Blood of Ambrose Page 5

  Stonily, Wyrth turned his gaze back to the field. But he could not help noticing, with the corner of his eye, the patient, unsurprised faces of the crowd. They were fascinated, but they were not really in suspense. To them this was not a combat but a ritual death. They had seen it before.

  Wyrtheorn was seeing what he had never seen before: the black knight being driven back, step by step, toward defeat. The Red Knight now had his back toward the Victor's Square, and he was forcing his opponent toward the far border of the lists. If forced across, the black knight would be defeated.

  “It will be over soon,” the Protector said thoughtfully. “I hope he does not try to flee under the rail. It is unpleasant to see a friend killed while groveling on the ground—”

  “Morlock Ambrosius will never flee,” the dwarf said flatly.

  “He, or whoever is pretending to be him, has never faced Sir Hlosian Bekh. There is something frightening about Hlosian, something different.”

  “Will he not allow his opponent to yield?” the little King asked suddenly. Wyrth, glancing at him, saw his eyes were wide with concern—he had probably never seen a man killed in combat before.

  The Protector shook his head, smiling. “Sir Hlosian never offers mercy. Like defeat, it is foreign to his nature.”

  It seemed to Wyrth, as he looked back at the combat, that the black knight was giving way to panic. To the dwarf's way of thinking, the only chance the black knight had was to disable the Red Knight's sword arm or one of his legs. But the black knight had ceased attacking these entirely. From the looks of things (the Red Knight was partially eclipsing Wyrth's view), the black knight was hacking and stabbing repeatedly at his opponent's breastplate. The likelihood of breaking through this (and the chain mail that surely lay beneath) for a fatal blow was so slight that Wyrth had to believe the black knight was no longer rational.

  The black knight ceased retreating, his heels at the border of the lists. The Red Knight let his shield fall to his shoulder and began to deal his blows two-handed. Very unwisely, in Wyrth's opinion, the black knight did likewise. This gave Sir Hlosian the opportunity to land a crashing blow on the black knight's right shoulder that drove him to one knee.

  Snatching up his shield, the black knight leapt back to his feet. The Red Knight had recovered and struck again, a terrible two-handed stoke on the upraised shield of Ambrosius.

  Visibly, the black knight's knees began to give way, then stood straight. But Wyrth saw with horror that he was holding his shield with both hands; he had lost his sword somewhere. (It didn't seem to be on the ground, but perhaps the dust was covering it.)

  The same thing was noticed by others; an anticipatory mutter ran through the crowd, a whisper of approaching death. The Red Knight landed another blow on the Ambrosian shield, which the black knight held over his head, as if to protect himself from a downpour. The blow drove him to his knees.

  Wyrth watched in disbelief as the Red Knight raised his sword over his head for what would surely be the deathblow. He shuddered to think with what force that blow would fall. The Red Knight threw his head back; the flat beak of his helmet could be seen, outlined against the far sky. Wyrth wondered if the victorious knight was about to give a barbaric scream of triumph.

  Then he bent back further, from the waist, and Wyrtheorn realized he was not bending, but falling backward. The black knight's sword protruded from the shattered red breastplate. In complete silence, the Red Knight fell back to the earth and lay still.

  The crash of his bloody armor on the field was the signal for a thunderous outburst from the watching crowd. They rose, like the clouds of dust rising from the fallen knight, crying out at the top of their voices, heedless of the Protector and his soldiers—seized at last by surprise, by triumph, by their own secret anger. The invincible Red Knight who had killed so many of their own champions, defeated so many of their causes, was dead at last. They could not help but triumph; they could finally afford to hate.

  But all such thoughts were driven from Wyrth's mind as he looked at the black knight. The victor remained on his knees, his helmet slumped back against the rail of the lists as if he were staring speculatively at the sky. His fingers had gone slack, and the battered black-and-white Ambrosian shield lay flat on the ground, its device shrouded with dust.

  “With your leave, Majesty!” Wyrth shouted at the frightened child beside him and leaped down into the Victor's Square. He jumped from there down into the field and ran as fast as his short legs would carry him to where the knights were.

  Wyrth paused by the Red Knight. He glanced at the cruelly notched blade buried in the dead knight's chest, marvelling that anyone could land one blow and begin another with such a wound. Then the smell hit him—not the blood (he had expected that) but mud—the unmistakable reek of mud and wet clay.…

  Wyrth whistled thoughtfully. Now he saw it all! Hlosian was a golem—somehow the black knight had realized it (probably from the smell of its blood, as Wyrth had), and that accounted for his attack on the Red Knight's breastplate. Only by severing or somehow destroying the name-scroll in the golem's chest cavity could the golem be beaten. The black knight had planted his sword in the golem's chest, and had lost his grip on it. The golem had severed its own name-scroll when lifting its arms to dispatch the black knight.

  The dwarf turned toward Ambrosia's champion, fearing the worst as he approached. The victor was hardly moving, issuing knife-edged wheezing sobs in the dusty air, like a horse that has been ridden nearly to death.

  “Morlock!” said Wyrth. “Morlock Ambrosius!”

  There was no answer, but the sobbing sounds continued.

  Dreading what he would see, Wyrth pulled back the visor of the black helmet.

  Eyes closed, head resting comfortably against the rail, Morlock Ambrosius was snoring. Wyrth could smell the stale wine on his breath.

  “You pig!” shouted Wyrth, really furious. “Wake up! There's work to do!”

  he victorious knight made his painful way across the field, in the face of the now-silent crowd and the bristling rows of soldiery that stood beyond. Behind him his small but verbose herald dragged the dead form of his vanquished opponent, still fully armored.

  The King of the Two Cities, watching him approach, noted almost superstitiously that he limped and that his right shoulder was somewhat higher than his left. The battered chain mail jangled as he ascended into the Victor's Square. He paused there for a moment, then reached up and unbuckled his helmet, drawing it off.

  The King still expected a monster's face and so was somewhat disappointed. The features, dark and weather-beaten, were streaked with human sweat and mundane dirt. The dark hair was unruly and matted. Only the eyes were strange: a pale gray, almost luminous in the afternoon shadow across his face.

  “Sire,” said the black knight in a dusty crowlike rasp. He paused, cleared his throat, and resumed in a clearer voice. “I am Morlock Ambrosius, your kinsman and the kinsman of your imperial ancestors to the tenth generation.”

  This being a ceremony, the King knew exactly what to do.

  “Sir Morlock,” he said, “welcome. What is your desire?”

  “Sire,” said the black knight, according to the forms, “I have proven the charges against my sister to be false. If any of her accusers remain, let them rise up and defend their words with the sword.” He did not so much as glance at the Protector.

  “Her accusers,” the King replied, “have lost the right and the power of speech in this assembly. You have defended the right, and victory is your reward. The—that is, your sister is free this day.” The King paused uncertainly. The forms required him at this point to require his ministers to set free the appellant. But the soldiers about him were all the Protector's Men.

  Still, as if he had commanded them, a small party of City Legionaries set out across the lists to the pyre. Climbing up on the kindling, their captain untied the gag on Ambrosia's mouth and broke the chains at her wrists with his sword. Then he dismissed his squad an
d escorted Ambrosia to the Victor's Square. She said nothing, but placed a twisted hand on Morlock's upper shoulder, wincing with pain as she did so.

  “Sir Morlock,” said the King, “have you any other request of this company?” He asked this because it was the form; he knew all the forms and thought it his duty to keep them. He had never been to a trial by arms before, and he did not know the purpose of this question was to give the victor the chance to lay a countercharge against his principal's accusers.

  The King did not know, but the crowd knew. They knew also that Ambrosia's accuser had been the Protector himself, and a mutter of awe ran through the crowd at the little King's bravery.

  “Yes,” said the black knight distinctly.

  Silence fell.

  The King sensed that something dangerous was in the air, but didn't yet know what it was. Then he turned and saw the Protector clenching his fists, his eyes as red as blood. The King's breath suddenly went out of him as he began to understand. But it was no longer his turn to speak; it was Morlock's, and he was taking intolerably long about it.

  “Sire,” Morlock said finally, “I ask that the Protector of the Imperial Crown, one Lord Urdhven,” and he paused again, continuing, “I ask that he return the body of his champion to its blood-kin, who do not seem to be known in the city, so that they may dispose of it with their accustomed rites.”

  There was a puzzled silence, in which the King sensed rather than saw Lord Urdhven relax beside him, only to tense again at a shower of bitter laughter from Ambrosia.

  “Lord Urdhven,” said the King in a low voice, afraid to look directly at him.

  “I'll see to it,” the Protector replied curtly. “Tell them to go away.”

  Go away? The King had been assuming that his Grandmother would take him home, that she would again protect him from his Protector, that everything would be all right again, or at least as right as it had ever been…. Now he saw that would not be.

  Dimly he wondered what would happen to him. Not a public trial like this—not with Ambrosia on the loose. Nothing anyone could come and save him from. A fall down a stairway, perhaps, or a sudden illness, like his mother and father.

  “Grandmother,” he said shrilly, moved by his own heart. (Was there a ceremony for such an occasion? Kedlidor had never taught it to him.) “Grandmother,” he said again more slowly, “I'm glad you're free. Good-bye!” Then he put his hands over his face so that no one could see him weep.

  His tears soon passed, but he held his hands over his face still, hiding behind them—as he had often hid his face against his pillow while listening to strange noises in his room at night. He felt the Protector stand and heard him walk away. Still he hid behind his hands. He heard the crowd leaving and still he sat, hiding in the open. He sat until he felt the touch on his shoulder and a soldier's voice saying, “Come along now, Your Majesty. It's time.”

  “Perhaps you're exaggerating slightly, Wyrtheorn?” suggested Ambrosia, smiling.

  “Madam, he was absolutely snoring. You heard me. And I heard him.”

  “What an evil pig you are, Morlock,” Ambrosia remarked, “taking your ease when Wyrth had been working so hard on my behalf.”

  “That's nothing. Wait ‘till you hear what he—”

  The three were trudging among the Dead Hills surrounding the Old City. Wyrth was leading the black charger (which Morlock called by the barbarous name Velox), and when he expressed his overflowing emotions (as he frequently did) by some vigorous gesture, the horse tended to shy away. Wyrth had underlined his fresh accusation of Morlock with a great wave of the hand, and now Velox positively bolted. Wyrtheorn lost hold of the reins and had to chase the horse down, which he did with inexpert enthusiasm.

  “Wyrth's in as good a mood as I've ever seen,” Ambrosia remarked, as the sounds of his shouting at the horse wafted back to them.

  “I think he had little hope of success today,” her brother remarked.

  “Had you?”

  Morlock grunted and sat down abruptly on a nearby rock. “Yes. More than the occasion merited. It was a near thing. Help me out of this hardware, Ambrosia.”

  “I can't.” She explained to him about her hands. His face grew grim.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “We'd better wait until Wyrtheorn returns; I can do you little good in these mailed gloves.”

  Wyrth finally did return with horse in tow. “I figured it out,” he said, addressing Ambrosia. “He was unable to locate a horse and, being pressed for time, found an unusually tall sheep, shaved it raw, and painted it black. So I—”

  “Get me out of this armor, Wyrtheorn.”

  “Hm. I fear that Master Morlock's customary keenness of wit has been blunted by repeated blows to the head.”

  “If that's the remedy, I ask only that you come within arm's reach.”

  “Physical comedy can never make up for lack of true humor, Master Morlock,” the dwarf reproved him, pointedly approaching from behind. “Lady Ambrosia, if you'll grab these—”

  “They broke her hands.”

  “Not taking a single chance, were they? I beg your pardon, madam—I heard some such rumor while I was milling about in the crowd. The combat drove it from my mind, though. Can you step on these reins or something?”

  Ambrosia nickered softly, spoke Velox's name, and the black charger came to stand quietly beside her.

  “Hmph,” said the dwarf. “Then while I—”

  “You seemed to be enjoying yourself so much.”

  “Never mind.” He set to unbuckling Morlock's armor. “I'd see to your wrists myself,” he said to Ambrosia, “but Morlock is a better healer than I am, if you can believe it.”

  Ambrosia expressed polite disbelief.

  “You may well say so, but it's true. No doubt due to the practice he's had, bandaging up his own head lo these many centuries—Hurs krakna!” he muttered in dismay.

  Ambrosia looked at the stretch of Morlock's shoulder Wyrth had just exposed. Repeated blows had shattered the chain mail, driving it through the dark cloth padding so that links of mail, like fish scales, were driven into Morlock's flesh. The shoulder was dark with dried blood where it was not gleaming with fresh. “Ugly,” she agreed.

  “I had hoped it might not be so bad. I had really begun to hope, when I saw him snoring there on the field. Look at him, Lady Ambrosia, he's sleeping again.”

  “He's in a bad way. I've cost you both much, this day. I owe you more.”

  “Nonsense.” Wyrth shook his head. “Blood has no price.” He worked in silence for a while, stripping the shattered armor from his master's body and then laying him gently on the ground. He threw aside the blood-crusted rags that Morlock had been wearing under the mail and covered him with his own cloak. This left Morlock's legs bare, so Wyrth fetched the rags back to cover them.

  “I'll have to be your healer after all, my lady,” the dwarf said. “I'm no herbalist, but I can at least bind your hands and splint your wrists.”

  “You needn't bother, Wyrth. If I get back to the city before dark I can consult somebody.”

  Wyrtheorn blinked and glanced at Morlock. “I doubt Morlock will be able to travel before nightfall—”

  “I don't expect you to travel with me. You've done enough already, both of you.”

  “Er. We, uh, we rather expected you to travel with us. And not to the city. Morlock thinks—”

  “To the city I go, Wyrth. I can't leave little Lathmar to the Protector's mercy.”

  “Lathmar?”

  “The King.”

  “Oh!” Wyrtheorn rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Not a bad little fellow. But you have to consider him as good as dead, you know. Revenge is what you owe him, not protection. Now, Morlock thinks—”

  “Urdhven wouldn't dare kill him as long as I'm alive,” Ambrosia said with a knowing air.

  “Oh, yes he would. In fact, he doesn't dare do anything else.”

  Ambrosia frowned.

  “Hear me out, madam. If I understand the law of the
Second Empire, you may not claim the throne.”

  “Correct. I'm not a descendant of the ancient Vraidish kings.”

  “Then.”

  Ambrosia stared at him, waiting.

  “If the Protector arranges for the King to die,” Wyrth said finally, “there is no legitimate claimant for the throne. That makes the Protector as legitimate as any. And he is the man on the spot, with an army loyal to him controlling the capital.”

  “The people would never stand for it.”

  “Eh, my lady, what do the people ever have to say about such things?”

  “They are my people, Wyrtheorn. No one knows them better than I do. And I tell you they will pull the palace Ambrose down around the Protector's ears if he harms the King. I am one thing—I'm not Vraidish, and moreover am supposed to look out for myself. The King is different. He is truly honored in the city.”

  “Then why do you fear for him?”

  Ambrosia was silent.

  “You see, my lady, everything you say simply underlines the desperation of the Protector's position. And desperate men prefer savage measures: it gives release to their emotions. And, Lady Ambrosia, I spent all yesterday at the Great Market, scrounging for gossip. There was more sympathy for yourself than you have supposed, and less feeling for the King than you imagine. People are weary of weak and troubled reigns. They say the Ambrosian line has run its course; they are looking for a leader. They'll never love Urdhven, but if he proves himself the strongest they'll follow him sure.”

  Ambrosia became restless with this analysis. “Then best I be back at the city as soon as can be. Tell my brother—”

  “No, my lady, wait. Morlock can counsel you better than I. I always see the debt side of a ledger.”

  “And Morlock is an optimist?”

  “Morlock sees a way,” the dwarf replies. “Always. Please wait till he awakes.”

  “I can't wait, Wyrth. If—”

  The unconscious form lifted its hand. It drew a long, shuddering breath. “Wait!” it rasped, in a voice unlike Morlock's.