In silence, the historian walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He laid a hand on the mare's thin, ungroomed neck, then gathered the reins.
The lead companies of medium cavalry were assembled at the gate. Once out of the city, little time would be wasted, as the horsewarriors would immediately part in a sweeping manoeuvre intended to surround Korbolo's encampment, while the infantry poured out from the gate to assemble into solid phalanxes before marching on the enemy position.
Blistig had departed the scene without a backward glance. Duiker stared at the distant gate, scanned the troops gathered there.
'Historian.'
He turned his head, looked down at Nethpara.
The nobleman was smiling. 'You should have treated me with more respect. I suppose you see that now, although it's come too late for you.'
Nethpara did not notice Duiker slip his boot from the stirrup.
'For the insults you have committed upon my person ... for the laying of hands on me, Historian, you shall suffer—'
'No doubt,' Duiker cut in. 'And here's one last insult.' He kicked out, the toe of his boot driving into the nobleman's flabby throat, then up. Trachea crumpled inward, head snapped back with a crunching, popping sound, Nethpara pitched backward, thumped heavily on the cobblestones. His eyes stared up unseeing at the pale sky.
Pullyk Alar shrieked.
Soldiers closed in around the historian, weapons out.
'By all means,' Duiker said, 'I shall welcome an end to this—'
'You shall not be so fortunate!' Pormqual hissed, white with rage.
Duiker sneered at the man. 'You've already convicted me as an executioner. What's one more, you craven pile of dung?' He shifted his gaze to Mallick Rel. 'And as for you, Jhistal, come closer – my life's still incomplete.'
The historian did not notice – nor did anyone else – the arrival of a captain of Blistig's garrison. The man had been about to speak with Duiker, to inform him of the safe delivery of a child to a grandfather. But at the word 'Jhistal' he stiffened, then, eyes widening, he took a step back.
The gates opened just then, and the troops of cavalry poured through. Motion rippled through the legions of infantry as weapons were readied.
Keneb took another step back, that lone word echoing in his mind. He knew it from somewhere, but full awareness eluded him, even as alarms rang in his mind. A voice within was shouting that he needed to find Blistig – he did not yet know why, but it was imperative—
But he had run out of time.
Keneb stared out as the army surged towards the gate. The orders had been given, and the momentum was unstoppable.
The captain took another step back, his words to Duiker forgotten. He stumbled over Nethpara's body unnoticing, then spun about. And ran.
Sixty paces on, Keneb's mind was suddenly flooded with the memory of when he had last heard the word 'Jhistal'.
Duiker rode with the mounted officers out onto the plain.
Korbolo Dom's army looked to be in full panicked flight, though the historian noted that they still held on to their weapons even as they fled back over the mound and its facing slope. The High Fist's cavalry rode hard to either side, quickly outpacing the footsoldiers as they pushed to complete the encirclement. Both wings rode beyond line of sight, into the evenly distributed hills of the burial ground.
The High Fist's legions moved at double time, silent and determined. They had no hope of catching the fleeing army until the cavalry had completed the encirclement, closing off all avenues of escape.
'As you predicted, High Fist!' Mallick Rel shouted to Pormqual as they cantered along. 'They are routed!'
'But they shall not escape, shall they?' Pormqual laughed, pitching unevenly in his saddle.
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.
