by James Enge
“Lady Ambrosia Viviana, accused of witchcraft, has claimed her right of trial by combat. If her champion is present, let him come forth and enter the lists, or her life is forfeit to the King (the Strange Gods protect His Majesty).”
The heralds blew another blast on their trumpets, and the excitement of the crowd died down. They could see, as well as the King himself, that one end of the lists was vacant, and that at the other end stood the Red Knight. Perhaps this would only be an execution and not a combat after all.
Then the muttering of the crowd changed slightly. The King, leaning forward, saw that someone else had entered the lists—someone shorter than the King was himself, who bowed low before the prisoner.
The crowd was half-amused, half-thoughtful as the unarmed dwarf marched past them up the lists to Victor's Square.
“Have you come,” the High Marshal said as the dwarf drew to a halt before him, “as champion for the Lady Ambrosia?”
“If need be,” said the dwarf, with unassumed confidence.
“If you are not a champion you must depart from the lists.”
“Heralds can be in the lists, before the combat and at intervals. So can squires.”
“Are you herald or squire?”
“Both! Herald, squire, apprentice, and factotum to my harven-kinsman, Morlock Ambrosius, also called syr Theorn. I am Wyrth syr Theorn.”
“Sir Thorn—”
“I'm not a knight. Wyrth. Syr. Theorn. Wyrtheorn to my friends.”
“Wyrththyseorn—”
“Not bad. Take a deep breath and try again.”
“—you must take up arms for the Lady Ambrosia or leave the field. The trial has begun.”
“You don't have the authority to make that judgement, Sir Marshal. I appeal to the Judge of the Combat. My principal has been delayed, but he is coming. On his behalf, I ask that the combat be delayed for a time.”
Vost, the High Marshal, looked uncertainly up toward the royal box. The King realized abruptly that the decision was his. He was the Judge of the Combat, as the highest-ranking male present. He looked at Urdhven, who made a slight gesture of indifference, his golden face impassive.
“How much time?” he called down.
“As much as I can get,” the dwarf replied cheerfully. “Morlock is horrible old, you know, and doesn't move as fast as he used to.”
The King put his hand to his head. There was nothing in the rites Kedlidor had taught him about this. But there should have been: it seemed a reasonable request. But he didn't know what a reasonable answer would be.
“Let me come up and explain,” the dwarf proposed. “For I have messages from your kinsman Morlock, not meant for the common ear.”
“Uh…” The King gestured indeterminately. The dwarf took this as permission and hopped into the Victor's Square. Shouldering the High Marshal aside, he swarmed up the wall beneath the royal box and threw himself over its rail to land on his feet before the King.
“Hail, King Lathmar the Seventh!” he cried. “(You are the seventh, aren't you? Good, good, good. I was afraid I'd missed one.) Hail, King of the Two Cities, the Old Ontil and the New! Hail and, well, well-met. Good to see you. Eh?”
“Are these the private messages Morlock sends to his kinsman?” the Protector inquired, his face split by a leonine smile.
“Not at all. The Lord Protector Urdhven, I believe? No, Morlock sent me chiefly to inquire after the King's health. But he said not to do it right out in front of the crowd. I suspect he thought you might be sensitive on the subject, what with your sister and brother-in-law and all their trusted servants dying so suddenly in recent days. Do you suppose they caught that fever that's been spreading through the poorer parts of the city—or was it a disease that only strikes in palaces?”
The Protector's smile was gone, but the predatory look remained. “The King's health you may assess yourself,” he said flatly. “If there is nothing else—”
“Nothing from Morlock, but I believe that, speaking as the agent of the champion of Lady Ambrosia, the forms have not been met. Isn't the champion entitled to a representative in the judge's box, to argue points of honor, foul blows, that sort of thing?”
“None came forward—” Urdhven began, but stopped as the dwarf tapped his chest modestly. “Very well,” he conceded. “Daen, bring another chair. But it is a mere point of honor, Wyrtheorn, since there will be no combat here today. Your champion has forfeited.”
“The Lady Ambrosia's champion,” the dwarf corrected him gently, as he sat down on the King's right hand. “But, with respect, that word is not yours to say. The King is the judge of this combat, and he may grant my request if he chooses.”
The Protector turned his masklike golden face on the King, who found he could not speak. He knew what his uncle wanted him to say. He knew what the dwarf wanted him to say. He knew what his Grandmother would want him to say. But he didn't know what to say. There was no rule to go by, no ceremony to tell him whose wishes he must obey.
The silence grew long. It spread from the royal box to the crowd on either side. A quiet fell on the dusty enclosure. In it, all heard the dim cry of a horn sounding to the east.
he horn sounded from the dead lands masking the broken city in the east. It grew louder as they listened. It ceased for a moment; when it returned it was louder yet. Soon, looking east, they could see the source of the call: an armed man on horseback appeared at the crest of a gray hill, the horn raised to his lips. The ululating call was unfamiliar to everyone in the enclosure. But it rang with defiance.
The armed rider disappeared, plunging down the slope of the hill to be hidden by another. Presently he topped that one and could be seen more clearly. The horse was a powerful black stallion; the rider's armor was black chain mail; a long black lance with pennons was slung beside him. A black cloth covered his shield, but as he rode onto the plain where the enclosure stood, he threw the horn away and shook the cloth loose from the shield. Blazing out from a black field, the device was a white hawk in flight over a branch of flowering thorn—the arms of Ambrosius.
“I withdraw my request, Your Majesty,” Wyrtheorn said with relief he did not even attempt to hide. “Ambrosia's champion is here.”
Urdhven turned to him, his face a golden mask of fury. “If he uses sorcery he will die. It was not for nothing I brought my army here! He will die and she will die and you, too, will die, little man.”
“I am not a man,” the dwarf replied. “Further, what is your army to Morlock or to me? Had we chosen to steal Ambrosia by night, or in the open day, you could have done nothing to stop us. But we desire that Ambrosia again be able to walk the streets of her city—”
“It is not her city.”
“It is her city. It exists because she created it. She has spent her life defending it. Her children have gone on to conquer half a world. The palace she designed and built justly wears her great ancestor's name. If Ambrosia is to enter it again, the lies about her must be crushed; she must be acquitted in law. Therefore, Morlock will use no magic. I tell you, he needs none to best any living man with the sword.”
The Protector laughed derisively.
The armed rider was now approaching the enclosure fence. He did not slacken his speed but bent forward, as if he were talking to his charger. It cried out and cleared the fence in a magnificent leap, landing in the center of the field.
A shout of admiration went up from the watching crowd, quickly stifled as they remembered the soldiers watching them. The armed rider, neglecting the traditional salute to the sovereign, lifted his left hand in greeting toward the prisoner. She did not move or change her expression in any way, but her eyes were on him.
Now the Red Knight moved forward in the lists and, setting his spear to rest, spurred his horse to charge. The black knight was hardly able to unsheathe his lance before the other was upon him, so he lashed out with the spear in a hasty but powerful parry, knocking aside the Red Knight's lance. The Red Knight thundered past, and the black kni
ght roused his steed to a canter, riding to the opposite end of the lists.
“Your champion does not stand on ceremony,” Wyrth remarked to the Urdhven.
“Sir Hlosian Bekh is the champion of the Crown,” the Protector replied stiffly.
“Ah. Well, at least you stand on ceremony.”
The Protector smiled his leonine smile. “Ceremony is very well,” he conceded, “but they”—he gestured at the crowd—“will not be won by ceremonies, or kept by laws. They are only impressed by victory, by power.”
“You know,” the dwarf replied, “I disagree with you. When Morlock wins—”
“That is not possible.”
“Then this is simply a ceremony, not a trial. Or is that what you've been telling me?”
The Protector's silent smile was ominous.
Now both knights had repositioned themselves at opposing ends of the lists. The heralds' trumpets sounded three times, the call to attack. Then both champions charged into the narrow field, their spears at rest. As they drove toward each other the Red Knight's lance swung back and its point struck full on the white device of the black shield. But the Red Knight's spear shattered like glass and the black knight rode past unshaken.
No one dared cheer. But the silence grew as dense as the clouds of dust rising to obscure the noon-bright air.
“A good shield is worth its weight in spears,” Wyrth remarked cheerfully to the King, who smiled doubtfully.
The delay between passes was greater this time, as the Red Knight needed a new spear. Finally the trumpets sounded again; the combatants thundered again into the lists, their armor gleaming dimly through the descending mist of dust.
Spear-points wavered in the air, then one struck home. The Red Knight's spear hit the black knight just under the helmet, a killing blow, throwing Ambrosia's champion from the saddle. He struck the dusty ground, his armor singing like the cymbals of Winterfeast, and he lay there.
The tension in the crowd perceptibly relaxed. There were mutters of relief and sighs that were unmistakably disappointed. Ambrosia's champion had fallen as so many of theirs had fallen, so many of their kinsmen, sacrifices to the prowess of the Red Knight.
Ambrosia's iron-gray gaze was as impassive as ever, and still fixed on the fallen knight.
Wyrth's gaze followed Ambrosia's, and he laughed aloud. The black knight was moving. “The old fool was right!” he muttered.
Meeting the King's astonished eye, he explained, “You see, Your Majesty, Morlock insisted on making his own armor for the combat. That's why he was late for the trial. I said it was a waste of time, and they'd be stringing his sister's guts across the gateposts of the city before he got here. He got this look on his face—you've probably seen Ambrosia wear it—and we did things his way. It probably saved his neck just now.”
“Dead or defeated, it does not matter,” the Protector said, rising. “The combat is over.”
“Your champion doesn't think so,” the dwarf retorted. “Look!”
The Red Knight had turned to contemplate his dead opponent. Seeing the black knight alive seemed to drive him to fury, and he turned his horse about to charge down on the dismounted knight. Only by rolling to the side of the lists did the black knight avoid being trod under the hooves of the Red Knight's horse.
A 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 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 sta
nd 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.”