‘I cannot speak with them!’ Pormqual gibbered. ‘I cannot think! Mallick – please!’

‘Very well,’ the Jhistal priest acceded. He swung his mount around, jabbed spurred heels into the beast’s flanks and rode through the milling ranks of the High Fist’s trapped army.

Midway up the distant north slope, the converging riders met. The parley lasted less than a minute, then Mallick wheeled and rode back.

‘If we push back we can break the elements to the south,’ Duiker quietly said to the High Fist. ‘A fighting withdrawal back to the city’s gates—’

‘Not another word from you, traitor!’

Mallick Rel arrived, his expression filled with hope. ‘Korbolo Dom has had enough of bloodshed, High Fist! Yesterday’s slaughter has left him sickened!’

‘What does he propose, then?’ Pormqual demanded, leaning forward.

‘Our only hope, High Fist. You must command your army to lay down its arms – to pass them out to the edges, then withdraw into a compact mass in the centre of this basin. They shall be prisoners of war, and therefore treated with mercy. As for you and me, we shall be made hostages. When Tavore arrives, arrangements will be made for our honourable return. High Fist, we have no choice in the matter ...’

A strange lassitude seeped into Duiker as he listened. He knew he could say nothing to sway the High Fist. He slowly dismounted, reached under his mare and unhitched the girth.

‘What are you doing, traitor?’ Mallick Rel demanded.

‘I’m freeing my horse,’ the historian said reasonably. ‘The enemy won’t bother with her – too worn out to be of any use. She’ll head back to Aren – it’s the least I can do for her.’ He removed the saddle, dropped it to the ground to one side, then pulled the bit from the mare’s mouth.

The priest stared for a moment longer, a slight frown on his face, then he turned back to the High Fist. ‘They await our reply.’

Duiker stepped close to his horse’s head and laid a hand on the soft muzzle. ‘Take care,’ he whispered. Then he stepped back, gave the animal a slap on the rump. The mare sprang away, wheeled, then trotted southward – as Duiker knew she would.

‘What choice?’ Pormqual whispered. ‘Unlike Coltaine, I must consider my soldiers . .. their lives are worth everything . .. peace will return to this land, sooner or later ...’

‘Thousands of husbands, wives, and fathers and mothers will bless your name, High Fist. To fight now, to seek out that bitter, pointless end, ah, they will curse your name for all eternity.’

‘I cannot have that,’ Pormqual agreed. He faced his officers. ‘Lay down arms. Deliver the orders – all weapons to go to the edges and left there, the ranks to withdraw to the centre of the basin.’

Duiker stared at the four captains who listened in silence to the High Fist’s commands. A long moment passed, then the officers saluted and rode off.