Die never for a god, Nikodemos who should know better - not your soldiers' god, nor any other.
Honorable battle sustains a Sacred Band.
Don't forget, Riddler, how I love thee. Or all we shared together. Or that this sea and all other seas can lead you back to me.
"Learn what can, and cannot, be asked from destiny."
I thought we'd die there, quarrels in our backs, you for what you did and me for bearing witness.
Reasons never matter, once Death comes cold and bold and takes the living by the hand. You count up your dead, every one.
You're not one to take lightly, to love of for an evening and leave of a dawn.
You count up your dead, every one. Always. Recall them, each and all - every face, every heart.
Wanting neither too much to live, nor too much to die.
And what do the Theban hoplites see in this extended rending of the sky, this white-bright glory of Enlil's lightning? The future, but not theirs: paired cavalry fighters; formed ranks of armored death; grim men on their tall horses with lightning limning weapons tailored to the task; men spoiling for a fight if the gods allowed - the Sacred Band of Stepsons, out from shadows and the dark.
Very little in science fiction can transcend the gimmickry of a technical conceit, yet without that conceit at its heart a book is not truly science fiction. Furthermore, so little emerging thought and technology is employed by sf writers today that the genre is lagging far behind reality both in the cosmology area and the technology area: sf is no longer a place to experiment, but is now very derivative.
Revenge is fruitless.
Everything that anyone respects is what men naturally excel at: fighting, accruing wealth, playing at power.
I don't want to be any closer to the gods than death will bring me.
Everyone prepares for battle in his own way.
Here Stormbringer spies the Stepsons, the Theban fighters, and the 3rd Commando, attending to their own. In the face of such unflinching determination and unswerving devotion, the hurricane pauses and calms. Its ravings turn to mutters.
Every man's in his own hands, with a little help from his brothers.
Survival's the thing, isn't it?
If it was true today, it might be untrue tomorrow.
Tempus would be protected, better shielded from whatever the Stepson thought threatening, if love could heal and save.
The city guardsmen were like the keres, doom-bringers of merciless vengeance.
For Tempus...was a dozen storm gods' avatar; no army he sanctified could know defeat; no war he fought could not be won. Combat was life to him; he fought like the gods themselves.
Niko knew death like a sister - she was his true partner in the phenomenal world.
So some will be left who remember.
Learn when to fear, and how to fear, and how much to fear, before you squander all you have left.
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