‘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 sight of the clear ground between walls only emphasised 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 which gave the men a fresh topic of conversation.
As Group Karnak assembled for their 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 armour 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, others jeered. Mendar was furious. The man’s making an even greater fool of himself, he thought. And he’s making us the laughing stock, 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 further along the wall.
Orrin gritted his teeth and carried on, staying with the troop throughout the day and even working on the demolition. By 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 armour.
At daybreak he bathed, put on his armour 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 round 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, he ran on, ignoring the pain in his side. Sweat stung his eyes and his white horse-hair creasted 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 centre 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. That’s it. A deep breath every two strides. And keep counting. Think of nothing except the number of breaths. Now stay with me.’