more. Here, everyone knows me as Frog. Do you understand? Nobody must know.’

She tried to say something behind his hand, but no intelligible sound emerged. Her wide-open blue eyes became damp with tears, not of sadness, but of joy.

‘Do you understand, Esyld? If you reveal who I am, if you’re heard saying my name, I’m dead. Do you understand?’

He paused. The girl’s eyes were smiling now. She nodded her head in agreement. Slowly he drew away his hand, feeling her fine lips leave his palm with a gentle kiss. They looked at one another without saying a word, lulled by the jolting of the passing wagons.

‘Is it really you?’ she murmured.

Her fingers brushed his. They had never been so close to one another before, and he wondered if he should kiss her at long last, taste her lips and abandon himself completely. But anxiety won out over longing.

‘We thought you were dead . . . we spent days searching for you, and—’

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked bluntly.

He did not believe a word of it. Meurnau knew the marshes, he should have found him. Had he not turned the name Laerte of Uster into a banner that all had rallied to? No, his fears were true, Captain Meurnau had taken advantage of Laerte’s disappearance to make
him a stronger, grander and more unifying figure than the boy could ever have been in real life.

‘I fled the Saltmarsh,’ she replied, surprised by his tone.

‘Why? Aëd’s Watch was liberated, wasn’t it?’

Although he was happy to have found her again, he could not bear the idea of her being here. If something happened to her . . .

‘My father surrendered,’ she confessed. ‘But it’s not what you think. He is going to infiltrate the palace. Meurnau has a plan and he has many allies . . .’

She could not continue. Laerte had turned away from her, moving along one of the tents to draw closer to the road. The column stretched into the distance, a succession of dilapidated carts with wobbling wheels drawn by exhausted horses. Their bits were covered in thick slaver.

‘I’ll be safe there,’ she said in a reassuring tone.

She approached him, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m on my way to Emeris too,’ he said in a distracted tone.

‘What? Your place is at Aëd’s Watch, Laer—’

He bent his head towards her.

‘Frog . . .’ she immediately corrected herself.

‘My place is nowhere except before the Emperor,’ he railed. ‘Meurnau is waging his war perfectly well without me.’

‘Frog,’ she sighed. ‘That’s not what is being asked of you, you’re only fourteen years old.’

He spun towards her with a scowl on his face. Of course he was just a child in her eyes. Of course . . .

‘He killed my father.’

‘I know,’ she acknowledged, caressing his cheek to calm him.

‘So I will kill him.’

Her hand halted while her eyes froze, briefly lit by a gleam of horror.

‘Yes, I’m going to kill the Emperor,’ he confirmed. ‘I am now Frog, for them. I helped a knight who was lost in the Saltmarsh. I’m his apprentice now. I will become the greatest knight of all and I will avenge my family. Meurnau never even searched for me.’

‘What? But how can you—’ sputtered Esyld.

‘I know it,’ he asserted in an imperious tone. ‘I heard it myself . . . all those tales about a Laerte leading the rebellion. He no longer has me under his thumb so he’s using my name to give himself credibility.
So he can wage war as he feels fit. As for me, I shall not rest until I’ve killed Reyes.’

‘You can’t seriously be thinking—’

He locked eyes with her, seeking to convince her of his firm resolve.

‘I’ve decided, Esyld,’ he warned her. ‘I’ve done things, I’ve . . .’

Madog!

‘I can’t back down now . . .’

He remained dignified, keeping calm as he had never believed himself capable of doing before.

‘If this is what the gods intend,’ said Esyld with downcast eyes.

‘The gods have nothing to do with it,’ he said. ‘I choose my life.’

Finally he realised that he was master of his own destiny. In the Saltmarsh, ever since he was born, and even after the start of the rebellion, he had done as he was told without ever influencing the course of events.

‘I decide my future, Esyld.’

Looking wan, she forced herself to smile. She could see how determined he was and realised there was no point in arguing with him.

‘My proud little lord,’ she humoured him, plunging a hand into her bodice, whose edges were black with dirt. ‘But if you pass yourself off as someone else, don’t you risk becoming him?’

She pulled out a small wooden figurine he had no difficulty recognising. It represented a crudely carved horse. She hesitated for an instant before offering it to him.

‘Hey, you! Over there!’ called out a hoarse voice.

On the far side of the road, a soldier supervising the column was headed towards them. Without waiting, Esyld took Laerte’s hand and deposited the little sculpture before folding his fingers over it.