The Crippled God (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #10)

by Steven Erikson

Eyes on the mass of enemy below, an enemy heaving ever closer, he drew round the satchel he had collected from the mound of gear close to the feet of the Crippled God. Drew out the cusser. Always keep one. Always. Sapper’s vow. If you’re going down, take the bastards with ya. He lifted it high. Behind him he heard Fiddler shriek his name. Aw, shit. Sorry, Fid. Hedge plunged down the trail, rushing the mob of Kolansii. And then heard someone behind him, and whirled. ‘Fiddler, damn you! No! Go back!’ Instead, his friend tackled him. Both went down, the cusser flying from Hedge’s hand. Neither man ducked for cover, instead turning to watch the munition take its leisurely, curving path down to the press of soldiers – and all those bobbing iron helms. It struck one of those helms clean as a coconut falling from a tree. Burst open to spill insensate carmine powder. The two sappers stared at each other, faces barely a hand’s width apart, and in unison they cried, ‘Dud!’