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?’