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

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