‘They say in the mess hall,’ said Bregan, ‘that after a month this bread is riddled with worms.’
‘Do you believe everything they tell you?’ snapped Gilad, suddenly angry. ‘If I was sure I’d be alive in a month, I would be glad to eat wormy bread.’
‘Not me,’ said Bregan. ‘It can poison you, so they say.’
Gilad bit back his anger.
‘You know,’ said Bregan thoughtfully, ‘I don’t know why so many people seem to think we’re doomed. Look at the height of this wall. And there are six of them. And at the end of it there’s still the Dros itself. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s wrong, Gil? You’re acting so strangely. Laughing one minute, angry the next. It’s not like you, you’ve always been so . . . cool, I suppose.’
‘Don’t mind me, Breg. I’m just frightened.’
‘So am I. I wonder if Sybad got a letter. It’s not the same, I know – as seeing them, I mean. But it lifts me to hear they’re well. I’ll bet Legan isn’t sleeping too well, without me there.’
‘Don’t think about that,’ said Gilad, sensing the emotional shift in his friend and knowing his tears were not far away. Such a soft man. Not weak. Never weak. But soft, gentle and caring. Not like himself. He hadn’t come to Delnoch to defend the Drenai and his family – he came because he was bored. Bored with his life as a fanner, cold to his wife and uncaring about the land. Up at first light to tend the animals and prepare the fields, tilling and planting until late afternoon. Repairing fences, or leather hinge-straps or leaking buckets until long after dusk. Then slipping into a rush-mattressed bed beside a fat, carping woman, whose complaints would drone on long after sleep had carried him on the all too short journey to a new sunrise.
He had believed nothing could be worse, but he could not have been more wrong.
He thought of Bregan’s words about Dros Delnoch’s strength. His mind’s eye pictured hundreds of thousands of barbarian warriors swarming like ants over a thin line of defenders. It’s funny, he thought, how different people view the same event. Bregan can’t see how they can take Delnoch.
I can’t see how they can fail.
All in all, he thought, smiling, I think I would rather be Bregan.
‘I’ll bet it’s cooler at Dros Purdol,’ said Bregan. ‘The sea air blowing in and all that. This pass seems to make even the spring sun burn.’
‘It blocks the east wind,’ said Gilad, ‘and the grey marble reflects the heat down on to us. I expect it’s pleasant in winter, though.’
‘Well, I shall not be here to see that,’ said Bregan. ‘I only signed on for the summer and I’m hoping to be back in time for the harvest supper. That’s what I told Lotis.’
Gilad laughed, his tension flowing from him. ‘Never mind Druss,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re with me, Breg, I really am.’
Bregan’s brown eyes searched Gilad’s face for any sign of sarcasm. Satisfied, he smiled. ‘Thanks for saying that. We never had much to do with one another at the village and I always felt you thought I was dull.’
‘I was wrong. Here, take my hand on it. We will stick together, you and I, see off the Nadir and journey back to the Supper with tall tales.’
Bregan gripped his hand, grinning, then: ‘Not like that,’ he said suddenly. ‘It has to be the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist.’
Both men chuckled.
‘Never mind about saga-poets,’ said Gilad. ‘We will compose our own song. Bregan of the Broadsword and Gilad, the demon of Dros Delnoch. How’s that?’
‘I think you ought to find another name for yourself. My Legan has always been afraid of demons.’
The sound of Gilad’s laughter reached the eagle high above the pass. It banked sharply and flew to the south.
10
Druss paced impatiently in the great hall of the keep, gazing absently at the marble statues of past heroes flanking the high walls. No one had questioned him as he entered the Dros, and everywhere soldiers were sitting in the spring sunshine, some dicing their meagre wages, others asleep in the shade. The city folk moved about their business as usual and a dull, apathetic air hung over the fortress. The old man’s eyes had blazed with a cold fury. Officers chatted among the enlisted men – it was almost more than the old warrior could bear. Angry beyond endurance, he had marched to the Keep and hailed a young officer in a red cloak who stood in the shade of the portcullis gate.