LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

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.’

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.