The Path of Anger (11 page)

What a vain hope.

The hours that followed seemed like days. When Dun-Cadal finally stood up again, a bright swathe crossed the sky, as if to lead men from one end of the earth to the other. Not a single cloud masked the twinkling of the stars. The wind slowly lifted the foliage. There was a sharp crackling sound. Dun-Cadal glanced over his shoulder to see Frog standing frozen, one foot poised over the twig he had just snapped.

‘Be careful where you tread. We can’t afford any mistakes.’

He turned his head slightly, his chin brushing his shoulder, eyes half-closed.

‘I won’t wait for you,’ he breathed, before drawing his sword.

Dun-Cadal moved off into the woods without making any noise. He had just signalled their departure without any preamble or comforting speech, but only the advice:
‘Be careful where you tread’.
One false step meant certain death. He’d insisted on that. Their plan had been studied, rehearsed and memorised over the past few weeks, and they had gone over it again the previous day. Frog had given the
knight full information as to the enemy’s numbers, its positions and when the sentries were relieved. Too many troops passing through Aëd’s Watch had been talkative around a tavern table. Why burden this moment with futile words? The lad was already anxious enough. He’d seen Frog train hard, watched him grow up in a very short space of time. Any encouragement now would be a waste: the lad’s pride would suffice. Although Dun-Cadal continued to call him ‘lad’ out of affection, he’d started to consider Frog a soldier. And unlike boys, men of war did not need to be coddled.

There was only the wind in the boughs, which helped to disguise the brush of his clothing against low-lying branches. No one could have heard them coming. An owl flapped its wings nervously before taking flight. After sneaking through the woods for almost half an hour they reached the far edge. Dun-Cadal knelt and with a sharp sign of his hand ordered Frog to get down. A few feet away, at the base of a last beech tree, was the beginning of a row of patched grey tents. To the right and to the left, the enemy camp stretched long and wide, dotted with a thousand fires. Silhouettes armed with spears marched slowly down the lanes between the tents. Were there really so many of them? How was that possible? They couldn’t all be from the Saltmarsh . . . Or else all of its inhabitants – children, adults, old people – had risen up against the Empire. Dun-Cadal brushed the grass with his fingertips. This was the last moment in which they could retreat, change their minds, or postpone this act of folly until tomorrow . . .

Here, at this moment, the future was decided.

Before him stood some fifty catapults. He could only see four guards, armed with crudely made spears, but the major part of the camp lay just a few yards away. Others were on watch from the shelter of their illuminated tents. Luckily, the career soldiers, those who had real combat experience, were not to be found in the vicinity. The troops manning these catapults were green. And they were fools.

In the light from the tall torches, Dun-Cadal was astonished to see that the catapults arms were cocked and their buckets loaded with grease-smeared balls of rock. His entire body tensed as he looked carefully at the aligned weapons and the torches by them. The stupid buggers . . . each catapult was ready to fire! This was the only way out for him and for Frog, and here he may have found the means of making good their escape.

The general advanced very slowly, bending forward as he went. The first guard didn’t see him approaching and barely felt the blade slide into his back as a heavy hand fell across his mouth to suppress his cry of surprise. The knight carefully lowered the body and, keeping his eyes on the other two guards at the foot of a catapult, he beckoned Frog to join him. When the lad drew near he indicated the last soldier, who was urinating on the post of a tall torch. Then with an imperious finger he pointed to the corral at the edge of the camp. On this cloudless night, the curved shapes of the horses grazing inside could be clearly seen. Everything was proceeding better than expected. Dun-Cadal would take care of the two guards next to the catapults while the boy disposed of the fourth man, now whistling as he struggled to buckle his belt.

Like a predator stealthily approaching his prey, he slowly crouched forward with his back and knees bent. Behind him, Frog adopted the same posture and was headed for the guard at the foot of the torch. Just a few more steps. Out of the corner of his eye, Dun-Cadal saw the lad gripping the wooden stick with all his might. His other hand was trembling. He hoped the lad would remember all the moves they had rehearsed, over and over, down to the tiniest detail. The arm across the neck to choke his opponent, then a quick jab below the shoulder blade, rising towards the heart. Swift. Precise. Discreet.
Don’t flinch. Don’t retreat. Don’t hesitate.
The general would not be there to protect the boy. He began to inch away from Frog.

The knight’s silhouette slipped over to the tall wheels of the catapults. His shadow broke across the massive timber frame and the torchlight brought a fleeting gleam from the tip of his sword. Dun-Cadal immediately looked down. The wheels had dug a furrow in the earth, as if they had been recently turned. Arming the catapults for immediate use was one thing, but positioning them like this, so that none were even aiming at the front, was an enormous mistake.

He halted for a moment, looking over the camp with an eye trained to spot the slightest suspect movement, then glanced over at his apprentice just in time to see Frog almost stumble over a root.

Focus, stay focused, and watch where you put your feet!
Dun-Cadal silently yelled. Just a few feet from the boy, the guard picked up a spear that had been leaning against the post he had pissed on.

Don’t falther, lad. Don’t retreat
, the general repeated to himself, as
if hoping Frog might be influenced by his thoughts. Now the lad would prove his mettle. His worth would be decided the moment he plunged the sharpened wood into—

‘Hey!’

Dun-Cadal froze next to a large wooden wheel, in the shadow of the catapult. He had just started to make his move, about to pounce on the soldiers, when he saw Frog fall to one side, burying his head in the grass. The general had to restrain himself from intervening, his hand twitching at the pommel of his sword.

‘Is this how you were taught to stand guard?’ a voice bellowed.

The lad had disappeared in the grass, a good thing with two rebel soldiers now standing over the very spot where he had been.

‘What? I was just havin’ a piss . . .’

They were close, so very close to Frog. Yet they hadn’t seen the outline of his body on the ground in the darkness. The general could guess where the boy was hiding, however, and tried to consider all the possibilities. His trapped apprentice might attempt a rash assault, or else remain in place, petrified with fear. Whatever happened, Dun-Cadal needed to be ready to act. He was squeezing his sword hilt so tightly he could no longer feel his fingertips.

‘Don’t ever leave your post without warning the others,’ the newcomer growled.

‘We only arrived yesterday,’ the soldier said in an insolent tone. ‘Us lot, we don’t know what’s up yet, do we? They just told us, line up the catapults.’

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Avrai Wood, Cap’n. There’re fifteen of us.’

Even from a distance, the general could see the shine of clean if somewhat worn boots. The officer wearing them must have been a member of late Count of Uster’s guard. Dun-Cadal was certain of it. He leaned against the catapult and carefully observed the robust man bearing a large sword reprimanding the new recruit. Fomenting a rebellion with the support of the local rabble was one thing. Maintaining order in the ranks with people who had neither the vocation nor the sense of duty to be proper soldiers was another.

He looked back at the catapult, at the distraction firing it would offer, and in his mind’s eye pictured the trajectory the ball would follow. His smile returned, now tinged with a degree of savageness. They were pointed directly at the rebels’ camp . . .

*

‘You should always be—’ the officer was saying before his voice strangled as he noticed the catapults’ odd alignment. ‘What on earth have you done?’

‘We lined up the catapults, didn’t we?’

The officer advanced a pace. One single pace. And in the dim light, his experienced eye spotted the outline of a prone body. At the sound of his sword being unsheathed, Dun-Cadal’s apprentice finally reacted. Was it out of courage or fear? Either way, he rolled to one side, snatched something up and then quickly stood.

Come on, lad . . . come on . . .

‘You?’ the man gasped. ‘How?’

Sword in hand, he was ready to lunge at the intruder, but instead he just stood there, astonished. He had wide shoulders, a bald head and a split lip. A scar ran from his right eye to the corner of his mouth. Frog was shaking as if his legs were going to give way at any second.

Now!
pleaded Dun-Cadal silently, as he crept along the catapult without taking his eyes off Frog.
Either do it now, or flee!

‘What are you—’

The wood perforated the man’s throat with such force that neither the victim nor his comrade in arms had time to react. Frog screamed and, moved by a wild rage, let go of the wounded man before shoving him away with a kick. Frantically fumbling with his hands, the officer sought to yank out the wooden stick lodged in his neck. He spat blood and tilted his head back with a grimace before falling to the ground in convulsions at the feet of the stunned soldier. The man responded clumsily, pointing his spear at the boy with shaking hands. His gaze seemed lost. Sweat dripped from beneath his dented helmet, tracing crooked lines down the olive skin of his brow. Sweat . . . just like the tears that spilling from Frog’s brimming eyes.

Dun-Cadal could no longer wait. He took a deep breath, grimacing from the pain stabbing his chest, and pictured the torch by the catapult breaking in two. The flaming tip fell upon the grease-covered ball resting within the bucket.

In the corral, the horses were growing restless. The captain lay still upon the ground, his eyes now glassy.

‘Sound the al—’ a voice started to say in the distance.

The rest of the sentence was covered by a sharp twang, followed
by a whistling sound. A ball of fire rose into the air in a perfect arc before plunging down towards the tents pitched a hundred yards away. Flames blossomed upwards and with them came screams. A shadow ran behind the line of tall torches, which toppled in succession at its approach. As the torches fell, their flames set light to the balls waiting in the weapons’ buckets.

The horses whinnied.

Dun-Cadal controlled his breathing as best he could, pulling on an invisible thread as if he were snatching the torches down, using the
animus
to pull them over, then he disappeared into the darkness like a ghost and, without drawing his sword, severed the rope restraining the loaded arm of each catapult. When he felt he had caused enough chaos in the heart of the camp, he leapt on top of a wheel of one of the devices. Below him, the two remaining guards were gaping at the boy, who was confronting one of their own in the light of the flames spreading through the camp. They had no time to comprehend what came plunging down on them. A sword pierced the armpit of the first, in the space between his light armour and his arm, before whipping around in a circular motion and a spray of blood to slash deeply into the other man’s throat.

‘Lad!’ the general shouted.

A few yards away, near the edge of the camp, Frog was still in a muddle. Facing him, the soldier didn’t look like much of a challenge, hesitating with the spear trembling in his hand. The man attempted a jab. Frog backed up too fast and fell on his rear end. Against the grey tents being devoured by red and yellow flames he could see the dark and blurry silhouettes of more soldiers running in their direction. The moment of surprise was gone.

‘Lad!’ Dun-Cadal roared as he rushed towards the boy.

The guard saw a dark mass charging at him from out of the night.

‘We . . . we . . .’ he stammered, ‘we’re under attack!’

That was it; his own fear made him turn and flee. He dropped the spear without paying heed to the boy and disappeared among the tents. The sound of voices grew louder in the distance. Men were approaching and the clatter of swords against their armour rang like chimes. When he reached his pupil, Dun-Cadal had to stop himself from wheezing out loud, one hand on his leg. He had over-taxed himself, both his muscles and his bones reminding him how far they still were from being fully recovered. Kneeling down, he
took hold of the boy’s arm and the pair of them regained their feet, stumbling.

‘Come on,’ urged the general. ‘Come on, let’s go!’

In just a few steps, they reached the corral. An arrow sped past their ears.

‘Mount up! Quickly, lad!’

He opened the gate and pushed Frog towards the horses. Another arrow landed at the knight’s feet. Glancing up, he saw an archer near the tents nocking an arrow, his slender figure haloed by the flames. And more soldiers were arriving, still mere silhouettes, shadows detaching themselves from the blazing camp. Frog grabbed a horse around the neck and hoisted himself onto its back, almost falling back down when the animal whinnied and reared.

‘Ride!’ ordered Dun-Cadal, looking grim.

‘But you . . .’ the boy mumbled in protest.

‘Ride!’ the general yelled in rage.

‘There’s a legend that tells . . .’

With a firm hand, he slapped the rump of Frog’s horse and the beast went off at a gallop.

‘It’s no legend. Me, I was there in the Saltmarsh, I saw it!’

In the night, horse and rider was soon no more than an indistinct shape. Dun-Cadal spun round.

‘I was there too, and he was all alone.’

There were at least twenty of them running in his direction as he limped towards the catapults. With a flick of his sword, he deflected an arrow, groaning from the effort.

‘Months . . . months, I’ve been out here and you think, right now, right here, that I’ll give up . . .’ he muttered.