Kill Your Enemies With A Smile Quotes

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Kill your enemies with success and bury them with a smile.... Never fails.
Ziad K. Abdelnour (Economic Warfare: Secrets of Wealth Creation in the Age of Welfare Politics)
She leaned forward, looking utterly inhuman, and I fought the urge to run screaming from the throne room. "I have heard of your exploits, Meghan Chase, " the queen rasped, narrowing her eyes. "Did you not think I would find out? You tricked a prince of the Unseelie Court into following you into the Iron Realm. You made him fight your enemies for you. You bound him to a contract that nearly killed him. My precious boy, almost lost to me forever, because of you. How do you think that makes me feel?" Mab's smile grew more predatory, as my stomach twisted in fear.
Julie Kagawa (The Iron Daughter (The Iron Fey, #2))
Why shouldn't we kill you?" he asked the black-garbed male who came forward to meet him. "We have no quarrel with you." The man's eyes were flat, his voice toneless. "We ask permission to enter your territory to hunt a Psy fugitive." "Permission denied." Lucas folded his arms. "I don't make a habit of allowing enemies into my territory." "This fugitive may be dangerous to you and your people." Lucas smiled and it was nothing friendly. "Then the fugitive will die." "We would prefer to capture this one alive." "Didn't your mother ever tell you - you don't always get what you want?
Nalini Singh (Hostage to Pleasure (Psy-Changeling, #5))
Bob,” she said, “offerings burned in the mortal world appear on this altar, right?” Bob frowned uncomfortably, like he wasn’t ready for a pop quiz. “Yes?” “So what happens if I burn something on the altar here?” “Uh…” “That’s all right,” Annabeth said. “You don’t know. Nobody knows, because it’s never been done.” There was a chance, she thought, just the slimmest chance that an offering burned on this altar might appear at Camp Half-Blood. Doubtful, but if it did work… “Annabeth?” Percy said again. “You’re planning something. You’ve got that I’m-planning-something look.” “I don’t have an I’m-planning-something look.” “Yeah, you totally do. Your eyebrows knit and your lips press together and—” “Do you have a pen?” she asked him. “You’re kidding, right?” He brought out Riptide. “Yes, but can you actually write with it?” “I—I don’t know,” he admitted. “Never tried.” He uncapped the pen. As usual, it sprang into a full-sized sword. Annabeth had watched him do this hundreds of times. Normally when he fought, Percy simply discarded the cap. It always appeared in his pocket later, as needed. When he touched the cap to the point of the sword, it would turn back into a ballpoint pen. “What if you touch the cap to the other end of the sword?” Annabeth said. “Like where you’d put the cap if you were actually going to write with the pen.” “Uh…” Percy looked doubtful, but he touched the cap to the hilt of the sword. Riptide shrank back into a ballpoint pen, but now the writing point was exposed. “May I?” Annabeth plucked it from his hand. She flattened the napkin against the altar and began to write. Riptide’s ink glowed Celestial bronze. “What are you doing?” Percy asked. “Sending a message,” Annabeth said. “I just hope Rachel gets it.” “Rachel?” Percy asked. “You mean our Rachel? Oracle of Delphi Rachel?” “That’s the one.” Annabeth suppressed a smile. Whenever she brought up Rachel’s name, Percy got nervous. At one point, Rachel had been interested in dating Percy. That was ancient history. Rachel and Annabeth were good friends now. But Annabeth didn’t mind making Percy a little uneasy. You had to keep your boyfriend on his toes. Annabeth finished her note and folded the napkin. On the outside, she wrote: Connor, Give this to Rachel. Not a prank. Don’t be a moron. Love, Annabeth She took a deep breath. She was asking Rachel Dare to do something ridiculously dangerous, but it was the only way she could think of to communicate with the Romans—the only way that might avoid bloodshed. “Now I just need to burn it,” she said. “Anybody got a match?” The point of Bob’s spear shot from his broom handle. It sparked against the altar and erupted in silvery fire. “Uh, thanks.” Annabeth lit the napkin and set it on the altar. She watched it crumble to ash and wondered if she was crazy. Could the smoke really make it out of Tartarus? “We should go now,” Bob advised. “Really, really go. Before we are killed.” Annabeth stared at the wall of blackness in front of them. Somewhere in there was a lady who dispensed a Death Mist that might hide them from monsters—a plan recommended by a Titan, one of their bitterest enemies. Another dose of weirdness to explode her brain. “Right,” she said. “I’m ready.” ANNABETH LITERALLY STUMBLED over the second Titan.
Rick Riordan (The House of Hades (Heroes of Olympus, #4))
I don't think I'll bother sleep again.' I shoot a look sideways at his irritatingly gorgeous profile. 'And if you even think about suggesting that you sleep with me for safety from now on-' He scoffs. 'Hardly. I don't fuck first years- even when I was one- let alone... you.' 'Who said anything about fucking?' I fire back, cursing myself as the ache in my ribs only intensifies. 'I'd have to be a masochist to sleep with you, and I can assure you, I'm not.' Fantasising about it doesn't count. 'Masochist, huh?' A corner of his mouth quirks up into a smirk. 'You hardly give off snuggly morning-after vibes.' A smile of my own curves my lips. 'Unless you're worried about me killing you while we sleep.
Rebecca Yarros (Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1))
If you smile you kill your enemy but if you frown you kill your emotion
Daud Gilingil
You wanted a demonstration,” Celaena said quietly. Sweat trickled down her back, but she gripped the magic with everything she had. “One thought from me, and your city will burn.” “It is stone,” Maeve snapped. Celaena smiled. “Your people aren’t.” Maeve’s nostrils flared delicately. “Would you murder innocents, Aelin? Perhaps. You did it for years, didn’t you?” Celaena’s smile didn’t falter. “Try me. Just try to push me, Aunt, and see what comes of it. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Not for me to master my magic, but for you to learn just how powerful I am. Not how much of your sister’s blood flows in my veins—no, you’ve known from the start that I have very little of Mab’s power. You wanted to know how much I got from Brannon.” The flames rose higher, and the shouts—of fright, not pain—rose with them. The flames would not hurt anyone unless she willed it. She could sense other magics fighting against her own, tearing holes into her power, but the conflagration surrounding the veranda burned strong. “You never gave the keys to Brannon. And you didn’t journey with Brannon and Athril to retrieve the keys from the Valg,” Celaena went on, a crown of fire wreathing her head. “You went to steal them for yourself. You wanted to keep them. Once Brannon and Athril realized that, they fought you. And Athril…” Celaena drew Goldryn, its hilt glowing bloodred. “Your beloved Athril, dearest friend of Brannon … when Athril fought you, you killed him. You, not the Valg. And in your grief and shame, you were weakened enough that Brannon took the keys from you. It wasn’t some enemy force who sacked the Sun Goddess’s temple. It was Brannon. He burned any last trace of himself, any clue of where he was going so you would not find him. He left only Athril’s sword to honor his friend—in the cave where Athril had first carved out the eye of that poor lake creature—and never told you. After Brannon left these shores, you did not dare follow him, not when he had the keys, not when his magic—my magic—was so strong.
Sarah J. Maas (Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3))
We were enemies as children. Now let us be allies as men. You’re the sword, I’m the pen.” Dancer would want me to accept the offer. It would guarantee my survival. Guarantee my meteoric rise. I would be inside the halls of the ArchGovernor’s mansion. I would be near the man who killed Eo. Oh, I want to accept. But then I would have to let the Proctors beat me. I’d have to let this little whorefart win and let his father smile and feel pride. I’d have to watch that smug smile spread across his bloodydamn face. Slag that. They’ll feel pain. The
Pierce Brown (Red Rising (Red Rising Saga, #1))
Your Sunny decided to show off for you?” Axel asked with a laugh. “She doesn’t know I’m here,” he grated, keeping the binoculars trained on her. His heart raced. He’d known she enjoyed fighting demons, but he’d never seen her wage war. Despite fear for her safety, his chest puffed with pride. The woman had skill, boundless grace and lethal precision. She was an angel of death, wielding a spear, toppling demons three by three. Magnificent. Of course, he hardened at the sight of her. Not just hardened. Burned. For the first time in centuries, William felt truly demonic. Watching his female lay waste to the enemy, his every savage instinct clambered for attention. Sunny’s companions paused to cheer her on, and a glorious smile lit her face. Killing demons, having fun. “What is she?” Axel asked, sounding awed. What else? “My greatest torment.
Gena Showalter (The Darkest King (Lords of the Underworld, #15))
You aren’t sorry about anything you do.” He flashed a smile at me. “So you are learning.” “I’ve known that fact all my life.” “Then what have you learnt since coming here?” .... “That your house is disorganized,” I said. “That you’re less impressive than I thought and far more annoying. And that if the gods have any mercy, I will find a way to destroy you.” Then I realized I had said that last part out loud. I used to guard my words so well, I thought numbly as I sprang to my feet. What was it about this house, this demon, that made me tell the truth? ..... “Don’t leave the table yet.” Ignifex was on his feet. “The conversation was just getting interesting.” “Yes, of course,” I said, backing away slowly.... “Death is always interesting to you, isn’t it?” ...... “You want me to worry more about my own demise?” I took another step back and smacked into one of the pillars. With nowhere to run—and knowing that running wouldn’t save me—all I could do was stare him down. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly bother you. Do go ahead and rest in comfortable ignorance.” “The better to kill me in my sleep?” “It would be rude to wake you first.” It was like a dance over cracking ice. I felt dizzy with barely leashed terror, but I almost could have laughed, because I was keeping pace with him and I was still alive and that meant I was winning. Ignifex looked almost ready to laugh himself. “But that’s no fun for either of us. You could at least bring me breakfast in bed with death.” “What, poison? So you can show off how you’re immune like Mithridates?” “I’m comforted that you thought of him and not Tantalus.” “As much as you mean to me, husband, there are some things I won’t do for you.” Our eyes met, and for a moment there was nothing but shared glee between us— Between me and my enemy.
Rosamund Hodge
It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which Titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile, I knew we stood in Hell. With a thousand pains[3]that vision's face was grained; Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. "Strange, friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn." "None," said the other, "Save the undone years, The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, Was my life also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, But mocks the steady running of the hour, And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping something had been left, Which must die now. I mean the truth untold, The pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we spoiled. Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled. They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress, None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery; To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled. Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war. Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were. I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now. . . .
Wilfred Owen (The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen)
They went a few dozen yards through fairly open woodland, keeping a sharp look-out. Then they came to a place where the undergrowth thickened and they had to pass nearer to it. Just as they were passing the place, there came a sudden something that snarled and flashed, rising out from the breaking twigs like a thunderbolt. Lucy was knocked down and winded, hearing the twang of a bowstring as she fell. When she was able to take notice of things again, she saw a great grim-looking gray bear lying dead with Trumpkin’s arrow in its side. “The D.L.F. beat you in that shooting match, Su,” said Peter, with a slightly forced smile. Even he had been shaken by this adventure. “I--I left it too late,” said Susan, in an embarrassed voice. “I was so afraid it might be, you know--one of our kind of bears, a talking bear.” She hated killing things. “That’s the trouble of it,” said Trumpkin, “when most of the beasts have gone enemy and gone dumb, but there are still some of the other kind left. You never know, and you daren’t wait to see.” “Poor old Bruin,” said Susan. “You don’t think he was?” “Not he,” said the Dwarf. “I saw the face and I heard the snarl. He only wanted Little Girl for his breakfast. And talking of breakfast, I didn’t want to discourage your Majesties when you said you hoped King Caspian would give you a good one: but meat’s precious scarce in camp.
C.S. Lewis (Prince Caspian (Chronicles of Narnia, #2))
An inch?” Minh held his fingers apart trying to judge the unfamiliar measurement. Shake took his hand and squeezed the fingers closer together.           “By such small amounts...we win or lose.”           “Nobody won in that fight, Minh. We both lost.”           “The dreams...”           “Yes. I have them too...and you are always there.”           “Where is all the hate?”           “Gone. It always goes...when you realize your enemy is just another man...just another soldier trying to do his duty.”           “That’s how you think of me?”           “It is now. Before this you were the black-eyed monster of my nightmares.”           “And you were the green-eyed monster...”           They smiled and studied the glow of the candle.           “You stayed in your Marine Corps...”           “Yes. I had nothing in common with civilians. Didn’t like them much. I was comfortable as a Marine...among others who understand me.”           “I understand you...”           “I believe you do, Minh.”           “Did you marry? Have children?”           “I was married but that is finished now. This is my daughter...my only child.”Shake reached for his wallet and pulled out Stacey’s high school graduation picture in cap and gown.           “A scholar. She is very beautiful.”           “Yes...she is everything to me.”           “And if I had killed you that night up on those walls, she would never have been born.”Minh handed the photo back and nodded. “I wish I had known this. It makes me feel better.
Dale A. Dye (Laos File (The Shake Davis Series Book 1))
O, Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who turn to you. Amen. . When we meet someone and fall in love, we have a sense that the whole universe is on our side. I saw this happen today as the sun went down. And yet if something goes wrong, there is nothing left! No herons, no distant music, not even the taste of his lips. How is it possible for the beauty that was there only minutes before to vanish so quickly? . Life moves very fast. It rushes us from heaven to hell in a matter of seconds. . I smile and say nothing, . If I must be faithful to someone or something, then I have, first of all, to be faithful to myself. . Everything is an illusion - and that applies to material as well as spiritual things. . She had spent a lot of her life saying 'no' to things to which she would have liked to say 'yes', . My dear, it's better to be unhappy with a rich man than happy with a poor man, and over there you'll have far more chance of becoming an unhappy rich woman. . Love isn't that important. I didn't love your father at first, but money buys everything, even true love. . Hail Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who turn to you. Amen. . She would never find what she was looking for if she couldn't express herself. . At the moment, I'm far too lonely to think about love, but I have to believe that it will happen, that I will find a job and that I am here because I chose this fate. . Life always waits for some crisis to occur before revealing itself at its most brilliant. . A writer once said that it is not time that changes man, nor knowledge; the only thing that can change someone's mind is love. What nonsense! The person who wrote that clearly knew only one side of the coin. Love was undoubtedly one of the things capable of changing a person's whole life, from one moment to the next. . Again, she seemed like a stranger to herself. . I let fate choose which route I should take. . Some people were born to face life alone, and this is neither good nor bad, it is simply life. . I'm not a body with a soul, I'm a soul that has a visible part called the body. . She was doing it because she had nothing to lose, because her life was one of constant, day-to-day frustration. . Human beings can withstand a week without water, two weeks without food, many years of homelessness, but not loneliness. It is the worst of all tortures, the worst of all sufferings. . We are each of us responsible for our own feelings and cannot blame someone else for what we feel. . No one loses anyone, because no one owns anyone. . However tempted she was to continue, however prepared she was for the challenges she had met on her path, all these months living alone with herself had taught her that there is always a right moment to stop something. . He knew everything about her, although she knew nothing about him. . She had opened a door which she didn't know how to close. . Our experiences have been entirely different, but we are both desperate people. . Free yourself from something that cost your heart even more. . One moment, you have nothing, the next, you have more than you can cope with. . Does a soldier go to war in order to kill the enemy? No, he goes in order to die for his country. . What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't grieve over. . Because we don't want to forget who we are - nor can we. . This was simply a place where people gathered to worship something they could not understand.
Paulo Coelho (Eleven Minutes)
...he [Perry Hildebrandt] broached the subject of goodness and its relation to intelligence. He'd come to the reception for selfless reasons, but he now saw that he might get not only a free buzz but free advise from, as it were, two professionals. 'I suppose what I'm asking,' he said, 'is whether goodness can ever truly be its own reward, or whether, consciously or not, it always serves some personal instrumentality.' Reverend Walsh [Trinity Lutheran] and the rabbi [Meyer] exchanged glances in which Perry detected pleasant surprise. It gratified him to upset their expectations of a fifteen-year-old. 'Adam may have a different answer,' the rabbi said, but in the Jewish faith there is really only one measure of righteousness: Do you celebrate God and obey His commandments?' 'That would suggest,' Perry said, 'that goodness and God are essentially synonymous.' 'That's the idea,' the rabbi said. 'In biblical times, when God manifested Himself more directly. He could seem like quite the hard-ass--striking people blind for trivial offenses, telling Abraham to kill his son. But the essence of the Jewish faith is that God does what He does, and we obey Him.' 'So, in other words, it doesn't matter what a righteous person's private thoughts are, so long as he obeys the letter of God's commandments?' 'And worships Him, yes. Of course, at the level of folk wisdom, a man can be righteous without being a -mensch.- I'm sure you see this, too, Adam--the pious man who makes everyone around him miserable. That might be what Perry is asking about.' 'My question,' Perry said, 'is whether we can ever escape our selfishness. Even if you bring in God, and make him the measure of goodness, the person who worships and obeys Him still wants something for himself. He enjoys the feeling of being righteous, or he wants eternal life, or what have you. If you're smart enough to think about it, there's always some selfish angle.' The rabbi smiled. 'There may be no way around it, when you put it like that. But we "bring in God," as you say--for the believer, of course, it's God who brought -us- in--to establish a moral order in which your question becomes irrelevant. When obedience is the defining principle, we don't need to police every little private thought we might have.' 'I think there's more to Perry's question, though,' Reverend Walsh said. 'I think he is pointing to sinfulness, which is our fundamental condition. In Christian faith, only one man has ever exemplified perfect goodness, and he was the Son of God. The rest of us can only hope for glimmers of what it's like to be truly good. When we perform an act of charity, or forgive an enemy, we feel the goodness of Christ in our hearts. We all have an innate capability to recognize true goodness, but we're also full of sin, and those two parts of us are constantly at war.' 'Exactly,' Perry said. 'How do I know if I'm really being good or if I'm just pursuing a sinful advantage?' 'The answer, I would say, is by listening to your heart. Only your heart can tell you what your true motive is--whether it partakes of Christ. I think my position is similar to Rabbi Meyer's. The reason we need faith--in our case, faith in the Lord Jesus Christ--is that it gives us a rock-solid basis for evaluating our actions. Only through faith in the perfection of our Savior, only by comparing our actions to his example, only by experiencing his living presence in our hearts, can we hope to be forgiven for the more selfish thoughts we might have. Only faith in Christ redeems us. Without him, we're lost in a sea of second-guessing our motives.
Jonathan Franzen (Crossroads)
Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.” He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said, “Cheep cheep?” The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what appeared to be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her claws into Eragon’s legs, making him wince. “Well,” said Angela, still laughing, “if you must have answers, that’s as good a story as any. Let’s see…Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden, way out to the west, miles and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a fledgling robin that had fallen out of its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn’t have minded if he had just killed the bird and eaten it--that’s what cats are supposed to do, after all--but he was torturing the poor thing: pulling on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over.” Angela wrinkled her nose with distaste. “I told him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me.” She fixed Eragon with a stern gaze. “I don’t like it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away from him, and I wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he opened his mouth, he chirped like a songbird.” “He chirped?” Angela nodded, beaming with suppressed mirth. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. None of the other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week.” “No wonder he hates you.” “What of it? If you don’t make a few enemies every now and then, you’re a coward--or worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!” Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again. Grimacing, Eragon said, “Maybe it would be best to change the subject?” “Mmm.” Before he could suggest a new topic, a loud scream rang out from somewhere in the middle of the camp. The cry echoed three times over the rows of tents before fading into silence. Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.
Christopher Paolini (Inheritance (The Inheritance Cycle, #4))
Sigtryggr held out a hand to pull me from the ditch. His one eye was bright with the same joy I had seen on Ceaster’s ramparts. ‘I would not want you as an enemy, Lord Uhtred,’ he said. ‘Then don’t come back, Jarl Sigtryggr,’ I said, clasping his forearm as he clasped mine. ‘I will be back,’ he said, ‘because you will want me to come back.’ ‘I will?’ He turned his head to gaze at his ships. One ship was close to the shore, held there by a mooring line tied to a stake. The prow of the ship had a great dragon painted white and in the dragon’s claw was a red axe. The ship waited for Sigtryggr, but close to it, standing where the grass turned to the river bank’s mud, was Stiorra. Her maid, Hella, was already aboard the dragon-ship. Æthelflaed had been watching Eardwulf’s death, but now saw Stiorra by the grounded ship. She frowned, not sure she understood what she saw. ‘Lord Uhtred?’ ‘My lady?’ ‘Your daughter,’ she began, but did not know what to say. ‘I will deal with my daughter,’ I said grimly. ‘Finan?’ My son and Finan were both staring at me, wondering what I would do. ‘Finan?’ I called. ‘Lord?’ ‘Kill that scum,’ I jerked my head towards Eardwulf’s followers, then I took Sigtryggr by the elbow and walked him towards his ship. ‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed called again, sharper this time. I waved a dismissive hand, and otherwise ignored her. ‘I thought she disliked you,’ I said to Sigtryggr. ‘We meant you to think that.’ ‘You don’t know her,’ I said. ‘You knew her mother when you met her?’ ‘This is madness,’ I said. ‘And you are famous for your good sense, lord.’ Stiorra waited for us. She was tense. She stared at me defiantly and said nothing. I felt a lump in my throat and a sting in my eyes. I told myself it was the small smoke drifting from the Norsemen’s abandoned campfires. ‘You’re a fool,’ I told her harshly. ‘I saw,’ she said simply, ‘and I was stricken.’ ‘And so was he?’ I asked, and she just nodded. ‘And the last two nights,’ I asked, ‘after the feasting was over?’ I did not finish the question, but she answered it anyway by nodding again. ‘You are your mother’s daughter,’ I said, and I embraced her, holding her close. ‘But it is my choice whom you marry,’ I went on. I felt her stiffen in my arms, ‘And Lord Æthelhelm wants to marry you.’ I thought she was sobbing, but when I pulled back from the embrace I saw she was laughing. ‘Lord Æthelhelm?’ she asked. ‘You’ll be the richest widow in all Britain,’ I promised her. She still held me, looking up into my face. She smiled, that same smile that had been her mother’s. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘I swear on my life that I will accept the man you choose to be my husband.’ She knew me. She had seen my tears and knew they were not caused by smoke. I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘You will be a peace cow,’ I said, ‘between me and the Norse. And you’re a fool. So am I. And your dowry,’ I spoke louder as I stepped back, ‘is Eardwulf’s money.’ I saw I had smeared her pale linen dress with Eardwulf’s blood. I looked at Sigtryggr. ‘I give her to you,’ I said, ‘so don’t disappoint me.
Bernard Cornwell (The Empty Throne (The Saxon Stories, #8))
Who are you? Who are your people?” Alleeta lifted her head proudly. She stood like a white flame before him. “I am the daughter of King Ashkenaz and my people are the Cimmerians, homeless wanderers upon the earth. Lost in the wilderness, downtrodden by the Scythians, slain by the enemy’s swords, and torn by the fangs of famine for longer years than I can remember, we have never lost hope. We believed that some day we would find the land of peace, believed that some day the leader promised to us by our great forefather Gomer would come and lead us to that land—the leader who shall be called the White Eagle. And now we have been taken as slaves by you, Bendeguz, and hope is dead in our hearts. The White Eagle is but a song.” Bendeguz listened to her rushing words in silence. Then he said: “Alleeta, do you know what my people call me?” “Your name is Bendeguz—I know.” He held out his hand to her. “Alleeta, listen to me. My name is Bendeguz, the White Eagle! My people are also seeking a land of peace, promised to them by our forefather, Nimrod. We have been slain by swords and torn by famine on the way; now we kill and destroy not because we want to but because nothing must stand in our way, we must and we will reach the land of our destiny.” While he spoke these words, Alleeta came slowly closer to him and took his hand. He closed his strong fingers on her hand and went on: “Tomorrow, Alleeta, your people shall be free. Tell them that they may leave us, or stay with us not as slaves but as our brothers. Tell them that our strength will be their strength, that we will never forsake them.” She had been looking into his eyes intently, searching. Now she smiled. “I can speak for my people now, Bendeguz. I will follow wherever you go. We will follow the White Eagle of the Moon westward . . . always.” She stepped back and slipped away between the dark trees. She might have been a dream, but her voice floated back to Bendeguz, growing fainter and fainter: Lead me westward, White Eagle of the Moon, oh, lead me . . . Bendeguz, back in his tent, was also singing softly: On silvery rays of the Moon Westward I long to fly . . . And, as he drifted into sleep, his last thought was: “Westward . . . but not alone, not alone any more.
Kate Seredy (The White Stag)
I’m not going back. They need me. There are hundreds of thousands here, millions, in every basement and undercroft. It would be the work of a generation to kill them all, even for these monsters. But we can turn that time against them. Make the survivors forget their fear, teach them to hate. Teach them to venerate the god on the Throne, teach them that their life means nothing in isolation from it. Give them a symbol, give them a means to make fire.’ She smiled. ‘You see a single Sigismund, and your stomach revolts. I will give you a million Sigismunds. A billion. A universe full of them. If that scares you, imagine what it will do to the enemy.
Chris Wraight (Warhawk (The Siege of Terra #6))
My right hand was locked so tightly in a fist, it was starting to shake. My gaze was riveted to two people on the dancefloor, and it was taking every ounce of willpower I had to remain standing there in favour of destroying the man touching Darcy Vega. Seth Capella’s hands were roaming all over her as they danced like there was no one else here but them. They were staring at each other, exchanging flirtatious smiles and their mouths were getting all too close all too many times. Through the thump of the music and clamour of voices, it was difficult to focus on the words that passed between them, but I managed to catch a couple of sentences. “Fuck being enemies, I wanna be your friend tonight,” Seth purred in her ear, his fingers twisting into the blue ends of her hair and making me spit a snarl. Darcy laughed, clearly drunk as her fingers slid down his arm while his other hand dropped onto her ass, drawing her even closer and squeezing hard. No. “What kind of friends act like this?” she laughed again and he nuzzled the side of her head, a carnal look entering his eyes that made my canines sharpen. All rational thought was exiting my mind until I was nothing but an animal about to attack. I knew in that second I was going to do it. I was going to shoot over there, tear Seth Capella off of her and make him bleed for touching her like that. She was my gir- Source. “The best of friends,” he answered with a wolfish grin and I took a step forward, but suddenly Darius was there with a scowl the size of a Dragon’s tail, blocking my line of sight. “Well?” he demanded irritably like I’d just punched him in the cock. “Well what?” I sniped back and he frowned. “Oh right, yeah. We need to go hunting.” I gritted my teeth, crushing them to dust in my mouth as I forced my feet to move towards the exit, refusing to let myself look back. Darius walked stiffly at my side, seeming as pissed off as I did to be leaving and judging by how hard he’d been grinding himself against Tory Vega, I had to wonder if she was the reason. I glanced at my friend and caught him looking back. “What?” he snapped and I looked away again. “Nothing,” I grunted. “I’m just in the mood to kill something.” “Same. Let’s find the fucking Nymph and make it suffer.” His eyes turned to reptilian slits and a group of guys in our way scarpered aside as they saw us coming. I uncurled my still clenched right hand, my knuckles white as I flexed them and brought magic to my fingertips. Is she gonna go home with him? Is she gonna fuck him? She can’t. He’s a fucking Heir. The worst fucking Heir. The urge to go back was rising in me and I had to force my legs to keep moving away from that nightclub. There was a Nymph out here somewhere, that was my priority. Not whether or not Darcy Vega chose to fuck an Heir. My heart thumped a painful tune in my chest, continuing its plea with me to go back. To stop her from making the most stupid decision of her life. She was too good for that Wolf asshole. Too sweet. He didn’t deserve to get his hands on her flesh. I pictured her pinned beneath him and stopped dead in the street. (Orion POV)
Caroline Peckham (The Awakening as Told by the Boys (Zodiac Academy, #1.5))
Kill enemies with success and bury them with a smile.
Prashanth Savanur (Daily Habits: How To Win Your Day: Your Days Define Your Destiny)
Merripen,” Cam said slowly, “you’re going to have to find a way to tolerate me. Because there are things I can do for Amelia, and the rest of them, that you can’t.” He continued in a level tone despite the look on Merripen’s face, which would have terrified a lesser man. “And I don’t have the patience to battle you every step of the way. If you want what’s best for them, either leave, or accept this. I’m not going anywhere.” As the huge chal glared at him, Cam could almost see the progression of his thoughts, the weighing of options, the violent desire to mow down his enemy, all of it overshadowed by the urge to do what was right for his family. “Besides,” Cam said, “if Amelia doesn’t marry me, the gadjo will be after her again. And you know she’ll be better off with me.” Merripen’s eyes narrowed. “Frost broke her heart. You took her innocence. Why does that make you any better?” “Because I’m not going to leave her. Unlike the gadjos, the Rom are faithful to our women.” Cam paused and measured out five seconds before adding deliberately, “You probably know that better than I.” Merripen fixed his furious gaze at a point in the distance. “If you hurt her in any way…” he finally said, “I’m going to kill you.” “Fair enough.” “I may kill you anyway.” Cam smiled slightly. “You’d be surprised how many people have said that to me before.” “No,” Merripen said, “I wouldn’t.
Lisa Kleypas (Mine Till Midnight (The Hathaways, #1))
I heard a noise from my bedroom and jumped, almost knocking over the goblet intended for Narian, and spilling some of the sleep-inducing drug London had given me. I brushed it over the mantel’s edge and into the barren fireplace where it would not be seen, reminding myself to behave normally. “Are you all right?” Narian had entered the parlor and was scrutinizing me from across the room. “Of course,” I said, forcing a cheerful tone. His eyes darted around the room’s perimeter. “You just…look pale.” “There’s hardly any light. So how can you tell--am I glowing?” He smiled, relaxing a little. “Sit down and have some wine with me,” I invited, moving to the sofa. He joined me, and I offered him the tainted drink, which he accepted with a puzzled expression. “You’re shaking, Alera.” “I’m cold.” “It’s quite warm.” “But the evening temperatures drop quickly now that summer’s sultriness has passed. The wine helps.” I took a sip from my goblet, deliberately stilling my hand. “So would a quilt,” he pointed out. “You detest wine.” I laughed uncomfortably, trying not to recoil at the flavor of the drink. Narian was taking his time. Did he suspect there was something wrong? He knew there was something wrong with me, yes, but perhaps the wine smelled off and it had alerted him. London had given me an abundance of the herb, whatever it was, and I had used it all. Narian let go of his reservations and lifted the goblet to his lips, and nausea hit me full force. London believed Narian to be nothing more than a dangerous weapon, one that would fight against us, and he was right that I was the only one around whom Narian would lower his guard. Would London, thinking of the greater good, be willing to use me to poison and kill his enemy? “Stop!” I cried, reaching out to grab the goblet and spilling wine all over the rug. Narian leaped to his feet, tensed for a fight, and I burst into tears. “Alera, what is it?” he asked, not sympathetic, but demanding and urgent. I was gasping, unable to catch my breath and feeling like I might vomit. “It’s London. He asked me to drug you. He said I had to do it, for Hytanica.” “Where is he?” “I don’t know. He left. He said their plan was to kill the sentries on the wall and close the city. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I wasn’t sure to whom I was apologizing, or even for what exactly, but the guilt was close to unbearable. I put my hands over my face, my heart splintering at the thought of every one of the night’s possible outcomes. Narian ran to the door, and I summoned the strength to follow him. We flew down the Grand Staircase, where he snapped orders to the Cokyrian guards at the doors. “Rouse Rava and alert the soldiers on duty to monitor the city walls. There is a rebel party waiting to strike and I want them caught, now. Bring them here alive.” The guards left to carry out his instructions, and Narian turned to me. “Alera, I will do everything I can to protect the people you care about, you know that. But I will not be focused unless I know you are safe. Please, stay here.” I nodded, despite my desire to do anything except stay put, and he kissed me deeply right in the middle of the Grand Entry Hall, without a care for secrecy. “Be safe,” I murmured, watching him go.
Cayla Kluver (Sacrifice (Legacy, #3))
Julius waited stone-faced as the other centurions scattered to their centuries, eager to make sure their men were ready for a forced march, none of them wanting to suffer the embarrassment of causing the cohort any delay in their headlong charge to the west. The tribune watched them go for a moment, then turned back to the heavily built centurion with a grim smile. ‘So, Centurion, what, you are wondering, have you done to have your expected position as Uncle Sextus’s deputy usurped by your colleague Clodius?’ Julius shrugged, his heavyset face impassive. ‘The Badger’s a good man, Tribune, more than capable of leading the cohort down a road and deploying them to wipe out a few hundred bandits. I’ll admit I’m curious though. Was it something I’ve done?’ Scaurus smiled, putting a hand on the big man’s shoulder. ‘Yes, Julius, it was something you’ve done. It was every little bit of professionalism you’ve displayed since I took this cohort under my command, every order given and every enemy killed. In the absence of the first spear you’re my best individual officer, and I’ve got a job that needs doing here that I can’t entrust to anyone less than my best centurion. We’re forced to withdraw our force from Tungrorum to deal with this new threat, but there’s enough money being held in the headquarters’ safe room to attract every thief and gang leader in this whole city, what with the pay chests and the proceeds of the grain fraud. I’m leaving you here, Julius, you and your century, and depending on you to make sure that nobody gets their grubby fingers on that money. I want a double-strength guard on the vault, and the rest of your men, whether eating, resting or sleeping, no more than a dozen heartbeats away. You can also keep Centurion Corvus’s wife and the wounded safe from harm while you’re at it, and relieve me of the trouble of carting that jar of naphtha around. As of this moment you’re free to kill anyone and everyone you suspect to be a threat to the emperor’s gold, without hesitation or fear of any repercussion. If we return that gold to the throne we will be congratulated and possibly even rewarded, but if we lose it again, having exposed its original loss and recapture to the throne’s eyes, the outcome will be altogether darker for everyone concerned. Do we understand each other, Centurion?
Anthony Riches (The Leopard Sword (Empire, #4))
I smiled at the memory of her simultaneously wanting to kill me for making her cry and wanting to kiss me before we had permission.
Sophia Travers (Partner Material (Keep Your Enemy Closer, #1))
Jesse recited, “ ‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.’ ” Bob nodded. “You hear it at funerals.” Jesse let the book divide from his finger and sought Psalm 41, which he scanned, vigorously scratching his two-inch beard, gingerly petting it smooth. He ironed out the page with his fist and knee and smiled wryly at Bob and then began a private study of the words, as if he were without company. Bob tried to imagine how Jesse’s children saw him: he would be the giant figure who could fling them high as the ceiling. They knew his legs, the sting of his mustache against their cheeks, the gentle way that Jesse had of fingering their hair. They didn’t know how he made his living or why they so often moved; they didn’t even know their father’s name; and it all seemed such an injustice to Bob that he asked, “Do you ever give your past life any thought?” Jesse squinted at him. “I don’t get your meaning.” Bob managed a grin and asked, “Do you ever give any thought to the men you’ve killed?
Ron Hansen (The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford)
That hunting by fire was still practiced by the natives on a large scale, and it had been his lot to stumble on six baby elephants, victims of a fire from which only fully grown animals had managed to escape thanks to their size and speed? That whole herds of elephants sometimes escaped from the blazing savanna with bums up to their bellies, and that they suffered for weeks? Many a night he had lain awake in the bush listening to their cries of agony. That the contraband traffic in ivory was still practiced on a large scale by Arab and Asiatic merchants, who drove the tribes to poaching? Thirty thousand elephants a year— was it possible to think for a moment of what that meant, without shame? Did she know that a man like Haas, who was the favorite supplier of the big zc^s, saw half the young elephants he captured die under his eyes? The natives, at least, had an excuse: they needed proteins. For them, elephants were only meat. To stop them, they only had to raise the standard of living in Africa: this was the first step in any serious campaign for the protection of nature. But the whites? The so-called “civilized” people? They had no excuse. They hunted for what they called “trophies,” for the excitement of it, for pleasure, in fact. The flame that attracted him so irresistibly burned him in the end. He was the first to recognize the enemy and to cry tally-ho, and he had gone on the attack with all the passion of a man who feels himself challenged by everything that makes too-noble demands upon human nature, as if humanity began somewhere around. thirty thousand feet above the surface of the earth, thirty thousand feet above Orsini. He was determined to defend his own height, his own scale, his own smallness. "Listen to me,” he said. "All right, you're a priest A missionary. As such, you've always had your nose right in it I mean, you have all the sores, all the ugliness before your eyes all day long. All right. All sorts of open wounds— naked human wretchedness. And then, when you’ve well and truly wiped the bottom of mankind, don’t you long to climb a hill and take a good look at something different, and big, and strong, and free?”“When I feel like taking a good look at something different and big and strong and free,” roared Father Fargue, giving the table a tremendous bang with his fist, “it isn't elephants I turn to, it's God I” The man smiled. He licked his cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. “Well, it isn't a pact with the Devil I'm asking you to sign. It's only a petition to stop people from killing elephants. Thirty thousand of them are killed each year. Thirty thousand, and that's a .small e.stimate. You can’t deny it . . . And remember—'* there was a spark of gaiety in his eyes— “and remember. Father, remember: they haven’t sinned.” He was stabbing me in the back, aiming straight at my faith. Original sin, and the whole thing— you know all that better than I do. You know me. I’m a man of action: give me a good case of galloping syphilis and I'm all right. But theory . . . this is between ourselves. Faith, God— I've got all that in my heart, in my guts, but not in my brain. I’m not one of the brainy ones. So I tried offering him a drink, but he refused.” The Jesuit’s face lit up for a moment, and its wrinkles seemed to disappear in the youthfulness of a smile. Fargue suddenly remembered that he was rather frowned upon in his Order; he had several times been forbidden to publish his scientific papers; it was even whispered that his stay in Africa was not entirely voluntary He had heard tell that Father Tassin, in his writings, represented salvation as a mere biological mutation, and humanity, in the form in which we still know it, as an archaic species doomed to join other vanished species in the obscurity of a prehistoric past. His face clouded over: that smacked of heresy.
Romain Gary
If the intent is to stabilize Afghanistan, the Taliban were and are the best solution.” “What is the solution?” Smith asked him. It was clear that the Taliban was not an answer acceptable to the United States. “Withdraw your legions,” Mahmud answered with a smile, quoting a line from the movie Ben-Hur. “The U.S. military campaign is not working. You’re creating more enemies than you’re killing. You don’t need a large military force to go after Al Qaeda. And what is Al Qaeda these days, anyway? It’s more of an idea than a force in being.”2
Steve Coll (Directorate S: The C.I.A. and America's Secret Wars in Afghanistan and Pakistan, 2001-2016)
Nngg…” A groan made him and Iris look at the other bed and its occupant. The inu stirred, eyes fluttering open. He looked around the room before noticing Kevin. “You…” “I’m surprised you’re already up,” Kevin said. “Anyone else would have gone into shock after losing an arm. You inu really are a hardy species.” “But they’re not as hard as you, Stud,” Iris quipped. Kevin rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you kill me?” asked Cien. “Because I don’t believe in killing if I don’t have to.” “I should have died.” “That’s your foolish pride talking. Only a fool asks for death after his enemy spares him.” Cien scoffed. “Che. I don’t expect a human like you to understand. To a warrior like myself, our pride means everything. We inu are a proud race. For us to be defeated in single combat, and by a human no less, is nothing short of disgraceful.” “A human like me, huh?” Kevin murmured, turning his back on Cien. “You can think that way if you want. I certainly won’t try to force your perceptions of me to change. I don’t really care enough to try. Anyway, I suggest you get some rest. You haven’t been out for that long, and you no longer have a right arm. Even an inu can’t shrug that off like it’s nothing.” Kevin wandered to the hut’s entrance and looked out. No one else was around. The hut that Orin was letting them stay in was further removed from everyone else, over on the outskirts of New Genbu. Kevin didn’t mind, especially since no one in the village liked him. “That was a stupid thing to say,” Iris started, “even for a dog.” “What was that?!” Cien growled. “I dare you to get up and say that to my face you—owch!” He yelped when something smacked him in the face. Looking down at the object as it fell to the ground and landed by his head, he frowned. “Is that… a shoe?” “Don’t fight with my mate’s sister,” Kevin said, grabbing his discarded sneaker and putting it back on. “She started it,” Cien mumbled as Iris snickered behind her hand. “What was that?!” “Nothing,” he said, his body jolting as if he’d touched a live wire. That tone of voice… it had sounded almost feral! Like it belonged to some kind of animal instead of a human! “I’m glad to hear that. Now, then, do as I said and get some sleep. I’m going to be interrogating you tomorrow, and I want you to be perfectly capable of answering every question I have.” Kevin smiled. “I am the victor, after all, and this is my request.” “R-right.” Cien felt his forehead break out in a cold sweat. Who knew humans could be so frightening?
Brandon Varnell (A Fox's Mission (American Kitsune, #11))
There’s this new glitch messing everything up. He calls himself Pigrothbrine. He only showed up a couple days ago and already he is in control of everything!” Otis growled and stomped on the ground. “Where is he?” “You … you’ve heard of him?” Trevor gasped. “Look at me, kid,” said Otis. “How do you think I got to look like this?” Trevor looked at Otis and gasped. “But … weren’t you a zombie pigman when you rescued Baby Zeke a couple months ago?” Otis thumped his chest. “I still am. But I have to kill Pigrothbrine in order to get my skin back.” “If that works,” I said. I turned back to Trevor. “What’s Pigrothbrine doing?” Trevor took a deep breath and sighed. He shook his cube sadly. “You remember Cassius the husk, right? Well, after he stirred up all the anger and anxiety of the nether mobs against the surface dwellers, there have been mutterings about his ideology. Pigrothbrine found out about it and is exploiting the anger to mobilize another army. They’re calling themselves the Sons of Cassius.” I shook my head. “That’s terrible. Do you think they’ll actually carry out Cassius’ plans to conquer the Overworld?” “I don’t know. All I know is that anyone who disobeys Pigrothbrine or his generals ends up despawned.” Trevor paused, sniffed, and then began to cry. “Just … just like my parents.” I reached out and touched his cube to console him. “What happened?” “They tried to keep the promise they made to you not to do anything against Minecraft. But when they refused to let their people become members of the Sons of Cassius, they were struck down by bolts of lightning that came out nowhere.” “So, he can make lightning work even in the Nether?” said Heidi. “That’s amazing.” I nodded and then looked at Trevor. “What did you do after your parents were … despawned?” “I had to join the army. Pigrothbrine wouldn’t let me ascend to my rightful place on the throne. He appointed one of his magma cube generals to run the kingdom.” “How did you escape?” I asked. “Pigrothbrine and his generals have us building canals to channel lava rivers into big pools. No one knows why. Earlier today, when I was walking next to a lava stream, I jumped in. I drifted downstream for a while before jumping out and locating a nether portal to the surface. Then, I hopped here as quickly as I could.” Otis looked at me with fire in his eyes. I could tell that his attitude toward pursuing Pigrothbrine had changed from his reluctance just a few hours ago. “Let’s go. Pigrothbrine has only been in existence for a couple of days and it sounds like he’s already causing apocalyptic damage. Let’s go see what we can do about it.” “I don’t know. It seems dangerous.” Otis scowled at me. “Aren’t you the Warrior? We didn’t even know where Pigrothbrine was a few minutes ago, but now we do. We have to take the fight to him.” I looked at Trevor. “Is Pigrothbrine actually down there? I mean, have you seen him recently?” “Part pig, part enderman?” said Trevor. “Exactly.” Trevor nodded his head. “He’s living in the nether fortress inside the kingdom of the magma cubes in a nether wastes biome. If anyone needs to go talk to him that’s where they go. I’ve never been inside the fortress, but that’s where everyone says he is living.” Heidi reached into her inventory and pulled out her newly-acquired netherite sword. “Let’s go get him. With the three of us working together ….” She looked at Trevor and smiled. “With the four of us working together, maybe we can take him out.” “Maybe,” I said. “I guess we go and conduct reconnaissance at least. Maybe when we get back Zeb will have figured something out.” “Well, if we find Pigrothbrine, I’m going to kill him,” snarled Otis. “Reconnaissance is for wimps.” Trevor ignored Otis and said, “Thank you, Baby Zeke. Thank you, everybody.” “So how do we get to this nether portal you used?” “I could take you there, but it comes out inside the Nether near a worksite controlled by Pigrothbrine.
Dr. Block (A New Enemy (Life and Times of Baby Zeke #13))
Skippy, you little fool, you are off on another of your senseless and retrograde journeys. Come back here, to the points. Here is where the paths divided. See the man back there. He is wearing a white hood. His shoes are brown. He has a nice smile, but nobody sees it. Nobody sees it because his face is always in the dark. But he is a nice man. He is the pointsman. He is called that because he throws the lever that changes the points. And we go to Happyville, instead of to Pain City. Or "Der Lied-Stadt," that's what the Germans call it. There is a mean poem about the Lied-Stadt, by a German man named Mr. Rilke. But we will not read it, because WE are going to Happyville. The pointsman has made sure we'll go there. He hardly has to work at all. The lever is very smooth, and easy to push. Even you could push it, Skippy. If you knew where it was. But look what a lot of work he has done, with just one little push. He has sent us all the way to Happyville, instead of to Pain City. That is because he knows just where the points and the lever are. He is the only kind of man who puts in very little work and makes big things happen, all over the world. He could have sent you on the right trip back there, Skippy. You can have YOUR fantasy if you want, you probably don't deserve anything better, but Mister Information tonight is in a kind mood. He will show you Happyville. He will begin by reminding you of the 1937 Ford. Why is that dacoit-faced auto still on the roads? You said "the War," just as you rattled over the points onto the wrong track. The War WAS the set of points. Eh? Yesyes, Skippy, the truth is that the War is keeping things alive. THINGS. The Ford is only one of them. The Germans-and-Japs story was only one, rather surrealistic version of the real War. The real War is always there. The dying tapers off now and then, but the War is still killing lots and lots of people. Only right now it is killing them in more subtle ways. Often in ways that are too complicated, even for us, at this level, to trace. But the right people are dying, just as they do when armies fight. The ones who stand up, in Basic, in the middle of the machine-gun pattern. The ones who do not have faith in their Sergeants. The ones who slip and show a moment's weakness to the Enemy. These are the ones the War cannot use, and so they die. The right ones survive. The others, it's said, even KNOW they have a short life expectancy. But they persist in acting the way they do. Nobody knows why. Wouldn't it be nice if we could eliminate them completely? Then no one would have to be killed in the War. That would be fun, wouldn't it, Skippy?
Thomas Pynchon