Eventually, either in disgust or from a feeling of safety that the battle had been left far enough behind, the group slowed and halted. After they searched him and took his every weapon, including his famous black bow, Toc was allowed to pass through the crowding guards. Still mounted, he was led before Imotan, who waited, glowering his impatience.
‘Do you wish to die, Malazan?’ he snarled.
‘What you have done is wrong, Imotan,’ Toc said, calmly. ‘You have stained the Seti with the name of betrayers. But you-’
Toc knew it was useless but he held out his open hands. ‘Imotan, after this battle we can turn all our resources to Heng-’
Toc forced himself to relax.
‘We shall see,’ and he signed to his guards.
Two lances pierced Toc's sides, physically raising him from his saddle, then withdrew. He gasped at the overwhelming pain of it. His world narrowed to a tunnel of light and roaring agony. He was only dimly aware of the troop heading off leaving him hunched in his saddle.
After a time his mount moved a restless step and he unbalanced, sliding off to fall without even noting the impact. He lay staring at the sky through a handful of dry golden blades of grass until a dark shape obscured his view, sat him up.
A sharp stinging blow upon his face. He blinked, squinted at someone crouched before him, wet his lips. ‘Ah, Captain Moss. Thank you… but I don't think there's much hope…’
The captain was studying him. The scar across his face was a livid, healing red. Sighing, Moss sat, plucked a blade of grass and chewed it. Slow dawning realization brought a rueful grin to Toc's lips. ‘But… you're not going to try.’
‘No, sir.’
Toc laughed, convulsing, and coughed. Wetness warmed his lips. He touched it, examined his bloody fingers. ‘So. She sent you, did she? I thought the Claw was compromised.’
‘I'm freelance. I sometimes tie up loose ends for her.’ Moss looked away, scanned the horizons. After a moment, he said, ‘I've come to admire you — I really have. I want you to know that. I'm sorry.’ He shifted his sitting position, checked the grounds behind him. ‘She wants you to know that she's sorry too. So long as you kept away she was willing to look the other way. But this…’ he shook his head, took out the blade of grass, studied it and flicked it aside.
‘I suggest you try Urko next,’ Toc breathed wetly. ‘Get real close first…’
‘Tell me about these Marchland Sentries. What or who are they guarding?’
His head sinking, Toc tried to edge it side to side — perhaps he succeeded — he wasn't sure. He dragged his fingers through the dirt, raised the handful of black earth mixed with blood to his face. ‘I'm glad to die here,’ he said, slurring. ‘Glad. The sunlight. The wind. Beautiful
The man rose, dusting his leathers. After a moment hoofbeats shook the ground. Then, nothing. The wind knocked the heavy grasses. Insects whirred. The sun warmed the side of Toc's face. Then came movement again. He had no idea how much time had passed; each breath seemed an eternity of pained inhaling followed by wet exhaling. Someone else now stood before him — a Seti in moccasins and leathers. The man examined his wounds, raised his face, but Toc saw only a dark blur. The man said something to him, a question, but Toc only noted how the sunlight now held such a golden glow. The man left accompanied by many horses. The silence of the prairie that was in truth no silence returned. Toc felt himself join it.
At first Nait couldn't believe it when the Seti withdrew. He thought it was some kind of diversion or awful cruel trick. He'd been sure they were goners. Now, though, he joined in the great roaring cheers that followed their disappearance. The tall banner marking where the Sword's command was locked in combat with the Moranth Gold waved its encouragement. The steady crushing advance of the Gold into the Malazan phalanx faltered. In front of Nait the irregulars punched their arms into the air, hugged the infantry who moments before had been beating them away with the flats of their blades.
Then almost as if with one mind the skirmishers melted away and Nait saw the Falaran infantry phalanx closing double-time. Obviously, they now saw their only chance in breaking the Imperial units. Iron mail skirting chased in bronze flashed as the Falarans stepped in unison. They held broad, engraved leather-covered shields locked and steady, shortswords thrust straight out between the shields. Squared Falaran helmets framed eyes, some narrowed in calculation, searching their targets, others wide in eager bloodlust. ‘Hold!’ the master sergeant was bellowing to Nait's right.
Nait would have run if he could have. This wasn't what he'd signed up for! To be cut down in some stupid pointless battle! But he was pressed within the second rank and couldn't even raise his elbows. He could only watch as the opposing ranks closed, the marching feet shaking the ground, the stink of piss and fear assaulting him from the men and women around him, and perhaps from himself as well. His mouth was cracked dry in terror, his hand numb on the grip of the light duelling longsword he'd picked up during the Guard's assault of Unta.
The front lines crashed, jamming together as shields slid clashing into shield. Nait was squeezed breathless in the press. He couldn't even raise his sword, so ruthlessly were the two bodies of soldiers jostling for momentum. Dust kicked up by the shuffling pushing feet blinded him and caught in his throat as he sucked in great gasping breaths. Soldiers screamed around him, in rage, in pain, in panic, the noise melding with the clash of sword and crack of shields, until it all became a meaningless unintelligible roar that simply sounded like a beast thirsty for his blood.
The man before him fell to a blow to the neck and the press forced him forward though he had no wish to step into that gap. In a ferocious will to preserve his skin he smashed his shield into the Falaran opposing, flicked the longsword to his eyes then down around his shield to catch the inside of his thigh and cut, withdrawing. The man fell to one knee and Nait punched his face with the boss of his shield. Immediately the Falaran behind lunged forward to smash Nait's own shield into his face. Stunned, he barely fended off the man's attacks. That taught him, though, and he settled into a stubborn, reserved defence, using his longer reach to thrust his opponents back.
What was happening just two soldiers away came to be completely irrelevant to him. His world shrank to just the enemy facing him and his shieldman and — woman flanking. For fleeting moments when the line of locked shields moved smoothly as one he had the feeling of being part of something far greater than himself. Something far stronger, almost omnipotent. It was the most intoxicating sensation of his life. Something he'd never even suspected could exist in the world. And almost immediately he felt addicted to the power of it.
How much time passed he'd no idea. All he knew was exhaustion such as he'd never imagined. Everything was wrung from him in the panicked heart-hammering effort to live. Yet he drew the strength from somewhere within to raise his shield one more time, to thrust and block. For to do otherwise would mean his death. Eventually, in a haze of pink, he sensed the pressure against him lessening. Falaran soldiery were breaking off, turning and running. Crossbow bolts took them in a withering gale like dark wings passing overhead. Nait flinched, rocked, as a number of bolts punched his shield. He opened his mouth to complain but no sound came.
Before him the men and women of the Untan Volunteer Citizen Militia now scrambled over an open field of fallen. ‘Right! Right face!’ came a roaring order. The phalanx turned, armour clashing.
Through the screen of the shifting, darting irregulars, Nait could see only the tall shields and helms of Moranth Gold closing in their slow deliberate pace. Then, Imperial infantry appeared, jogging from the front. A troop of Imperial cavalry came roaring back and in their midst bobbed the tall banner marking the Sword.
