Duiker turned away.

The disarmament took close to an hour, the Malazan soldiers yielding their weapons in silence. Those weapons were piled on the ground just beyond the phalanxes, then the soldiers made their way inward, forming up in tight, restless ranks in the basin’s centre.

Tribal horsewarriors then rode down and collected the arms. Twenty minutes later an army of ten thousand Malazans crowded the basin, weaponless, helpless.

Korbolo Dom’s vanguard detached from the forces on the north ridge and rode down towards the High Fist’s position.

Duiker stared at the approaching group. He saw Kamist Reloe, a handful of war chiefs, two unarmed women who were in all likelihood mages, and Korbolo Dom himself, a squat half-Napan, all hair shaved from his body, revealing scars in tangled webs. He was smiling as he reined in with his companions before the High Fist, Mallick Rel and the other officers.

‘Well done,’ he growled, his eyes on the priest.

The Jhistal dismounted, stepped forward and bowed. ‘I deliver to you High Fist Pormqual and his ten thousand. More, I deliver to you the city Aren, in Sha’ik’s name—’

‘Wrong,’ Duiker chuckled.

Mallick Rel faced him.

‘You’ve not delivered Aren, Jhistal.’

‘What claims do you make now, old man?’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t notice,’ the historian said. ‘Too busy gloating, I guess. Take a close look at the companies around you, especially those to the south ...’

Mallick’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the gathered legions. Then he paled. ‘Blistig!’

‘Seems the commander and his garrison decided to stay behind after all. Granted, they’re only two or three hundred, but we both know that that will be enough – for the week or so until Tavore arrives. Aren’s walls are high, well impregnated these days with Otataral, I believe – proof against any sorcery. Thinking on it, I would predict that there are Red Blades lining those walls now, as well as the garrison. You have failed in your betrayal, Jhistal. Failed.’

The priest jerked forward, the back of his hand cracking against Duiker’s face. The historian was spun around by the savage blow, and the rings on the man’s hand raking through the flesh of one cheek burst the barely healed splits in his lips and chin. He fell hard to the ground and felt something shatter against his sternum.

He pushed himself up, the blood streaming down his lacerated face. Looking down at the ground beneath him, he expected to see tiny fragments of broken glass, but there were none. The leather thong around his neck now had nothing on it at all.

Hands pulled him roughly to his feet and dragged him around to face Mallick Rel once more.

The priest was trembling still. ‘Your death shall be—’

‘Silence!’ Korbolo snapped. He eyed Duiker. ‘You are the historian who rode with Coltaine.’

The historian faced him. ‘I am.’

‘You are a soldier.’

‘As you say.’

‘I do, and so you shall die with these soldiers, in a manner no different—’