'Then, when the renegades have been slaughtered, we shall attend to other responsibilities, primarily your arrest and that of the warlocks known as Nil and Nether — the last remaining "officers" of Coltaine's horrific command. And I assure you, the punishment following your conviction shall match the severity of your crimes.' He gestured and an aide led Duiker's mare forward. 'Alas, your beast is hardly fit for the company, but it shall suffice.
'Commander Blistig, prepare your soldiers for marching. We wish our rearguard to be no more and no less than three hundred paces behind us. I trust that is within your capabilities — if not, inform me now, and I shall happily place someone else in command of the garrison.'
'Aye, High Fist, the task is within my capabilities.'
Duiker's gaze swung to Mallick Rel, and the historian wondered at the satisfied flush in the priest's face, but only for a moment. Ah, of course, past slights. Not a man to cross, are you, Rel?
In silence, the historian walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He laid a hand on the mare's thin, ungroomed neck, then gathered the reins.
The lead companies of medium cavalry were assembled at the gate. Once out of the city, little time would be wasted, as the horsewarriors would immediately part in a sweeping manoeuvre intended to surround Korbolo's encampment, while the infantry poured out from the gate to assemble into solid phalanxes before marching on the enemy position.
Blistig had departed the scene without a backward glance. Duiker stared at the distant gate, scanned the troops gathered there.
'Historian.'
He turned his head, looked down at Nethpara.
The nobleman was smiling. 'You should have treated me with more respect. I suppose you see that now, although it's come too late for you.'
Nethpara did not notice Duiker slip his boot from the stirrup.
'For the insults you have committed upon my person … for the laying of hands on me, Historian, you shall suffer-'
'No doubt,' Duiker cut in. 'And here's one last insult.' He kicked out, the toe of his boot driving into the nobleman's flabby throat, then up. Trachea crumpled inward, head snapped back with a crunching, popping sound, Nethpara pitched backward, thumped heavily on the cobblestones. His eyes stared up unseeing at the pale sky.
Pullyk Alar shrieked.
Soldiers closed in around the historian, weapons out.
'By all means,' Duiker said, 'I shall welcome an end to this-'
'You shall not be so fortunate!' Pormqual hissed, white with rage.
Duiker sneered at the man. 'You've already convicted me as an executioner. What's one more, you craven pile of dung?' He shifted his gaze to Mallick Rel. 'And as for you, Jhistal, come closer — my life's still incomplete.'
The historian did not notice — nor did anyone else — the arrival of a captain of Blistig's garrison. The man had been about to speak with Duiker, to inform him of the safe delivery of a child to a grandfather. But at the word 'Jhistal' he stiffened, then, eyes widening, he took a step back.
The gates opened just then, and the troops of cavalry poured through. Motion rippled through the legions of infantry as weapons were readied.
Keneb took another step back, that lone word echoing in his mind. He knew it from somewhere, but full awareness eluded him, even as alarms rang in his mind. A voice within was shouting that he needed to find Blistig — he did not yet know why, but it was imperative-
But he had run out of time.
Keneb stared out as the army surged towards the gate. The orders had been given, and the momentum was unstoppable.
The captain took another step back, his words to Duiker forgotten. He stumbled over Nethpara's body unnoticing, then spun about. And ran.
Sixty paces on, Keneb's mind was suddenly flooded with the memory of when he had last heard the word 'Jhistal'.
Duiker rode with the mounted officers out onto the plain.
Korbolo Dom's army looked to be in full panicked flight, though the historian noted that they still held on to their weapons even as they fled back over the mound and its facing slope. The High Fist's cavalry rode hard to either side, quickly outpacing the footsoldiers as they pushed to complete the encirclement. Both wings rode beyond line of sight, into the evenly distributed hills of the burial ground.
The High Fist's legions moved at double time, silent and determined. They had no hope of catching the fleeing army until the cavalry had completed the encirclement, closing off all avenues of escape.
'As you predicted, High Fist!' Mallick Rel shouted to Pormqual as they cantered along. 'They are routed!'
'But they shall not escape, shall they?' Pormqual laughed, pitching unevenly in his saddle.
Gods below, the High Fist can't even ride.
The pursuit took them up and over the first barrow, and they rode among the corpses of the Seventh and the Wickans. Those looted bodies spread northward in a wide swath, mapping the route of Coltaine's running battle, over the next barrow, then around the base of the one beyond. Duiker struggled to keep from scanning those corpses, seeking familiar faces in their unfamiliar expressions of death. He stared forward, studying the fleeing renegades.
Pormqual periodically slowed their pace to keep within the midst of the infantry. The wings of cavalry were somewhere ahead, and had not reappeared. In the meantime, the thousands of fleeing soldiers stayed ahead of the phalanxes, sweeping around the barrows, leaving booty behind as they went.
The High Fist and his army doggedly pursued, down into a vast basin, packed with the routed enemy who began pouring up the gently sloping sides. Dust ringed the crest to the east and west, and directly ahead.
'The encirclement is complete!' Pormqual cried. 'See the dust!'
Duiker frowned at that dust. Faintly, he heard the sounds of battle. A moment later those sounds began to diminish, while the rising dust thickened, deepened.
The infantry marched down into the basin.
Something's wrong. .
The fleeing soldiers had reached the crests now on all sides but the south, but instead of continuing their panicked pace, they slowed, readied their weapons and turned about.
The curtain of dust climbed higher behind those warriors, then mounted figures appeared — not Pormqual's cavalry, but tribal riders. A moment later the ring of footsoldiers thickened, as rank after rank joined them.
Duiker spun in his saddle. Seven Cities cavalry lined the south skylines, closing the back door.
And so we ride into the simplest of traps. Leaving Aren defenceless. .
'Mallick!' Pormqual shrieked, reining in. 'What is happening! What has happened?'
The priest's head was jerking in all directions, his jaw dropping. 'Treachery!' he hissed. He swung his white horse around, eyes fixing on Duiker. 'This is your doing, Historian! Part of the bargain Nethpara hinted at! More, I see the sorcery around you now — you have been communicating with Korbolo Dom! Gods, we were fools!'
Duiker ignored the man, his eyes squinting as he studied the scene to the south, and the tag-end elements of Pormqual's army as they wheeled about to face the threat now behind them. Clearly, the High Fist's cavalry wings had been annihilated.
'We are surrounded! They are in the tens of thousands! We shall be slaughtered!' The High Fist jabbed a finger at the historian. 'Kill him! Kill him now!'
'Wait!' Mallick Rel shouted. He turned to Pormqual. 'Please, High Fist, leave that to me, I beg you! Be assured that I shall exact a worthy punishment!'
'As you say, then, but-' Pormqual glared about. 'What shall we do, Mallick?'
The priest pointed to the north. 'There, riders approach under a white flag — let us see what Korbolo Dom proposes, High Fist! What have we to lose?'