‘Why names?’ asked Hogun. ‘Would it not be simpler if each group had a number? Gods, man, that’s 180 names to find!’
‘There is more to warfare, Hogun, than tactics and training. I want proud men on those walls. Men who know their comrades and can identify with them. “Group Karnak” will be representing Karnak the One-eyed, where “Group Six” would be merely identified.
‘Throughout the next few weeks we will set one group against another, in work, play and mock combat. We will weld them into units – proud units. We will mock and cajole them, sneer at them even. Then, slowly, when they hate us more than they do the Nadir, we will praise them. In as short a time as possible, we must make them think of themselves as an elite force. That’s half the battle. These are desperate, bloody days; days of death. I want men on those walls; strong men, fit men – but most of all, proud men.
‘Tomorrow you will choose the officers and allocate the groups. I want the groups running until they drop, and then running again. I want sword practice and wall scaling. I want demolition work done by day and night. After ten days we will move on to unit work. I want the stretcher-bearers running with loads of rock until their arms burn and their muscles tear.
‘I want every building from Wall Four to Wall Six razed to the ground and the tunnels blocked.
‘I want one thousand men at a time working on the demolition in three-hour shifts. That should straighten backs and strengthen sword arms.
‘Any questions?’
Hogun spoke: ‘No. Everything you wish for will be done. But I want to know this: do you believe the Dros can hold until the autumn?’
‘Of course I do, laddie,’ lied Druss easily. ‘Why else would I bother? The point is, do you believe it?’
‘Oh yes,’ lied Hogun, smoothly. ‘Without a doubt.’
The two men grinned.
‘Join me in a glass of Lentrian red,’ said Druss. ‘Thirsty work, this planning business!’
11
In a wooden loft, its window in the shadow of the great Keep, a man waited, drumming his fingers on the broad table. Behind him, pigeons ruffled their feathers within a wickerwork coop. The man was nervous. On edge.
Footsteps on the stairs made him reach for a slender dagger. He cursed and wiped his sweating palm on his woollen trousers.
A second man entered, pushed the door shut and sat opposite the first.
The newcomer spoke: ‘Well? What orders are there?’
‘We wait. But that may change when word reaches them that Druss is here.’
‘One man can make no difference,’ said the newcomer.
‘Perhaps not. We shall see. The tribes will be here in five weeks.’
‘Five? I thought . . .’
‘I know,’ said the first man. ‘But Ulric’s firstborn is dead. A horse fell on him. The funeral rites will take five days; and it’s a bad omen for Ulric.’
‘Bad omens can’t stop a Nadir horde from taking this decrepit fortress.’
‘What is Druss planning?’
‘He means to seal the tunnels. That’s all I know so far.’
‘Come back in three days,’ said the first man. He took a small piece of paper and began to write in tiny letters upon it. He shook sand on the ink, blew it, then re-read what he had written:
Deathwalker here. Tunnels sealed. Morale higher.
‘Perhaps we should kill Druss,’ said the newcomer, rising.
‘If we are told to,’ said the first man. ‘Not before.’
‘I will see you in three days then.’
At the door he adjusted his helm, sweeping his cloak back over his shoulder badge.
He was a Drenai Dun.
*
Cul Gilad lay slumped on the short grass by the wall of the cookhouse at Eldibar, breath heaving from his lungs in convulsive gasps. His dark hair hung in lank rats’ tails which dripped sweat to his shoulders. He turned on his side, groaning with the effort. Every muscle in his body seemed to be screaming at him. Three times he and Bregan, with forty-eight others of Group Karnak, had raced against five other groups from Wall One to Wall Two, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Three, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Four . . . An endless, mindless agony of effort.