James Enge - Blood of Ambrose

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 hinz."

"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."