Free Blood of Ambrose by James Enge Page B

breaths, and then it occurred to him that this was what Vost suffered continuously.
    “Pitiable,” Steng muttered. “He'd be better off dead.” Absently he poured the contents of the oil jar into the central bulb of the Flagrator, extinguishing the flame guttering along the puckered strip of half-consumed metal. As the night's darkness swept in, like a tide covering an exposed shoal of light, the corpse gave a convulsive shudder and never moved again.
    Urdhven heard the fighting before he came within sight of the dais. He drew his sword and ran through the enclosure arch. A single Legionary was counting up several of his own soldiers in the lists. Three lay among the shattered wood of the benches and another in the dust of the field. The King was nowhere in sight.
    “Stand back, idiots!” he shouted. They parted ranks slightly, assuming (it seemed) that he only wished to be in on the kill. Furiously he leapt into the gap. Lorn was standing there, parrying the tentative sword flicks from the pack of soldiers. The Protector raised his sword and, lunging forward, caught Lorn's in a bind.
    “Get back, you fools!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Search among the benches. Look for the King. Don't you see? He attacked you so that the King could escape. Find him. Capture him. Now! ”
    They stood back, somewhat startled, and slowly spread among the broken seats. Meanwhile Lorn made a furtive shift of stance, as if preparing to attack. Urdhven disengaged, leapt aside, and lunged, slashing a bloody line across Lorn's forehead as the Legionary belatedly parried. Lorn riposted, and again Urdhven caught his sword in a bind.
    “Why did you betray me, Lorn?” the Protector wondered. “What could that witch give you that was worth your soldier's oath?”
    Lorn spat with contempt. “The King has my oath. I never gave it to another.”
    “I command the empire's legions, Lorn. Your oath to the King is a legal fiction. You've chosen it above your duty and—Death and Justice!—you'll pay for it.” Furiously he threw the Legionary back and lunged at his heart.
    Lorn laughed a little breathlessly as he struck the Protector's blow aside. “I believe in the Strange Gods you only swear by, Lord Urdhven. They'll enforce the oath I kept and you broke.”
    The Protector advanced behind a businesslike network of head-cuts, thrusts, and ripostes. He was done with talking. Lorn backed away slowly, defending himself with skill. But he was no match for the Protector, and both of them knew it. He had backed now out of the enclosure's shadow into the bloodless light of the minor moons, Horseman and Trumpeter. Sweat glittered on his forehead, and blood was dripping from the wound there into his eyes.
    Urdhven leapt forward and again caught Lorn's hilt with his. The moment he felt Lorn begin to pull away he shifted his footing and lashed out with one foot, kicking the unsuspecting Lorn's out from under him. The Legionary fell down, startled, on his right knee, gaping up at Urdhven, who methodically punched him in the throat with his empty left hand. Lorn choked and clumsily slashed out with his sword. Urdhven deftly beat it aside and smashed his knee up against Lorn's jaw. The bloody-faced soldier fell back in the dust and lay still.
    Urdhven nodded. Now Lorn could be publicly executed, perhaps after torture—a fine example for any City Legionary tempted to take his oath too literally.
    Looking up, the Protector saw a division of cavalry depart from the Dead Hills in some disorder, form up, and ride off toward the Old City Road. A lone horseman raced toward the enclosure, undoubtedly a messenger. All this could only mean the Ambrosii had been taken and slain; the cavalry commander would never have called off the search so soon, otherwise. Excellent—Urdhven had been hoping to make that insolent dwarf suffer in some degree before his death, but that was a small matter, in every sense. Things were going well.
    A brief chorus of shouts sprang up