Clashes had begun at the rearguard position – the day’s first drawing of blood, most of it likely to be Wickan. Already the refugees had begun pushing southward, in the hope that will alone could see the valley prised open.

The Khundryl, in the tens of thousands, formed two distinct masses, one directly west of Sanimon’s mouth, the other farther to the north, on a flank of Korbolo Dom’s army. Between these two was a small knot of war chiefs, who now rode directly towards the rise where sat Duiker, List and Coltaine.

‘Looks like personal combat is desired, Fist,’ Duiker said. ‘We’d best ride back.’

‘No.’

The historian’s head turned. Coltaine had uncouched his lance and was readying his black-feathered round shield on his left forearm.

‘Damn you, Fist – this is madness!’

‘Watch your tongue, Historian,’ the Wickan said distractedly.

Duiker’s gaze fixed on the short stretch of silver chain visible around the man’s neck. ‘Whatever that gift is that you’re wearing, it’ll only work once. What you do now is what a war chief of the Wickans would, but not a Fist of the Empire.’

The man snapped around at that and the historian found the barbed point of the lance pricking his throat.

‘And just when,’ Coltaine rasped, ‘can I choose to die in the manner I desire? You think I will use this cursed bauble?’ Freeing his shield hand, he reached up and tore the chain from his neck. ‘You wear it, Historian. All that we have done avails the world naught, unless the tale is told. Hood take Dujek Onearm! Hood take the Empress!’ He flung the bottle at Duiker and it struck unerringly the palm of his right hand. Fingers closing around the object, he felt the serpentine slither of chain against calluses. The lance-point kissing his neck had not moved.

Their eyes locked.

‘Excuse me, sirs,’ List said. ‘It appears this is not an instance of desired combat. If you would both observe ...’

Coltaine pulled the weapon away, swung around.

The Khundryl war chiefs waited in a row before them, not thirty paces away. They wore, beneath skins and furs and fetishes, a strange greyish armour that looked almost reptilian. Long moustaches, knotted beards and spiked braids – all black – disguised most of their features, though what remained visible was sun-darkened and angular.

One nudged his pony a step closer and spoke in broken Malazan. ‘Blackwing! How think you the odds this day?’

Coltaine twisted in his saddle, studied the dust clouds now both north and south, then settled back. ‘I would make no wager.’