'No.'
The historian's head turned. Coltaine had uncouched his lance and was readying his black-feathered round shield on his left forearm.
'Damn you, Fist – this is madness!'
'Watch your tongue, Historian,' the Wickan said distractedly.
Duiker's gaze fixed on the short stretch of silver chain visible around the man's neck. 'Whatever that gift is that you're wearing, it'll only work once. What you do now is what a war chief of the Wickans would, but not a Fist of the Empire.'
The man snapped around at that and the historian found the barbed point of the lance pricking his throat.
'And just when,' Coltaine rasped, 'can I choose to die in the manner I desire? You think I will use this cursed bauble?' Freeing his shield hand, he reached up and tore the chain from his neck. 'You wear it, Historian. All that we have done avails the world naught, unless the tale is told. Hood take Dujek Onearm! Hood take the Empress!' He flung the bottle at Duiker and it struck unerringly the palm of his right hand. Fingers closing around the object, he felt the serpentine slither of chain against calluses. The lance-point kissing his neck had not moved.
Their eyes locked.
'Excuse me, sirs,' List said. 'It appears this is not an instance of desired combat. If you would both observe ...'
Coltaine pulled the weapon away, swung around.
The Khundryl war chiefs waited in a row before them, not thirty paces away. They wore, beneath skins and furs and fetishes, a strange greyish armour that looked almost reptilian. Long moustaches, knotted beards and spiked braids – all black – disguised most of their features, though what remained visible was sun-darkened and angular.
One nudged his pony a step closer and spoke in broken Malazan. 'Blackwing! How think you the odds this day?'
Coltaine twisted in his saddle, studied the dust clouds now both north and south, then settled back. 'I would make no wager.'
'We have long awaited this day,' the war chief said. He stood in his stirrups and gestured to the south hills. 'Tregyn and Bhilard both, this day.' He waved northward. 'And Can'eld, and Semk, aye, even Tithansi – what's left, that is. The great tribes of the south odhans, yet who among them all is the most powerful? The answer is with this day.'
'You'd better hurry,' Duiker said. We're running out of soldiers for you to show your prowess on, you pompous bastard.
Coltaine seemed to have similar thoughts, though his temper was cooler. 'The question belongs to you, nor do I care either way its answer.'
'Are such concerns beyond the Wickan clans, then? Are you not yourselves a tribe?'
Coltaine slowly settled the lance's butt in its socket. 'No, we are soldiers of the Malazan Empire.'
Hood's breath, I got through to him.
The war chief nodded, unperturbed by that answer. 'Then be watchful, Fist Coltaine, while you attend to this day.'
The riders wheeled about, parting to rejoin their clans.
'I believe,' Coltaine said, looking around, 'you have selected a good vantage, Historian, so here shall I remain.'
'Fist?'
A faint smile touched his lean features. 'For a short time.'
The Crow Clan and the Seventh gave it their all, but the forces holding the mouth of the valley – from their high ground to either side and farther down the valley's throat – did not yield. The Chain of Dogs contracted between the hammer of Korbolo Dom and the anvil of the Tregyn and Bhilard. It was only a matter of time.
The actions of the Khundryl clans changed all that. For they had come, not to join in the slaughter of Malazans, but to give answer to the one question demanded of their pride and honour. The south mass struck the Tregyn position like a vengeful god's scythe. The north was a spear thrusting deep into Korbolo Dom's flank. A third, hitherto unseen force swept up from the valley itself, behind the Bhilard. Within minutes of the perfectly timed contacts, the Malazan forces found themselves unopposed, while the chaos of battle reigned on all sides.
Korbolo Dom's army quickly recovered, reforming with as much precision as they could muster, and drove back the Khundryl after more than four hours of pitched battle. One aim had been achieved, however, and that was the shattering of the Semk, the Can'eld and whatever was left of the Tithansi. Half an answer, Coltaine had muttered at that point, in a tone of utter bewilderment.
The southern forces broke the Tregyn and Bhilard an hour later, and set off in pursuit of the fleeing remnants.
With dusk an hour away, a lone Khundryl war chief rode up to them at a slow canter, and as he neared they saw that it was the spokesman. He'd been in a scrap and was smeared in blood, at least half of it his own, yet he rode straight in his saddle.