Only his fury kept him going, especially after the first wall. The white-bearded old bastard had watched him beat six hundred men to Wall Two, his burning legs and tired arms pumping and pulling in full armor. First man! And what did he say? “A staggering old man followed by staggering old women. Well, don’t just lie there, boy. On to Wall Three!”
Then he had laughed. It was the laugh that had done it.
Gilad could have killed him then—slowly. For five miserable endless days the soldiers of Dros Delnoch had run, climbed, fought, torn down buildings in the teeth of hysterical curses from the dispossessed owners, and trundled cart upon cart of rubble into the tunnels at Walls One and Two. Working by day and night, they were bone weary. And still that fat old man urged them on.
Archery tourneys, javelin contests, swordplay, dagger work, and wrestling in between the heavy work made sure that few of the culs bothered to frequent the taverns near the keep.
Damned legion did, though. They glided through the training with grim smiles and hurled scornful jests at the farmers who sought to keep up with them. Let them try working eighteen hours in the fields, thought Gilad. Bastards!
Grunting with pain, he sat up, pushing his back against the wall, and watched others training. He had ten minutes yet before the next shift was required to fill the rubble carts. Stretcher-bearers toiled across the open ground, bearing rocks twice the weight of an injured man. Many had bandaged hands. Alongside them the black-bearded Bar Britan shouted them on.
Bregan tottered toward him and slumped to the grass. His face was cherry red. Silently he handed Gilad an orange half; it was sweet and fresh.
“Thanks, Breg.” Gilad’s eyes moved over the other eight men in his group. Most were lying silently, though Midras had begun to retch. The idiot had a girl in the town and had visited her the night before, creeping back into barracks for an hour’s sleep before daybreak.
He was paying for it now. Bregan was bearing up well: a little faster, a little fitter. And he never complained, which was a wonder.
“Almost time, Gil,” he said. Gilad glanced toward the tunnel, where the work was slowing down. Other members of Group Kamak were moving toward the partly demolished homes.
“Come on, lads,” said Gilad. “Let’s be sitting up. Let’s start taking some deep breaths.” Groans followed the order, and there was scarcely a movement from the men. “Come on, now. Group Kestrian is already moving. Bastards!” Gilad pushed himself to his feet, pulling Bregan up with him. Then he moved to each of the men. Slowly they rose and began to move toward the tunnel.
“I think I’m dying,” said Midras.
“You will if you let us down today,” muttered Gilad. “If that old swine laughs at us one more time …”
“A pox on him,” said Midras. “You don’t see him working up a sweat, do you?”
At dusk the weary men trooped away from the tunnels toward the peace and relative sanctuary of the barracks. They hurled themselves onto narrow cots and began to unbuckle breastplates and greaves.
“I don’t mind the work,” said Baile, a stocky farmer from a village neighboring Gilad’s, “but I don’t see why we have to do it in full armor.”
No one answered him.
Gilad was almost asleep when a voice bellowed: “Group Karnak to the parade ground!”
Druss stood in the parade ground square, hands on hips, his blue eyes scanning the exhausted men who stumbled from the barracks, their eyes squinting against the torchlight. Flanked by Hogun and Orrin, he smiled grimly as the men shambled into ranks.
The fifty men of Group Karnak were joined by Group Kestrian and Group Sword.
Silently they waited for whatever foul idea Druss had now dreamed up.
“You three groups,” said Druss, “are to run the length of the wall and back. The last man’s group will run again. Go!”
As the men set off for the grueling half mile, someone yelled from the crowd: “What about you, fat man? Coming?”
“Not this time,” Druss yelled back. “Don’t be last.”
“They’re exhausted,” said Orrin. “Is this wise, Druss?”
“Trust me. When the attacks come, men will be dragged from sleep fast enough. I want them to know their limits.”
Three more days passed. Tunnel One was almost filled, and work had begun on Tunnel Two. No one cheered now as Druss walked by, not even among the townsfolk. Many had lost their homes; others were losing business. A deputation had visited Orrin, begging for demolition to cease. Others found that the sight of the clear ground between walls only emphasized that Druss expected the Nadir to take the Dros. Resentment grew, but the old warrior swallowed his anger and pushed on with his plan.
On the ninth day something happened that gave the men a fresh topic of conversation.
As Group Karnak assembled for its run, Gan Orrin approached Dun Mendar, the officer commanding.
“I shall be running with your group today,” he said.
“You are taking over, sir?” said Mendar.
“No, no. Just running. A gan must be fit, too, Mendar.”
A sullen silence greeted Orrin as he joined the ranks, his bronze and gold armor setting him apart from the waiting soldiers.
Throughout the morning he toiled with the men, scaling ropes, sprinting between walls. Always he was last. As he ran, some of the men laughed and others jeered. Mendar was furious. The man’s making an even greater fool of himself, he thought. And he’s making us a laughingstock, too. Gilad ignored the gan, except at one point to pull him over the battlements when it looked as if he might fall.
“Let him drop,” yelled a man farther along the wall.
Orrin gritted his teeth and carried on, staying with the troop throughout the day and even working on the demolition. By the afternoon he was working at half the speed of the other soldiers. No one had yet spoken to him. He ate apart from the other men, but not by choice: Where he sat, they did not.
At dusk he made his way to his quarters, body trembling, muscles on fire, and slept in his armor.
At daybreak he stripped, bathed, put on his armor again, and rejoined Group Karnak. Only at sword practice did he excel, but even then he half thought the men were letting him win. And who could blame them?
An hour before dusk Druss arrived with Hogun, ordering four groups to assemble by the gate of Wall Two: Karnak, Sword, Egel, and Fire.
From atop the battlements Druss called down to the two hundred men: “A little race to stretch your muscles, lads. It’s a mile from this gate and around the perimeter and back. You will run it twice. Last man’s group runs again. Go!”
As they hurtled off, bunching and pushing, Hogun leaned forward.
“Damn!” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asked Druss.
“Orrin. He’s running with them. I thought he would have had enough yesterday. What’s the matter with the man? Is he mad?”
“You run with the men,” said Druss. “Why not him?”
“Come on, Druss, what sort of a question is that? I’m a soldier, and I train every day of my life. But him! Look at him—he’s last already. You will have to pick the last man apart from Orrin.”
“I can’t do that, lad. It would shame him. He made his choice, and I expect he has his reasons.”
At the first mile Orrin was thirty yards behind the last man and struggling hard. He fastened his gaze to the back of the man’s breastplate and ran on, ignoring the pain in his side. Sweat stung his eyes, and his white horsehair-crested helm fell from his head. It was a relief.
At a mile and a half he was forty yards adrift.
Gilad glanced back from the center of the leading pack, eased out, and turned, jogging back to the breathless gan. Once alongside, he joined him stride for stride.
“Listen,” he said, breathing easily. “Unclench your fists; it will help with the breathing. Think of nothing else except sticking to me. No, don’t try to answer me. Count your breaths. Take a deep breath and blow out as fast as possible. T
hat’s it. A deep breath every two strides. And keep counting. Think of nothing except the number of breaths. Now stay with me.”
He moved in front of the general, keeping to the same slow pace, then increased it gently.
Druss sat back on the battlements as the race drew near its end. Orrin was being drawn along by the slim under-leader. Most of the men had finished the race and were spread out watching the last few runners. Orrin was still last but only ten yards adrift of the tiring cul from Group Fire. Men started yelling for the cul to sprint. Every group except Karnak was willing him on.
Thirty yards to go. Gilad dropped back alongside Orrin. “Give it everything,” he said. “Run, you fat son of a bitch!”
Gilad increased his pace and sped by the cul. Orrin gritted his teeth and took after him. Anger gave him strength. Fresh adrenaline flowed to tired muscles.
Ten yards to go and now he was at the man’s shoulder. He could hear the encouragement screamed from the crowd. The man beside him pulled ahead with a last effort, his face twisted in agony.
Orrin drew level in the shadow of the gate and lurched ahead. He hurled himself forward, crashing to the earth and rolling into the crowd. He could not get up, but hands grabbed him, hauling him to his feet and pounding his back. He fought for breath. A voice said: “Keep walking. It will help. Come on, move your legs.” Supported on both sides, he began to walk. Druss’s voice came down from the battlements.
“That man’s group, one more circuit.”
Group Fire set off, this time at a slow jog.
Gilad and Bregan helped Orrin to a jutting foundation block and sat him upon it. His legs were shaking, but his breathing was less ragged.
“I am sorry I insulted you,” said Gilad. “I wanted to make you angry. My father always said anger helps the strength.”
“You don’t have to make excuses,” said Orrin. “I shall take no action.”
“It’s not an excuse. I could do that run ten times over; so could most of my men. I just thought it would help.”
“It did. Thank you for dropping back.”
“I think you did wonderfully well,” said Bregan. “I know how you felt. But we’ve been doing this for nearly two weeks. Today is only your second day.”
“Will you join us again tomorrow?” asked Gilad.
“No. I should like to, but I do have other work to do.” He smiled suddenly. “On the other hand,” he said, “Pinar is very good at paperwork, and I am damned tired of having complaining deputations knocking at my door every five minutes. Yes, I’ll be here.”
“May I make a suggestion?” said Gilad.
“Of course.”
“Get yourself some ordinary armor. You will stand out less.”
“I’m supposed to stand out,” said Orrin, smiling. “I am the gan.”
High above them Druss and Hogun shared a bottle of Lentrian red.
“It took nerve for him to come out today after the jeering yesterday,” said Druss.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Hogun. “No, dammit, I’ll agree with you and praise the man. But it goes against the grain. You gave him the backbone.”
“You can’t give a man something that isn’t there,” said Druss. “He just never looked for it.” Druss grinned and took a long swig from the bottle, passing it to Hogun half-drained.
“I like the little man,” said Druss. “He’s game!”
Orrin lay back on his narrow bunk, his back cushioned by soft pillows, his hand curled around a clay cup. He tried to tell himself there was no glory in coming second from last. Happily he failed. He had never been athletic, even as a child. But he came from a family of warriors and Drenai leaders, and his father had insisted that he take part in all soldierly pursuits. He had always handled a sword well, which, in his father’s eyes, made up for the other, mightier, shortcomings. Like not being able to stand physical pain. Or not being able to understand, even after patient explanation, the great mistake made by Nazredas at the Battle of Plettii. He wondered if his father would have been pleased at his hurling himself to the floor in order to beat a Cul in a footrace. He smiled: he would think him mad.
The sound of knuckles rapping at his door brought him back to the present.
“Come!”
It was Druss, minus his black and silver jerkin. Strange how he looked like an old man, thought Orrin, without his legendary garb. The warrior’s beard was combed, and he wore a flowing white shirt-tunic with billowing sleeves gathered in at the wrists. About his middle was a thick black belt with a silver buckle. He was carrying a large bottle of Lentrian red.
“I thought, if you were awake, I might join you for a drink,” said Druss, pulling up a chair and reversing it, as Orrin had seen Hogun do on many occasions.
“Why do you do that?” asked Orrin.
“What?” said Druss.
“Turn the chair around.”
“Old habits die hard, even among friends. It’s a warrior’s habit. With your legs astride the chair, it is easier to rise. Also it puts a thick layer of wood between your belly and the man you are talking to or sitting with.”
“I see,” said Orrin. “I had always meant to ask Hogun, but I never got around to it. What makes men adopt habits like that?”
“The sight of a friend with a knife in his belly!” said Druss.
“I can see that it would. Will you teach me your tricks, Druss, before the Nadir arrive?”
“No. You will have to learn them the hard way. Little things I will help you with at the right time—they may make a difference.”
“Little things? You intrigue me, Druss. Tell me something now.” Orrin accepted a cup of Lentrian and settled back. Druss drank from the bottle.
“All right,” said the axman, half the bottle drained, “answer me this: Why are the men issued with oranges every morning?”
“It keeps them fit and helps prevent dysentery. It’s refreshing and cheap. Is that it?” asked Orrin, puzzled.
“Some of it,” said Druss. “The Earl of Bronze introduced oranges to the army partly for the reasons you mention but mainly because if you rub the juice into the palm of your hand, your sword will not slip as the hand sweats. Also, if you rub it on your brow, sweat will not drop into your eyes.”
“I never knew that. I expect I should have known, but I didn’t. How simple! Give me another.”
“No,” said Druss. “Another time. Tell me, why have you joined in the training with the culs?”
Orrin sat up, his dark eyes fixed on Druss’s face. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“It depends on what you are trying to achieve. Are you seeking respect?”
“Great gods, no!” said Orrin. “I have left it too late for that, Druss. No, it was something you said the other night when the men were turfed out of bed for that night run. I asked you if it was wise, and you said, ‘They need to know their limitations.’ Well, so do I. I’ve never been in a battle. I want to know what it’s like to be woken from sleep after a full day’s training and be expected to fight again.
“I’ve let down a lot of people here. I may let them down again when the Nadir are scaling the wall, though I hope not. But I need to be fitter and faster. And I shall be.
“Is that such a bad idea?”
Druss tilted the bottle, licked his lips, and smiled.
“No. It’s a good idea. But when you are a little fitter, spread yourself around the groups more. It will pay off.”
“Pay off?”
“You’ll see.”
“Have you seen the earl?” asked Orrin suddenly. “Syn says he’s bad. Very bad indeed.”
“I don’t think I have seen worse. He’s constantly delirious now. How he hangs on I don’t know.”
The two men talked on for over an hour, Orrin questioning the old man about his life and the many battles he had taken part in, returning always to the immortal story of Skeln and the fall of King Gorben.
When the keep alarm bell sounded, both men reacted instantly. Druss curse
d, threw the bottle aside, and raced for the door. Orrin heaved himself from his bunk and followed. Across the parade ground square and up the short hill to the keep Druss ran, pounding under the portcullis gate and up the long winding stone stairs to the earl’s bedchamber. Calvar Syn was at his bedside, with Dun Mendar, Pinar, and Hogun. An old servant stood weeping by the window.
“Is he dead?” asked Druss.
“No. Soon,” answered Calvar Syn.
Druss moved to the bedside, sitting beside the frail figure. The earl’s eyes opened and blinked twice.
“Druss?” he called, his voice weak. “Are you there?”
“I am here.”
“He’s coming. I see him. He is hooded and black.”
“Spit in his eye for me,” said Druss, his huge hand stroking the earl’s fevered brow.
“I thought … after Skeln … I would live forever.”
“Be at peace, my friend. One thing I have learned about death is that his bark’s worse than his bite.”
“I can see them, Druss. The Immortals. They’re sending in the Immortals!” The dying man grabbed Druss’s arm and tried to haul himself upright. “Here they come! Gods, will you look at them, Druss!”
“They’re just men. We will see them off.”
“Sit by the fire, child, and I’ll tell you of it. But don’t tell your mother I told you—you know how she hates the bloodthirsty tales. Ah, Virae, my little love! You will never understand what it has meant to me just being your father …” Druss bowed his head as the old earl rambled on, his voice thin and wavering. Hogun gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, Calvar Syn sat slumped in an armchair, and Orrin stood by the door, remembering his own father’s death so many years before.
“We were at the pass for many days, holding out against everything they could throw at us. Tribesmen, chariots, infantry, cavalry. But always the threat of the Immortals hung over us. Never beaten! Old Druss stood at the center of our first line, and as the Immortals marched toward us, we froze. You could feel panic in the air. I wanted to run, and I could see the same feeling reflected on the faces around me. Then old Druss lifted his ax in the air and bellowed at the advancing line. It was wonderful. Magical almost. The spell broke. The fear passed. He raised his ax for them to see, then he shouted. I can hear him now: ‘Come on, you fat-bellied whoresons! I am Druss, and this is death!’