Blood of Ambrose by James Enge Read Free Book Online Page A

all.”
    Wyrtheorn shrugged and turned back to the fight. Urdhven's wholly unassumed confidence disturbed him more than he was willing to admit. It also disturbed him that there was no doubt in the faces of the crowd. They watched in fascination, but there was no suspense. They clearly expected the Red Knight's victory, though he was wounded in three places now.
    The clash of steel against steel continued as the sun sank from its zenith and the heat of the day grew worse. When the black knight had wounded the Red Knight at least once in each limb, and twice in the neck, he began a furious offense clearly aimed at bringing final victory. Sword strokes fell like silver sheets of rain, varying with sudden lightning-bright thrusts.
    The Red Knight backed slowly away two more steps under this onslaught and was wounded several times—it was hard to say how many, because blood did not stand out on his red-enamelled plate armor. But his manner hardly changed throughout the fight, despite his wounds. It occurred to Wyrtheorn that he was waiting for something.
    The dwarf glanced over at the prisoner's stake and saw that Ambrosia's gray eyes were fixed on him. He shrugged uneasily, but her expression did not change. She looked back at the combat.
    She knows something , Wyrth thought. What puzzles me does not puzzle her. He drummed his fingers on his knees and looked meditatively back to the field.
    The black knight's assault slowed visibly. He had actually hacked holes in the Red Knight's plate armor over his right arm and left leg. But Sir Hlosian Bekh still defended himself with the same lumbering vigor and the same mediocre skill.
    Then it happened. The black knight's sword—no longer bright and keen, but notched along its edge and stained dark with drying blood—lashed out in an attack on the Red Knight's sword arm. The black knight's sword caught in the gap between the forearm plate and the upper arm plate, where the Red Knight's chain mail was visible. Instead of retreating, the Red Knight trapped the black shield with his own and struck a thunderous blow with his heavy sword on the black knight's helm.
    Ambrosia's champion staggered like a drunk. The Red Knight braced himself and struck out with his shield. The black knight was forced back a step. Hlosian struck again with sword and shield, and again the black knight was forced back.
    “It is always the same,” the Protector's voice said. Wyrth turned to him: the golden lord seemed almost sad as he returned the dwarf's glance. “Your friend, whoever he is, fought well. Better than any I have ever seen, perhaps, and I have been coming to the combats for thirty years. Hlosian, as you have seen, does not fight well. But he always wins.”
    “He has magical protection,” the dwarf guessed.
    The Protector replied, with a shrug, “He is strong enough to outlast any opponent, and he is not afraid of death. That is all the magic he needs. Look at the crowd, dwarf. This is nothing new to them. They have seen it all before.”
    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,