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. He reined in ten paces from Coltaine. The Fist spoke. “You have your answer, it seems.” “We have it, Blackwing.” “The Khundryl.” Surprise flitted on the warrior’s battered face. “You honor us, but no. We strove to break the one named Korbolo Dom, but failed. The answer is not the Khundryl.” “Then you do honor to Korbolo Dom?” The war chief spat at
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