‘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. ‘Hold!’

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. Not me, was all his mind could repeat like a personal prayer, not me, not me. Not me!

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. ‘March?

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.

The leading Imperial phalanx had broken.

And now, Braven Tooth's command, with him jammed inside, was moving across to seal the gap. Nait felt his own flesh cringing from the coming confrontation. ‘Halt!’ The phalanx froze, feet stamping as one. ‘Left face!’ They turned. ‘Relief!’ The ranks shifted, edging past one another. Nait found himself three ranks back from the front. An extraordinary weight left his shoulders and suddenly he could breathe. But the feeling was short-lived for he knew that if things went badly it would be his turn again too soon.

‘Corporal! Corporal Nait!’

The woman next to Nait nudged him. ‘Someone wants you, Jumpy.’

Movement behind through the ranks and a hand cuffed Nait's shoulder. He turned, fist rising. Captain Tinsmith caught the hand. ‘Still with us, I see,’ Tinsmith said, impressed.

Nait tried to speak, had to struggle to wet his mouth. ‘Ah, yes, sir.’

The captain's brows rose. ‘Sir, now, is it? Well, collect your saboteurs. There's fallen Moranth out there and those fool irregulars are collecting munitions. Confiscate it all. Saboteurs only! Quickly!’

‘Yes, sir!’

Nait edged down the ranks picking men and women from the lines as he went. Reaching a flank, he pushed outside the phalanx, slung the heavy broad shield on to his back. Suddenly he felt completely exposed, naked. He cuffed the lads nearest him. ‘Let's go! Collect munitions – search the Hood-baiting skirmishers for it!’ The men and women saluted him and he jerked, startled. Oh yeah – and don't that feel good too!

The open plain of battle was a seething mass of running skirmishers jockeying for position. Troops of Talian and Falaran cavalry would suddenly appear without warning, scything through, running down irregulars, swords flashing, only to circle away before concerted fire could be brought to bear. Yet the League cavalry were too few. For the instant the horsemen passed, the skirmishers straightened and once more fire returned to punish the shield walls of the Gold and Malazan League formations.