I don't doubt that he does – though not in those words. ‘Sweeping back the irregulars momentarily.’
The rider saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’ He reined around and gouged the iron spikes of his stirrups into his mount's flanks, galloping off in a flurry of thrown dirt.
Imotan caught Toc's gaze, directed it to the ridge line. ‘The Seti are here – just as promised, Toc the Elder.’
Riders climbed the ridges and crests to the north, a curving, undulating skirmish-line of thousands of light cavalry lancers. Below, on the broad open plain a great moan went up among the Untan irregulars. The flights of crossbow bolts – so thick at times it was hard to see through their waves – faltered, thinning to nothing. The exposed men and women swarmed, bunching up like ants around three squares of infantry in their midst, seeking sanctuary within. Toc could well imagine the brutal exigency of those infantry pushing back their own allies – to allow entrance to any would mean compromising the integrity of their own formation. Still, so many! If they should recover, take a stand of any kind…
‘And now, Toc,’ Imotan said, a hand raised, his voice climbing. ‘Because we Seti remain a free people – free to choose! We choose to go!’ And he signalled to the standard-bearer, who circled the tall crosspiece hung with its freshly skinned white pelts and animal skulls. Droplets of blood pattered down on Toc's bare head and he flinched, ducking. Go? Does he mean attack?
All along the crests of the shallow hills, the mounted figures turned and rode off, descending out of sight. Toc gaped, turning left and right. What? What was this? Imotan's white-caped bodyguards pushed their mounts between him and the shaman as the man turned his horse around.
What? ‘Wait! Wait, damn you! You can't do this!’ He reached for his sword. All of the nearest bodyguard, some twenty, went for their weapons and Toc's staff set their hands to their grips. Toc lifted his hand away carefully. ‘Imotan!’ he bellowed to the shaman cantering his mount. ‘This is wrong! You can still salvage your honour! Imotan! Listen to me!’ Listen…
‘We should get word to Urko,’ a staffer said, his voice faint.
‘I'm sure he can see clearly enough,’ Moss suggested.
Still staring after the retreating back of the shaman, his shoulders as rigid as glass, Toc said, ‘Everyone go to Urko. He'll need all the cavalry he can get.’ None moved; all sat regarding their commander. He turned to scan their faces one by one and all glanced away from the complete desolation written there in the man's eyes. ‘Go! All of you!… And tell him… tell him, I'm sorry that in the end, I failed him.’ Toc kicked his mount to ride after the White Jackal shaman.
After glancing amongst themselves for a time, uncertain, the assembled staffers and messengers turned their mounts down on to the plain. All but one, who lingered behind.
For a few leagues the Seti ignored Toc, the lone rider attempting to push his way past the surrounding screen of the escort. The dull roar of battle had fallen away long ago. The guards swung their lances, urging him off, laughing, as if he were no more than an unwanted dog.
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-’
‘Wrong!’ the shaman shrieked. ‘You betrayed your promise, Malazan! You promised us Heng! You turned away from that promise and so now we turn away from 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-’
‘Too late, Malazan? Spittle flew from the man's lips. His hands knotted themselves within the strips of his reins. ‘Another false promise! More of your empty words. All too late. Now we have our ancient patron returned to us! With him we will level Heng ourselves. Why should we die for you, eh?’ The rheumy, lined eyes slitted as the man eased into a satisfied smile. ‘And now such alliances as this are no longer necessary, Malazan. Have you any last words?’
Toc forced himself to relax. Useless, how useless it all was. ‘Ryllandaras can't destroy Heng, Imotan. Never could, never will.’
‘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.