Blood of Ambrose by James Enge Read Free Book Online

rumble of discontent, even contempt, arose from the crowd.
    “This is not the game, as it was handed down from days of yore,” the dwarf remarked, “is it? Why, if a combatant tried a trick like that back in the Vraidish homelands, north of the Blackthorns, the Judge of the Combat would have his head on the spot.”
    “We are not in the Vraidish homelands,” replied the Protector, sitting down again.
    “Evidently not. Here he comes again.”
    The Red Knight indeed had turned his horse and was charging down the lists again, intent on trampling his opponent. The crowd watched in stony silence; even the Protector seemed ill at ease.
    But the black knight had not remained lying in the dust. He had recovered his spear, at least (his horse was down at the far end of the lists), and stood with it in hand, awaiting the Red Knight's onset. When the Red Knight's horse was almost upon him he dodged across its path with an agility that was astounding in a fully armored man and, lifting his lance like a club, struck the Red Knight from the saddle.
    A roar of spontaneous applause drowned the crash of the Red Knight's fall. Wyrtheorn crowed with delight, then shouted, “Ambrose! Ambrose! Merlin's children!”
    A sudden silence followed this shocking slogan, which reminded the crowd of the political realities behind this combat. Since that was what Wyrtheorn intended to do, he continued to shout into the silence, “ Ambrose and the Ambrosii! The Royal House! ”
    “The King,” suggested someone near at hand. Wyrth thought he recognized his friend Genjandro's voice.
    “The King!” Wyrtheorn agreed vociferously. “Justice for the King! The King!”
    There were a few faint echoes in the enclosure, but no answering roar. Still, there was a frozen thoughtfulness on many faces in the crowd. Wyrth had hoped for no more and sat back satisfied. The glittering stare of hatred the Protector had fixed on the squirming King did not escape him. But he doubted anything he could do would intensify the Protector's already lambent hatred for the last descendant of Uthar the Great.
    The Red Knight had risen from the ground, meanwhile, dust like wreaths of smoke in the air about him. He said nothing, but drew the heavy sword swung from his belt.
    The black knight, waiting at one side, lightly tossed away his spear and drew his own blade, narrow and long, with a deadly point.
    The King looked curiously at Wyrth.
    “No, Your Majesty,” the dwarf said, answering the unspoken question. “That is not the accursed sword Tyrfing. Tyrfing is not merely a weapon but a focus of power; to kill with it is an act with grim consequences. Morlock would not carry it into a combat such as this. Besides, the ban on magic forbids it.”
    “Tyrfing is a fable,” the Protector remarked, “and Morlock is a ghost story. I wonder who is really wearing that armor—some pawn of Ambrosia afraid to use his own name, I suppose.”
    The King looked fearfully at his Protector, as if he had thought the same thing. Wyrth laughed, but did not argue.
    The knights on the field awaited no formal preliminaries to the second part of the combat. Before the heralds had raised the trumpets to their lips, the Red Knight's broadsword had crashed onto the black-and-white Ambrosian shield. The black knight thrust forward simultaneously with his bright deadly blade and the Red Knight was forced to retreat. The blade of the black knight gleamed red as he leapt forward in pursuit.
    “First blood to Ambrosius!” Wyrth said grimly. “You see, Lord Urdhven, the ghost story that is sweating down on yonder dusty field learned his fencing from Naevros syr Tol, the greatest swordsman of the old time. He is not like anyone your champion has met before.”
    The Protector was still smiling. “They have all been different,” he remarked. “They all came from different places, wearing different colors, skilled in different skills. They have one thing in common, dwarf: Hlosian killed them