The Path of Anger Read Free Page A

created this world. But you, with all your grand ideas, have forgotten that, haven’t you? You don’t believe in anything. I’m surprised you haven’t burnt all the churches.’
    ‘The Order of Fangol is respected, despite what you may think.’
    ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word respect,’ Dun scoffed, shaking his head in contempt. ‘You’ve forsaken the Book, renounced it.’
    ‘Each individual may choose to believe or not. It’s a new world.’
    ‘It’s not mine,’ the old man said with a grimace, glancing at the Nâaga.
    Viola did not doubt for a single instant that he was the man she’d been looking for. But perhaps she needed a different strategy to find a way to prod him into giving up his secrets.
    ‘Who’s speaking now? The soldier skulking far behind the battle lines, or the drunk old man?’ she asked. ‘Both, perhaps? I have trouble telling them apart, they’re so alike in their cowardice.’
    The old man’s face stiffened.
    ‘You insult me,’ he muttered.
    ‘Really, Dun? What do I know about you, apart from the fact that you fled Emeris after stealing Eraëd?’
    Dun wasn’t drunk enough to succumb to his anger, but nor was he lucid enough to consider the consequences of his next act. He stretched out his hand towards the jug and, without his fingers touching it, it began to slide across the table towards him. Viola was speechless, her eyes widening in astonishment. She slowly pushed her spectacles up to the bridge of her nose with the tip of her index finger as if to reassure herself that she was seeing clearly. His arms crossed, Rogant grew very still.
    The animus . Only the great knights of the Empire knew how to use it. And since the Empire’s fall, there were few left who could have given such a demonstration. The gift had been lost.
    The carousing in the tavern had become a distant buzz, the customers no more than ghostly silhouettes. Viola and Rogant only had eyes for the jug before them. It had well and truly moved and Dun suddenly realised what his simple gesture, born of annoyance, would cost him. Here, where he had always acted the part of an ordinary soldier, he had revealed his true face to a chit of a girl just graduated from the Great College of Emeris. She had barely known the Empire. How would she judge him? As one of the butchers of the former Kingdoms, an enemy of the Republic she served? How could she, escorted by a barbarian, an enemy from his previous life, possibly understand him?
    ‘You’re n-not simply a s-soldier,’ stammered Viola. ‘You’re a knight.’
    ‘Bah!’ said Dun dismissively, looking away. ‘The Knighthood died along with the Empire . . .’
    Dun . She repeated the name to herself, trying to recall as much as possible from her history classes. Dun . . . the name was familiar to her.
    ‘Dun-Cadal,’ she whispered.
    The old man’s eyes shone with sadness.
    ‘You’re Dun-Cadal, General Dun-Cadal of the House of Daermon,’ Viola continued. ‘Dun-Cadal, the commander at the battle of the Saltmarsh, you—’
    ‘And was I cowering far behind the battle lines, then?’ the old man interrupted her.
    Viola was at a loss for words. The battle of the Saltmarsh was noteworthy in history for its consequences, but above all for its terrible violence. Few had survived. Dun-Cadal had been trapped in enemy territory for months before he managed to slip through the lines and return to Emeris. He’d accomplished his fair share of great deeds, but, of them all, his escape was the feat that stuck in people’s memories.
    ‘The sword is in the Eastern territories. Go and look for it there and stop pestering me. Go ahead, take what’s left of the Empire and expose it for all to see.’
    ‘So you admit you carried it—’
    Dun looked distracted, his gaze lost in the distance, his eyelids beginning to droop.
    ‘I say many things when I’ve been drinking,’ he fumed. ‘You’ll spill your venom on that blade and its guard will seem quite dull