He moved in front of the general, keeping to the same slow pace, then increased it gently.
Druss sat back on the battlements as the race drew near its end. Orrin was being drawn along by the slim under-leader. Most of the men had finished the race and were spread out watching the last few runners. Orrin was still last, but only ten yards adrift of the tiring Cul from Group Fire. Men started yelling for the Cul to sprint. Every group except Karnak was willing him on.
Thirty yards to go. Gilad dropped back alongside Orrin. ‘Give it everything,’ he said. ‘Run, you fat son of a bitch!’
Gilad increased his pace and sped by the Cul. Orrin gritted his teeth and took after him. Anger gave him strength. Fresh adrenalin flowed to tired muscles.
Ten yards to go and now he was at the man’s shoulder. He could hear the encouragement screamed from the crowd. The man beside him pulled ahead with a last effort, his face twisted in agony.
Orrin drew level in the shadow of the gate and lurched ahead. He hurled himself forward, crashing to the earth and rolling into the crowd. He couldn’t get up, but hands grabbed him, hauling him to his feet and pounding his back. He fought for breath . . . A voice said: ‘Keep walking. It will help. Come on, move your legs.’ Supported on both sides, he began to walk. Druss’s voice came down from the battlements.
‘That man’s group, one more circuit.’
Group Fire set off, this time at a slow jog.
Gilad and Bregan helped Orrin to a jutting foundation block and sat him upon it. His legs were shaking, but his breathing was less ragged.
‘I am sorry I insulted you,’ said Gilad. ‘I wanted to make you angry. My father always said anger helps the strength.’
‘You don’t have to make excuses,’ said Orrin. ‘I shall take no action.’
‘It’s not an excuse. I could do that run ten times over; so could most of my men. I just thought it would help.’
‘It did. Thank you for dropping back.’
‘I think you did wonderfully well,’ said Bregan. ‘I know how you felt. But we’ve been doing this for nearly two weeks. Today is only your second day.’
‘Will you join us again tomorrow?’ asked Gilad.
‘No. I should like to, but I do have other work to do.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘Pinar is very good at paperwork, and I am damned tired of having complaining deputations knocking at my door every five minutes. Yes, I’ll be here.’
‘May I make a suggestion?’ said Gilad.
‘Of course.’
‘Get yourself some ordinary armour. You will stand out less.’
‘I’m supposed to stand out,’ said Orrin, smiling. ‘I am the Gan.’
High above them, Druss and Hogun shared a bottle of Lentrian Red.
‘It took nerve for him to come out today after the jeering yesterday,’ said Druss.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Hogun. ‘No, dammit, I’ll agree with you and praise the man. But it goes against the grain. You gave him the backbone.’
‘You can’t give a man something that isn’t there,’ said Druss. ‘he just never looked for it.’ Druss grinned and took a long swig from the bottle, passing it to Hogun half-drained.
‘I like the little man,’ said Druss. ‘He’s game!’
*
Orrin lay back on his narrow bunk, his back cushioned by soft pillows, his hand curled around a clay cup. He tried to tell himself there was no glory in coming second from last. Happily he failed. He had never been athletic, even as a child. But he came from a family of warriors and Drenai leaders and his father had insisted he take part in all soldierly pursuits. He had always handled a sword well, which, in his father’s eyes, made up for the other, mightier, shortcomings. Like not being able to stand physical pain. Or not being able to understand, even after patient explanation, the great mistake made by Nazredas at the battle of Plettii. He wondered if his father would have been pleased at his hurling himself to the floor in order to beat a Cul in a foot race. He smiled: he would think him mad.