Only his fury kept him going, especially after the first wall. The white-bearded old bastard had watched him beat 600 men to Wall Two, his burning legs and tired arms pumping and pulling in full armour. 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 did 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, sword-play, 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 towards 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 towards the tunnel where the work was slowing down. Other members of Group Karnak were moving towards 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 scarce a movement from the men. ‘Come on, now. Group Kestrian are 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 towards 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 towards the peace and relative sanctity of the barracks. They hurled themselves on to narrow cots and began to unbuckle breastplates and graves.
‘I don’t mind the work,’ said Baile, a stocky farmer from a village neighbouring Gilad’s, ‘but I don’t see why we have to do it in full armour.’
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 torch-light. 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 gruelling half-mile, someone yelled from the crowd: ‘What about you, fat man? Coming?’
‘Not this time,’ Druss yelled back. ‘Don’t be last.’