Four steps. Three.
And, at a bellowing shout, the points of those enormous wedges suddenly drove forward.
Into human flesh, into set shields, spears. Into the Awl.
Each and every mind dreamed of victory. Of immortality. And, among them all, not one would yield.
The sun stared down, blazing with eager heat, on Q’uson Tapi, where two civilizations locked throat to throat.
One last time.
A fateful decision, maybe, but he’d made it now. Dragging with him all the squads that had been in the village, Fiddler took over from some of Keneb’s more beat-up units the west-facing side of their turtleback defence. No longer standing eye to eye with that huge Letherii army and its Hood-cursed sorcerers. No, here they waited, and opposite them, drawing up in thick ranks, the Tiste Edur.
Was it cowardice? He wasn’t sure, and from the looks he caught in the eyes of his fellow sergeants-barring Hellian who’d made a temporarily unsuccessful grab at Skulldeath, or more precisely at his crotch, before Primly intervened-they weren’t sure, either.
Fine, then, I just don’t want to see my death come rolling down on me. Is that cowardly? Aye, by all counts it couldn’t be anything but. Still, there’s this. I don’t feel frightened.
No, all he wanted right now, beyond what Hellian so obviously wanted, of course, all he wanted, then, was to die fighting. To see the face of the bastard who killed him, to pass on, in that final meeting of eyes, all that dying meant, must have meant and would always mean… whatever that was, and let’s hope I do a better job of letting my killer know whatever it is-better, that is, than all those whose eyes I’ve looked into as they died at my hand. Aye, seems a worthy enough prayer.
But I ain’t praying to you, Hood.
In fact, damned if I know who I’m praying to, but even that doesn’t seem to matter.
His soldiers were digging holes but not saying much. They’d received a satchelful of munitions, including two more cussers, and while that wasn’t nearly enough it made it advisable to dig the holes where they could crouch for cover when those sharpers, cussers and all the rest started going off.
All of this, dammit, assumed there would be fighting.
Far more likely, magic would sweep over the Malazans, one and all, grabbing at their throats even as it burned away skin, muscle and organs, burned away even their last desperate, furious screams.
Fiddler vowed to make his last scream a curse. A good one, too.