‘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.

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 ...’