Blood of Ambrose

by James Enge

  “Or maybe,” he said, into a silence in the uncertain crowd, “the dragons aren't scared of Ontil, now that the Ambrosii are gone? The dwarves call both of them rokhleni, dragonkillers.…”

  He convinced no one. In fact, he felt that he had broken his character a little. But at least he had stopped that sudden movement of anger toward the King's true protectors. “Anyway,” he said, and paused to down the rest of his cup. (He managed to spill most of it down the sides of his face—it stung a little, but better that than drinking the stuff.) “Anyway, here's to Venhudnal, best damn Protector's Man since the Protector himself. Now I'm off to hit a few more places, then head across the big water. They say the dragons are afraid of the big water.” He headed for the door, a little more unsteadily than he had come in. No one seemed sorry to see him go, but he heard a gratifying hum of conversation in his wake.

  Outside he headed for the nearest alley and shoved his finger up his throat until he vomited. He had more wineshops to visit and more tales to tell before the night was out; he didn't want to be incoherent. Then he carefully unwound the Seeming of Genjandro the thug and stowed it in his wallet. There was no risk of him being seen, in the utterly lightless alley, but that meant that he had to work very carefully, since he couldn't see what he was doing.

  He drew another threadlike spool of Seeming out of his wallet. As usual there was a note attached, but of course he couldn't read it in the dark; he kept it by in case it had useful information. He wound the new Seeming about himself and stepped out into the dim light of the Great Market at night.

  The note, which he read by the light streaming from the nearby wineshop, was in Wyrth's handwriting: You'll be a little cuter in this one. But don't let anyone pick you up until you've spread a few rumors, eh?

  Genjandro glanced down at the improbable expanse of barely contained cleavage which was one noticeable feature of his new Seeming. “Most amusing,” he said sourly, and wondered what sort of voice he should attempt to use with this appearance. Thinking dark thoughts he trudged off to serve his sovereign, Lathmar VII, in the peculiar way that Fate and the Ambrosii, between them, had devised.

  ne evening Steng awoke from a nap to find a message from his true master lying in the fireplace of his apartment. They often appeared there, in his own peculiar handwriting, after he had been sleeping. The message said simply, A dragon has been seen in the woods north of the city. Warn Urdhven: it is a sending of the Ambrosii. There was no signature, of course: none was needed.

  He scrolled up the message and stuck it into a fold of his tunic. Hurrying through the corridors, he found Lord Protector Urdhven consulting with Vost over a large stone table covered with maps in the room that had formerly been the Emperor's council chamber.

  “My Lord Urdhven,” Steng said without preliminary, “a dragon has been seen in the woods between the city and the Whitethorn Range.”

  “Old news, Steng,” Vost crowed vengefully. “We've been plotting the dragon's progress from Anhi with these maps, and the intelligence collected by my men.”

  “Hm. Perhaps if you deployed a great many of your men the aggregate intelligence might amount to something significant.”

  While Vost was working this out, Steng continued, “But I don't suppose Vost's men have told you that the dragon is a sending of the Ambrosii.”

  “It is?” Urdhven was eager to believe it. “How do you know? Can you be sure?” Vost gazed at him woundedly.

  Since Vost was not looking at him for the moment, Steng made an arcane gesture and said, “Very sure.”

  “Oh.” Urdhven's enthusiasm cooled. “Excellent. But you have nothing we can announce as proof?”

  “Not yet. Is proof needed?”

  “We can hope so. Look here, Steng, the dragons left the Blackthorns some months ago and savaged a number of Anhikh cities. Among them have been named Menebacikhukh and Sekntepaphonokhai.”

  “That's easy for you to say.”

  “Knock off the jaded witticisms and look at the map! Menebacikhukh and Sekntepaphonokhai are due east of Invarna, which is just on our side of the Anhikh border. Now Invarna is the one town in the empire we are fairly sure has been struck by the dragons.”

  “I heard a circumstantial rumor that Sarkunden had been taken.”

  “No, that's just a rumor. I'm in daily communication with the garrison there.”

  “With respect, Lord Urdhven, you miss my point. If we have circumstantial rumors about Sarkunden which we know are false, are we not in danger of being taken in by rumors about places where our information is less current? Why do we think Invarna has been taken, not to mention—those Anhikh places?”

  “We never know much about what goes on in Anhi. But no one has heard from Invarna in months.”

  “Eh, Lord Urdhven, when does one ever hear from Invarna?”

  “Look at the pattern, man! From Menebacikhukh to Sekntepaphonokhai, from Sekntepaphonokhai to Invarna, from Invarna to here. The dragons are headed due west to the Gap of Lone—they must plan some sort of action against the Wardlands.”

  Steng was genuinely dismayed. “Death and Justice! I hope you're wrong!”

  “Oh?” Urdhven's voice was oily and dangerous.

  “Yes indeed. If the dragons attempt an invasion of the Wardlands, the Graith of Guardians is likely to meet them in force before they cross the border. That would mean a war between the dragons and the powers of the Wardlands in our territory. There might be nothing left alive between the Grartan Range and the Inner Sea!”

  “Nonsense, Steng. No one has that kind of power.”

  “Eh, Lord Urdhven, those-who-know fear the Wardlands. Well, we can do nothing about that, if it is so. But, remember, the unnamed tells us that the dragon north of the city is a sending of the Ambrosii.”

  “Exactly!” Urdhven said. “Perhaps a rogue dragon drawn off from the herd—”

  “The guile, my lord. We say ‘guile of dragons'—like a pride of lions, or a murder of crows.”

  Urdhven's glance showed that he was thinking of murder of a different sort, and Steng fell silent. “The Ambrosii have skills we know nothing of,” the Lord Protector continued, “and ancient ties to the dragons of the Blackthorn Range. They may have managed to draw off a rogue dragon from the herd to spread terror and death in the city.”

  “For what purpose, my Lord Protector?”

  “To discredit my rule. To weaken the city against an assault from outside. Sheer malice.”

  Steng reserved his true opinion and said, “Three excellent reasons, Lord Urdhven. I am well answered. Then you hope to defeat the dragon and gain credit from it, as the city's defender?”

  Urdhven seemed to relax a little: his loyal poisoner was again performing as expected. “Yes. What do you think of the plan?”

  “I hope you never have a chance to put it into practice, my Lord Protector. The city is perpetually in danger of burning down as it is, without a dragon putting down in the Great Market. But I think that a set of patrols within the city would do a great deal of good—a dragon watch, as it were. People are very near panic with all these rumors.”

  “We could design a special banner for the dragon watch,” Vost broke in. “That way people would know at a glance of the Protector's care for them.”

  “Hm. Not bad,” Steng conceded grudgingly. “Really an excellent idea. These dragon rumors may ultimately be to the Protector's advantage. The Ambrosii are an invisible menace, as long as they remain in hiding, but everyone can understand the threat of a dragon, and the need of a strong leader to oppose it.”

  “The ultimate benefit will accrue if I can kill the dragon myself,” Urdhven said coolly. “I want all the help you can give me—ointments, spells, advice.”

  “Eh, my lord, I know very little about dragons.”

  “Then find out. One of my ancestors killed a dragon once, if the songs don't lie. In any case, dragons have been killed. Find out how, and by whom. What they did, I can do.”

  Steng took this as a dismissal,
bowed low, and turned away. As he went back to his chamber he found he felt a new touch of admiration for Urdhven. To face a dragon took some nerve—whatever you said about the Lord Protector, he was not deficient in courage. He was right about the political advantage, too—it was amazing what slime people would swallow when it was offered them by a hero. But Steng still hoped it would never happen: the thought of fire abroad in the city terrified him.

  The crisis that Urdhven longed for and Steng feared came five days later. Toward evening, a red-gold dragon appeared in the north and swooped over the watch at the Lonegate of Ambrose. Then it followed the line of the wall south and west, as word of the dragon's advent spread through the palace and the city.

  Urdhven's plans were ready. Virtually all the Protector's Men in Ambrose were ordered into the streets as Dragon Watchmen—Urdhven didn't want any of the politically doubtful City Legion gaining any glory from this fight against the dragon. The City Legion could stay behind to watch the walls and keep Ambrose from looters—he was tolerably sure there was no external military force near enough to threaten the city. He himself took Vost and the trembling Steng and rode posthaste for the Great Market. It was centrally located, so that he could ride from there to any part of the city where the dragon came to ground. And it was not unlikely the dragon would choose to land there: it was the most open place in the city, and around it was the greatest concentration of wealth, not excluding the treasure rooms of Ambrose itself.

  Urdhven's guess was a good one (in fact, it was Steng's), but it was not at the Great Market that the dragon first set down in the city.

  Genjandro had always hated politics. He had wanted one thing out of life: to make so much money that he would be immune from the pushing and shoving of the pettily powerful. And he had been well on his way when he had somehow been drafted into the cause of the little King. Then one thing followed another, and now he was about to set fire to a large fortune in Kaenish rugs—his biggest warehouse on the west side of the city.

  “Irreplaceable!” he muttered. “Not just the money—works of art! Gone up in smoke! All for a deranged plan that hasn't half a halting chance at success. Madness!”

  But this was merely reflex. He was not really a merchant anymore, or even a civilian. He was a soldier in the war against the Lord Protector. He would grumble and he would do as he was told. And when he died, whether it was soon or late, he wouldn't have to tell himself, There was nothing I could do! The oppressor was too strong! To hell with that. He would do what he could do. He would do all that three men could do. He would fight the oppressor in any way possible, even if he didn't understand it. What Urdhven was, what he would do to Genjandro's city and Genjandro's people, that Genjandro did understand.

  The dragon passed overhead, its birdlike shadow outlined in the red light of sunset on the building next door. The shadow appeared again, facing the other way, and slowly settled down, merging with the shadow of the warehouse itself. A faint scraping (if that) was all that told Genjandro a dragon had landed on his roof.

  Genjandro hesitated. He could not quite believe this was happening, and belief was not helped when he saw the dragon's red serpentine head appear in the window. The face was tilted sideways, and the dragon's face was split by what appeared to be a grin.

  The dragon was there—and he was not. Genjandro saw the red-gold serpentine scales, the bloodred fiery eyes, heard the heavy breathing, smelled the venomous smoke. And he knew he could not be seeing what he was seeing.

  “Which one are you?” he whispered. “Which one is controlling the illusion? How…? How…?”

  Then he heard, or thought he heard, a caw. Suddenly it was all very funny. He snickered as he plunged the torch into several stacks of rugs. The dragon roared obligingly and withdrew its serpentine head. Genjandro went on spreading fire through his warehouse and then ran down into the street screaming.

  “The dragon!” he shrieked. “The dragon burned my warehouse! Help! Call the Dragon Watch! The dragon is in the city!”

  Moments later the street was full of screaming people and Genjandro's work was done. He stayed to fight the fire and spread rumors in the crowd. But when the fire was out and the crowd turned to looting, Genjandro fled from the ruined warehouse. By then the sky was full of storm clouds, drawing a premature curtain of dusk across the city. There was a red glow over the high crooked horizon to the east.

  Meanwhile the Lord Protector, Vost, and Steng had reached the Great Market and were waiting there with three cohorts of Protector's Men, luminous in their new uniforms as Dragon Watchmen.

  Urdhven was filled with a feeling of supreme confidence. This, he knew somehow, was his hour, when none could defeat him.

  He wore heavy plate armor, and his charger, too, was armored. The metal was treated with a sticky bloodlike stuff that Steng said would resist fire. “But,” he had said, “I can find nothing which will protect you from the dragon's venom, so I warn you to avoid the beast's breath at all costs.”

  Urdhven had grunted. “Have you no better advice than that?”

  “Yes,” Steng had replied. “I should bait him—tempt him to expel fire at you and then retreat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because whatever the source for a dragon's fire and venom, it cannot be inexhaustible. There must be at least a moment when it will be exhausted, as you or I would be if we expelled our lungs without replenishing them. That will be the moment for you to turn and attack.”

  “Excellent, Steng—really excellent,” Urdhven had approved. “So I'll do in fact. I'll remember you for this.”

  “And I you, my Lord,” Steng had replied, with unfeigned admiration. Remembering this, Urdhven's heart swelled with pride. It would be all right. He would defeat the dragon and save the city. He would be the kind of ruler the empire had not seen in centuries, the founder of a new dynasty, Urdhven the Great….

  The sky above was dark with storm clouds; Urdhven looked up and saw the dragon soar into view, breathtakingly beautiful, red-gold against blue-black, his destiny incarnate.

  “Land! Land!” Urdhven whispered intently, and the dragon, almost as if it had heard, wheeled in the air and settled down in the middle of the Great Market.

  “Vost!” Urdhven cried. “Leave it to me! If I fall, you will attack with the Dragon Watchmen. Afterward, do as Steng will advise you. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear and will obey, my lord,” cried Vost, and raised his sword in salute, his eyes wide with admiration.

  Urdhven spurred his heavy steed to a lumbering gallop, dashing before the front line of the Dragon Watchmen. As one they raised their swords and shouted his name. He raised his hand in acknowledgement, then wheeled aside to face the dragon.

  It sat there on all fours, its wings folded back, regarding him with a fixed gaping look—almost like a grin. He drew his sword and flourished it, shouting a challenge, then charged straight at the beast.

  It reared up, lifting its wings forward and aloft, then back again as it inhaled a mighty breath. At the last moment Urdhven jerked the reins and swerved his horse aside, swinging back in a long curving path toward the place where he had begun his charge. A storm of red obscuring light followed him, but never reached him, as the dragon roared.

  When the dragon ceased roaring and the tide of red light receded, he sheathed his sword and swung his steed about, unsheathing his lance and setting it at rest. Then he charged directly at the dragon, positioning the spear for a deathblow in the narrow scaly chest.

  With terrible clarity, he saw the dragon rear up again, throwing its wings aloft and forward and then back as it inhaled. He had left it too long—retreated too far. The dragon would roar again before he could strike. But the dragon would die, too—momentum would carry him on and he would pierce the dragon's heart. At worst, his cohorts of armed men standing by would be able to finish off the wounded dragon.

  True, he would be dead, but at that transcendent moment it hardly mattered. He would die for the empire he had killed so many to
rule, and perhaps one day men still might refer to him as Urdhven the Great….

  The dragon roared, and all Urdhven's thoughts drowned in the red light. He knew only the need to ride forward, to strike, to kill the beast that was killing him. He didn't even feel any heat.

  But there was no shock of contact, only a strange tearing sound and his horse stumbled. He fell into darkness and the sense of inexplicable failure.

  When he lifted his head he saw that he and his horse were tangled in a huge swath of scarlet silk. Near at hand he saw his spear, still protruding from the rent it had made in the great silken shape that was collapsing as he watched. And from the tear were pouring black birds—dozens of crows, hundreds of them, thousands, murder upon murder of crows….

  Where is my dragon? he almost cried aloud, like a plaintive child whose favorite toy has been taken away, but just then he realized: this was his dragon. This silken puppet moved by crows, gilded with illusory magic that was now dispelled, this was his dragon.

  He knew now exactly what had happened, exactly how he had been tricked by those damned Ambrosii and his own hopes. He knew what he must do, before it was too late. But he took a moment to mourn his boyish dreams of heroism. He would never be able to indulge them again; he would always remember this time when they had played him false. A man who had murdered his sister and his liege lord to gain power had no business to be dreaming of heroism, anyway. Perhaps he would never be Urdhven the Great, the people's hero. Perhaps he would be Urdhven the Terrible. At any rate, he would be Urdhven I, Emperor of this damned empire, if he had to wade in blood to do it. And this defeat was in a way an opportunity, for now, after all these months, he knew just where his enemies were.

  Sullenly he got to his feet. His charger seemed to have broken its leg when it fell, so he killed it with his sword. Then he walked over to where Steng and Vost awaited him, their faces carefully expressionless.