‘But why destroy the buildings?’ asked Orrin. ‘We can bring rubble in from the south of the pass.’
‘There is no killing ground,’ said the old warrior. ‘We must get back to the original plan of the Dros. When Ulric’s men breach the first wall, I want every archer in the Dros peppering them. Every yard of open ground will be littered with Nadir dead. We’re outnumbered five hundred to one and we have to level the odds somehow.’
Orrin bit his lip and rubbed his chin, his mind working furiously. He glanced at the white-bearded warrior seated calmly before him. As soon as he heard Druss had arrived, he had prepared for the certainty that he would be replaced – sent back to Drenan in disgrace. Now he was being offered a lifetime. He should have thought of razing the buildings and blocking the tunnels; he knew it, just as he knew he was miscast as a Gan. It was a hard fact to accept.
Throughout the last five years, since his elevation, he had avoided self-examination. However, only days before he had sent Hogun and 200 of his Legion Lancers into the outlands. At first he had held to the belief that it was a sensible military decision. But as the days passed and no word came he had agonised over his orders. It had little to do with strategy, but everything to do with jealousy. Hogun, he had realised with sick horror, was the best soldier in the Dros. When he had returned and told Orrin that his decision had proved a wise one, far from bolstering Orrin it had finally opened his eyes to his own inadequacy. He had considered resigning, but could not face the disgrace. He had even contemplated suicide, but could not bear the thought of the dishonour it would bring to his uncle, Abalayn. All he could do was to die on the first wall. And this he was prepared for. He had feared Druss would rob him even of that.
‘I have been a fool, Druss,’ he said, at last.
‘Enough of that talk!’ snapped the old man. ‘Listen to me. You are the Gan. From this day on no man will speak ill of you. What you fear, keep to yourself, and believe in me. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone fails at something. The Dros will hold, for I will be damned if I will let it fall. If I had felt you were a coward, Orrin, I would have tied you to a horse and sent you packing. You have never been in a siege, nor led a troop into battle. Well, now you will do both, and do it well, for I will be beside you.
‘Get rid of your doubts. Yesterday is dead. Past mistakes are like smoke in the breeze. What counts is tomorrow, and every tomorrow until Wound-weaver gets here with reinforcements. Make no mistake, Orrin. When we survive and the songs are sung, you will be worth your place in them and no one will sneer. Not a soul. Believe it!
‘Now I have talked enough. Give me your seal on parchment and I will start today with my duties.’
‘Will you want me with you today?’
‘Best not,’ said Druss. ‘I have a few heads to crack.’
Minutes later, Druss marched towards the officers’ mess flanked by two Legion guards, tall men and well-disciplined. The old man’s eyes blazed with anger and the guards exchanged a glance as they marched. They could hear the sounds of singing coming from the mess, and were set to enjoy the sight of Druss the Legend in action.
He opened the door and stepped into the lavishly furnished interior. A trestle bar had been set up against the far wall, stretching out into the centre of the room. Druss pushed his way past the revellers, ignoring the complaints, then placed one hand beneath the trestle and hurled it into the air, scattering bottles, goblets, and food to shower on the officers. Stunned silence was followed by an angry surge of oaths and curses. One young officer pushed his way to the front of the crowd; dark-haired, sullen-eyed and haughty, he confronted the white-bearded warrior.