Blood of Ambrose Page 17

  “Get down, Steng!” he shouted impatiently. “I need your horse. We ride to Ambrose, as fast as may be.”

  The poisoner dismounted, and the Protector ascended to his saddle. “Tell the Companions of Mercy I will need them,” Urdhven commanded Steng. “Any Dragon Watch—any Protector's Men you see, send them to me at the City Gate of Ambrose.” He rode away without waiting for a reply, and Vost and the other soldiers followed him out of the Great Market.

  The captains of the City Legion were gathered, with many of their men, in the audience hall of Ambrose. They had all received anonymous messages to assemble there at this hour and day, and they had all been forbidden by the Protector to engage in the fight against the dragon. Some were absent. A few had taken to the street to fight the dragon, their sense of duty overriding their (obviously politically motivated) orders. Others had declined to appear, fearing this anonymous summons was an invitation to another purge, like the one that had left most of the loyal servants of Ambrose dead. This possibility was on the minds of those who had chosen to appear as well: all of them bore arms and armor. They would not be purged without a fight.

  They waited in vain for the Protector. But presently one of his henchmen appeared, fully armored, in the hated black surcoat with its red lion rampant.

  A rumble of dissatisfaction arose from the assembled soldiers. The arrogance of it! One Protector's Man, in battle-scarred armor and a dirty surcoat, to address the pride of the City Legion!

  The Protector's Man was arrogant indeed, speaking to no one, swaggering up the long hall to the dais and the imperial throne. Then he sat down on the throne itself and drew his sword, putting it across his knees like a sovereign about to deliver the high justice.

  There was a shout of protest, and some of the Legionaries leaped forward to pull the Protector's Man off the throne. But before they could reach him he took off his helmet and tossed it down the long hallway. And what they saw then caused all the soldiers to grow silent and still.

  “Come on, then!” Ambrosia shouted, her iron-gray hair settling about her shoulders. “Haul me down and hail me about, and when the Protector returns from his dragon hunt, as he will do shortly, he'll reward you as richly as he can. He might even let you transfer to his new guards—you, too, might wear this proud uniform!” And she tore the surcoat with her left hand and cast it down on the stairs of the dais.

  There was silence in the hall. Ambrosia waited and waited, and finally she smiled. “You're lacking in ambition, that's your problem,” she said confidingly. “You still think your oath has meaning—that loyalty and honor can have any use or purpose in the bright new tomorrow our Protector promises us. What fools you are! You stand there gaping, when any one of you could make your fortune by climbing this dais and striking off my head!”

  Another long pause. None of the Legionaries spoke or moved; they hardly breathed.

  “Or is it the other way around?” Ambrosia asked quietly (yet somehow the words went to every corner of the room). “Is it the others, so swift to shake off their allegiance, so ready to follow a kin-slaying traitor, is it they who are the fools? Fools to oppose me, certainly. I won't pretend to know every one of you, but every one of you here knows me. It was I and my brother who went to the edge of the world to defy the Sunkillers. It was I who stemmed the tide of the Khroi at the Battle of Sarkunden. It was I who carried the banner of Uthar into the breach at Vakhnhal. You remember how I led the troops of this empire to victory again and again. Uthar my consort is gone, but I remain, the greatest general and leader of armed cohorts since the old time. Those who threaten me or my descendants, the rightful emperors of Ontil, will go down in death and defeat. So it has always been and so it will be today.

  “I come to you for one reason and one reason alone. You have watched this thing, this crawling traitor, this Urdhven, with as much disgust as I. You have not joined with him—or you would not wear the Legion's sacred emblem—but neither have you opposed him. I tell you this: you must do one or the other now. Tear off your surcoat and humbly supplicate Lord Urdhven to be one of his men, or do your damn job and protect the King of the Two Cities from a murdering usurper.”

  She reached into her mail shirt and drew forth a rumpled sheet of parchment with a red seal.

  “This is my appointment, by the lawful King of the Two Cities and the lord of Ambrose, to act as his regent. Those who choose to stand with me and renew their oath to the King may take up in the new Royal Legion the same rank they held in the City Legion. Those who choose to do otherwise may crawl out of here, on their bellies or however seems suitable, but they must expect no mercy from me or any of the King's loyal ministers should we ever meet again.”

  She stood and, lifting her sword aloft, began to chant the words of the Legion's oath. As one, the assembled soldiers drew their swords and echoed her. The thunder of their voices reached down to the riverside dungeons, to the empty guardhouse at the City Gate, to a secret chamber high above the city where Morlock lay dreaming of being a dragon.

  The King and Wyrth heard them as they sat beside Morlock in the hidden passages of Ambrose.

  “What does it mean?” Lathmar asked breathlessly.

  “They're either slaughtering the Lady Ambrosia or taking the oath with her,” Wyrtheorn replied, shrugging. “Sounds too organized to be the murder of just one person, but they say the Legion is very well drilled. You know: ‘Company A: advance. Kill! Company B: advance. Kill! Company C—'”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “The King's wish is my command,” said Wyrth, mock-obsequiously. Like Ambrosia, or for that matter Morlock, he was now a minister of the King with a seat on the Regency Council, if they only had a table to sit around.

  “All right,” said Lathmar, taking him at his word. “Then it's my wish that you attend Lady Ambrosia in the audience hall. Deliver her whatever assistance she seems to require. If she needs none, return to me here.”

  “Er.” Wyrth pulled at his beard. “Are you sure you can wake him, if he needs waking? Morlock can be very single-minded, especially when he is pursuing a vision.”

  “I'm sure. Anyway, the sooner you go, the sooner you'll be back.”

  Wyrth shrugged again, grinning. He leaped to his feet, sketched a courtly bow toward his sovereign, and dashed off down the stone passage.

  The King turned back to Morlock and considered the face of his dreaming minister. Then he folded his hands and put himself through the spiritual exercises Morlock had taught him to summon the rapture of vision.

  Lathmar, in truth, had great promise as a seer, and the rapture came upon him swiftly. His spirit was drawn alongside Morlock's as he flew above the city on red silken wings filled with crows. Morlock acknowledged Lathmar's presence without even an unspoken word, and then returned to his rather complex task.

  More than ever, Lathmar was awed by the power of Morlock's mind—the ability to direct the separate motions of hundreds of crows that filled the silken dragon puppet while maintaining the dragon illusion that sheathed it. But he was even more impressed when he perceived that Morlock's power over the crows was not power. They liked him—they respected him—they had had many a profitable deal with him. To them, he was the most crowlike of men, almost reasonable, and this latest prank (for so they thought of it) appealed tremendously to their small distorted senses of humor. They were willing partners in the gag; they took their cues from Morlock but were not mastered by him.

  The city far below them was dim and shadowy in Lathmar's vision—far more visible were the myriads of human souls that burned brightly within it. Among them Lathmar was sure he could recognize one. He had seen him only once, rising from a hole in the floor of a ruined shop—

  It was Genjandro, their agent in the city, awaiting as they had prearranged in one of his warehouses. It was extremely droll to see how like Genjandro's inside was to his outside—full of hate for the Protector, reverence for the King (at the moment Lathmar thought of the King as a being quite distinct from himself)
, and with a certain crowlike amusement for the task at hand. They left Genjandro setting fire to his rugs and leaped into the air again.

  Presently they landed in the Great Market and confronted Urdhven. Lathmar was fascinated by the talic prospect of Urdhven. It was as if he were two men: one a hero figure of shining silver. But this was just a surface, tossed like tinsel over a heavier, blood-edged, somewhat indistinct figure—rather like the red lion that was his ensign. But it was the silver shape that all the soldiers in the market saw: there were tiny little silver Protectors inside their souls as they watched and worshipped Urdhven in his heroic moment. Lathmar would have laughed if he could have laughed.

  Then Urdhven charged toward the dragon, and the silver within his spirit grew bright indeed, almost eclipsing the other, and his lance tore through the silken dragon that Lathmar's mind inhabited. The illusion spell on the dragon puppet was severed, and suddenly Lathmar's awareness was shattered into thousands of crow-shaped pieces of darkness and he knew nothing for a while.

  The City Gate was standing wide open when Urdhven and his three cohorts of armed men reached it. To all appearances, there were no soldiers on duty.

  “May the Strange Gods damn them all to all eternity!” Urdhven muttered with complete sincerity.

  He could take comfort, he supposed, in the fact that the Ambrosii had not secured the gate against him. Then again, it was possible that they held the gate on the far side of the bridge and were waiting in ambush.

  “Vost,” he said, after a moment's thought, “stay here with Vendhrik's and Stalost's cohorts. Arnring's cohort, dismount and follow me.” And he rode into the dark gate, past the dark gatehouse onto the bridge over the river Tilion. When he was halfway across he paused, raising his hand. The cohort halted on the bridge behind him.

  “Arnring,” he said to the cohort's commander, “I have a dangerous mission which I can entrust only to you.”

  “Yes, sir!” Arnring replied eagerly.

  “I want you to enter the castle Ambrose and engage in reconnaissance. I believe the Ambrosii may be somewhere within. Enter the castle, take possession of the key points, and return to me a message when your men are in place.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arnring was less eager now. But he still seemed conscious of the honor Urdhven was doing him in selecting him for the task. (It was just as well, then, that he didn't know Urdhven had in fact selected him and his cohort because they were the most expendable of the three.)

  “If you meet armed resistance,” Urdhven continued, “send me word of that, too, and I will bring reinforcements. Any message you send must have a code phrase, do you understand? So that I can be sure it is from you and not our enemies.”

  “Yes, sir. What is the phrase?”

  “Oh—‘Steng is a useless weasel.’”

  Arnring grinned. “Yes, sir. ‘Steng is a useless weasel.’”

  “Good hunting to you, then, Commander Arnring.”

  Arnring lifted his arm in salute and then, barking commands, marched his cohort on past the Lord Protector.

  Urdhven waited until they were out of sight on the far gate and then dismounted. His right side was bruised where he had fallen in fighting the “dragon”—he longed to disarm and scratch his body head to toe. But he knew he couldn't until he was sure Ambrose was secure.

  He waited, staring out over the dark waters of the Tilion. The overcast sky was rumbling periodically, and the sun had long set—it would be a dark night, a night full of rain. He wondered if he should spend it at Markethall Barracks—the truth is, though, he could not bear to be near the site of that embarrassing encounter with the false dragon. He wondered what the men were saying about it. He wished he could hear them. He thought he did hear them, outside the gate, on the city street. He was sure he heard Vost's voice. Then he definitely heard the portcullis of the gate slam shut.

  He ran back down the bridge to the gate opening onto the street. His two cohorts were gone. The echoes of the horses' hoofbeats were fading away as he stood there, forlorn, inside the gate. Vost, the ever-faithful, was gone. Had Vost betrayed him? Had he been overpowered by the others? They had even taken the horses of Arnring's cohort. Why had they done that?

  Urdhven decided he needed to catch up with Arnring's men. He went up the bridge to his horse, thinking vaguely of where he should tether it…and then something occurred to him.

  The lever to control the portcullis was inside the gatehouse. It could not be shut from the street.

  Someone was behind him…in the dark gatehouse he had passed. Someone who had locked him into the castle. Someone who had not spoken to him, but had watched and waited with the cunning of a cat playing with a mouse.

  The hairs on the back of his neck were already rising when he heard booted feet on the stones of the bridge behind him.

  He turned and saw a man step out of the shadows near the gatehouse. The man wore a black surcoat with a red lion rampant across it. He wore a helmet and full armor as well, but he doffed the helmet as he approached.

  Urdhven knew the man's features reasonably well. They were his own.

  “Appearance is nothing,” the other said—as if Urdhven's thoughts, too, were his. “Voice is another matter. Even if every tone is in place, one must say the things one's audience expects, or the illusion will be shattered.”

  “Which one are you?” Urdhven said. He did not quite keep the fear out of his voice.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Which one are you?”

  “I sent your men around to the Lonegate. The King's new Legion should have disposed of Arnring's men and secured all entrance points by the time they reach there. If not, I suppose they may meet you there—and you (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) will tell them to ride back here, or to Markethall, or—”

  “Who are you?” Urdhven screamed.

  His simulacrum grunted. “I am—for all practical purposes—anyone you have ever murdered. I am anyone you have ever had tortured to death. I am anyone you have ever robbed or terrorized. I am anyone who has cause to hate you. Does that narrow it down for you, Lord Protector?”

  Urdhven drew his sword. “You won't take me without a fight.”

  “I destroyed Hlosian Bekh. I can kill you.”

  Urdhven had thought that his fear would grow less when he knew which of the Ambrosii he was facing. Instead he found the whole night was alive with terror—the rumbling of the thunder in the distance seemed to be the approach of something horrible; every shadow seemed a grinning mask of death. He remembered the day of Ambrosia's trial by combat, that nightmare of a day when everything had begun to go wrong.

  Nevertheless he replied firmly, with a confidence he truly felt, “No, you can't.”

  By way of answer, the man who wore his face drew his sword and attacked.

  The fight that followed was not as long as it might have been. Urdhven's opponent was a more skilled fencer, but Urdhven was not incompetent. Still, he could not bring himself to strike with deadly force at his own image. His enemy gave him opening after opening, smiling with an unpleasant crooked smile, daring Urdhven to strike. But he couldn't.

  Finally, his enemy grew tired of toying with him and set about the business of dispatching him in the most businesslike way. In a few moments, all Urdhven's limbs were bleeding, and as he strove to parry a stroke he was stunned by a blow to his chest. His enemy's riposte, sure and terribly strong, had slipped past his defense and struck through his armor.

  The Lord Protector looked down to see the hilt of his enemy's sword protruding from his rib cage. In a moment it was withdrawn, and as he staggered he saw the bright edge of the sword whistling through the air at him again.

  athmar VII, King of the Two Cities and Lord of Ambrose, rightful heir to the imperial throne (if he could only get it), awoke with a squawk.

  He sat up and stared blearily around at the empty stone chamber where he found himself. Apparently he was not, after all, a crow raiding a cornfield north of the city. Why in the world
would he ever have supposed that?

  Then he remembered: he had joined into Morlock's vision as Morlock's mind conducted the hundreds of crows who had carried their dragon puppet into the city to face the Lord Protector. Lacking Morlock's skill, he had been carried away by his rapport with the crows after the illusion was shattered and the troop dispersed.

  Morlock was gone. Where he had been was a message written in the stark pointed characters of Morlock's hand:

  I go to secure the City Gate, as we planned. Ambrosia and your soldiers will soon engage in battle with the Protector's Men. You were unwise to send Wyrth away. Stay here until we send for you.

  Morlock Ambrosius

  The King dropped the message on the ground, and it began to burn. Before it had blackened to ash he had decided to disobey it. This was the crucial moment in their battle with the Protector; he wasn't going to spend it hiding in a secret passage.

  Lathmar took the secret ways through the walls of Ambrose down to a hallway near the great audience hall. Even before he left the secret passage he could hear men in armed conflict, so he proceeded carefully. He crept into the open hallway and over to a balustrade that overlooked the entryway to the audience hall.

  Men were fighting there. Men had died there: the bodies were scattered underfoot in the corridor. Men wearing the Protector's red lion were facing City Legionaries in blue and gray.

  The Legionaries were outnumbered, and as Lathmar watched breathlessly, they began to fall back toward the entrance of the audience hall. The Protector's Men followed eagerly, shouting Urdhven's name as their battle cry. The Legionaries said nothing, but grimly and slowly retreated in order.

  Finally the Protector's Men were facing the Legionaries at the entrance of the Hall itself, and the Legionaries ceased retreating. Ambrosia and Wyrth were not among them; Lathmar could not tell if they were among the dead. One of the soldiers sounded a horn, which echoed strangely in the stone corridors.

  In pinning the Legionaries against the entrance to the Hall, the Protector's Men had incautiously turned their backs toward the corridors emptying into the atrium. After the Legionary's call, the shadows in those empty corridors suddenly bristled with bright blades: Legionaries filled each hallway, leaping into the atrium to attack the Protector's Men from behind. Among these Lathmar thought he recognized Ambrosia (in the armor of a Protector's Man, but without the surcoat), and he was sure he recognized Wyrth (who was distinguished in that group both by the smallness of his size and the ferocity of his fighting).