James Enge: Blood of Ambrose

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 himnot 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 golemsomehow 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!"

The 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 and 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."