Blood of Ambrose (18 page)

“Yes, sir.” Arnring was less eager now. But he still seemed conscious of the honor Urdhven was doing him in selecting him for the task. (It was just as well, then, that he didn't know Urdhven had in fact selected him and his cohort because they were the most expendable of the three.)

“If you meet armed resistance,” Urdhven continued, “send me word of that, too, and I will bring reinforcements. Any message you send must have a code phrase, do you understand? So that I can be sure it is from you and not our enemies.”

“Yes, sir. What is the phrase?”

“Oh—‘Steng is a useless weasel.’”

Arnring grinned. “Yes, sir. ‘Steng is a useless weasel.’”

“Good hunting to you, then, Commander Arnring.”

Arnring lifted his arm in salute and then, barking commands, marched his cohort on past the Lord Protector.

Urdhven waited until they were out of sight on the far gate and then dismounted. His right side was bruised where he had fallen in fighting the “dragon”—he longed to disarm and scratch his body head to toe. But he knew he couldn't until he was sure Ambrose was secure.

He waited, staring out over the dark waters of the Tilion. The overcast sky was rumbling periodically, and the sun had long set—it would be a dark night, a night full of rain. He wondered if he should spend it at Markethall Barracks—the truth is, though, he could not bear to be near the site of that embarrassing encounter with the false dragon. He wondered what the men were saying about it. He wished he could hear them. He thought he did hear them, outside the gate, on the city street. He was sure he heard Vost's voice. Then he definitely heard the portcullis of the gate slam shut.

He ran back down the bridge to the gate opening onto the street. His two cohorts were gone. The echoes of the horses' hoofbeats were fading away as he stood there, forlorn, inside the gate. Vost, the ever-faithful, was gone. Had Vost betrayed him? Had he been overpowered by the others? They had even taken the horses of Arnring's cohort. Why had they done that?

Urdhven decided he needed to catch up with Arnring's men. He went up the bridge to his horse, thinking vaguely of where he should tether it…and then something occurred to him.

The lever to control the portcullis was inside the gatehouse. It could not be shut from the street.

Someone was behind him…in the dark gatehouse he had passed. Someone who had locked him into the castle. Someone who had not spoken to him, but had watched and waited with the cunning of a cat playing with a mouse.

The hairs on the back of his neck were already rising when he heard booted feet on the stones of the bridge behind him.

He turned and saw a man step out of the shadows near the gatehouse. The man wore a black surcoat with a red lion rampant across it. He wore a helmet and full armor as well, but he doffed the helmet as he approached.

Urdhven knew the man's features reasonably well. They were his own.

“Appearance is nothing,” the other said—as if Urdhven's thoughts, too, were his. “Voice is another matter. Even if every tone is in place, one must say the things one's audience expects, or the illusion will be shattered.”

“Which one are you?” Urdhven said. He did not quite keep the fear out of his voice.

“Does it matter?”

“Which one
are
you?”

“I sent your men around to the Lonegate. The King's new Legion should have disposed of Arnring's men and secured all entrance points by the time they reach there. If not, I suppose they may meet you there—and you (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) will tell them to ride back here, or to Markethall, or—”

“
Who are you?
” Urdhven screamed.

His simulacrum grunted. “I am—for all practical purposes—anyone you have ever murdered. I am anyone you have ever had tortured to death. I am anyone you have ever robbed or terrorized. I am anyone who has cause to hate you. Does that narrow it down for you, Lord Protector?”

Urdhven drew his sword. “You won't take me without a fight.”

“I destroyed Hlosian Bekh. I can kill you.”

Urdhven had thought that his fear would grow less when he knew which of the Ambrosii he was facing. Instead he found the whole night was alive with terror—the rumbling of the thunder in the distance seemed to be the approach of something horrible; every shadow seemed a grinning mask of death. He remembered the day of Ambrosia's trial by combat, that nightmare of a day when everything had begun to go wrong.

Nevertheless he replied firmly, with a confidence he truly felt, “No, you can't.”

By way of answer, the man who wore his face drew his sword and attacked.

The fight that followed was not as long as it might have been. Urdhven's opponent was a more skilled fencer, but Urdhven was not incompetent. Still, he could not bring himself to strike with deadly force at his own image. His enemy gave him opening after opening, smiling with an unpleasant crooked smile, daring Urdhven to strike. But he couldn't.

Finally, his enemy grew tired of toying with him and set about the business of dispatching him in the most businesslike way. In a few moments, all Urdhven's limbs were bleeding, and as he strove to parry a stroke he was stunned by a blow to his chest. His enemy's riposte, sure and terribly strong, had slipped past his defense and struck through his armor.

The Lord Protector looked down to see the hilt of his enemy's sword protruding from his rib cage. In a moment it was withdrawn, and as he staggered he saw the bright edge of the sword whistling through the air at him again.

athmar VII, King of the Two Cities and Lord of Ambrose, rightful heir to the imperial throne (if he could only get it), awoke with a squawk.

He sat up and stared blearily around at the empty stone chamber where he found himself. Apparently he was not, after all, a crow raiding a cornfield north of the city. Why in the world would he ever have supposed that?

Then he remembered: he had joined into Morlock's vision as Morlock's mind conducted the hundreds of crows who had carried their dragon puppet into the city to face the Lord Protector. Lacking Morlock's skill, he had been carried away by his rapport with the crows after the illusion was shattered and the troop dispersed.

Morlock was gone. Where he had been was a message written in the stark pointed characters of Morlock's hand:

I go to secure the City Gate, as we planned. Ambrosia and your soldiers will soon engage in battle with the Protector's Men. You were unwise to send Wyrth away. Stay here until we send for you.

Morlock Ambrosius

The King dropped the message on the ground, and it began to burn. Before it had blackened to ash he had decided to disobey it. This was the crucial moment in their battle with the Protector; he wasn't going to spend it hiding in a secret passage.

Lathmar took the secret ways through the walls of Ambrose down to a hallway near the great audience hall. Even before he left the secret passage he could hear men in armed conflict, so he proceeded carefully. He crept into the open hallway and over to a balustrade that overlooked the entryway to the audience hall.

Men were fighting there. Men had died there: the bodies were scattered underfoot in the corridor. Men wearing the Protector's red lion were facing City Legionaries in blue and gray.

The Legionaries were outnumbered, and as Lathmar watched breathlessly, they began to fall back toward the entrance of the audience hall. The Protector's Men followed eagerly, shouting Urdhven's name as their battle cry. The Legionaries said nothing, but grimly and slowly retreated in order.

Finally the Protector's Men were facing the Legionaries at the entrance of the Hall itself, and the Legionaries ceased retreating. Ambrosia and Wyrth were not among them; Lathmar could not tell if they were among the dead. One of the soldiers sounded a horn, which echoed strangely in the stone corridors.

In pinning the Legionaries against the entrance to the Hall, the Protector's Men had incautiously turned their backs toward the corridors emptying into the atrium. After the Legionary's call, the shadows in those empty corridors suddenly bristled with bright blades: Legionaries filled each hallway, leaping into the atrium to attack the Protector's Men from behind. Among these Lathmar thought he recognized Ambrosia (in the armor of a Protector's Man, but without the surcoat), and he was sure he recognized Wyrth (who was distinguished in that group both by the smallness of his size and the ferocity of his fighting).

Lathmar guessed that the battle would go in the Legion's favor now, and truly there was nothing he could do about it. He backed away from the balustrade and stumbled against an armed man standing beside him.

He thought all was lost for a second, until he realized that this man wore the surcoat of a City Legionary. Then the man pushed back his visor and the King got another surprise.

“Lorn!” he gasped. “How…?”

“No, Your Majesty,” the Legionary said. “I had a cousin Lorn, who they say died in your service. My name is Karn.”

“Karn,” said the King recovering. “I see.”

“I took the oath with the others in the audience hall—Your Majesty may trust me.”

“I will,” said Lathmar. “What brings you here, Karn?”

“I was sent on reconnaissance of these corridors, Your Majesty—to see if there were any more Protector's Men in arms hereabouts.”

“And?”

“Negative, Your Majesty. The Protector's Men seem to have stayed in a single body.”

“Unwise, perhaps, under the circumstances.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Who has been sent to secure the City Gate?”

“I don't know that anyone has, Your Majesty. The Regent Ambrosia said that was…her brother's lookout, I think she said.”

“Well, let's go see how Morlock is faring then,” the King said, noting with interest how the Legionary flinched when he spoke Morlock's name. “You'd better accompany me, in case we run into any stragglers.”

It occurred to the King, then, that Karn himself might be a straggler. If he had really been sent on reconnaissance, he should have reported back to the officer who sent him. Instead, he seemed perfectly willing to accompany the King away from the fighting. Oh, well—Lathmar supposed he outranked anyone who could have given Karn his orders. The man looked exactly like Lorn—slightly younger, perhaps. He must have inherited something of Lorn's iron loyalty from the same place he had gotten Lorn's appearance.

“Let's go, then,” he said to his new soldier, and they crept away from the fighting.

Lathmar was tempted to reenter the secret ways. It would be a safer, if slower, method of traveling through the castle. But he felt he could not do so in Karn's company: a passage isn't secret if every private soldier knows about it…and the truth was that he still had his doubts about Karn.

So they traveled the open corridors, and they met no Protector's Men. But they did encounter Kedlidor, the Rite-Master of Ambrose, along with a motley swarm of castle servants who appeared mostly to be kitchen staff. They were armed, anyway, with cleavers, knives, tongs, and similar implements; some wore pots as makeshift helmets.

“Your Majesty,” said Kedlidor, bowing his head in greeting.

“Kedlidor,” said the King. Kedlidor's followers seemed rather daunted by his armed Legionary, but Lathmar had the oddest feeling that Karn was edging over behind him—to use him as a shield? “I remind you, Rite-Master,” the King said quickly, “that you and your people here are personal servants of myself, as Lord of Ambrose. You are not under the Protector's orders, whatever he may have told you.”

“You have learned that lesson excellently well, Your Majesty, but I remind you it was I who taught it to you. I was just saying the same to these persons here, who heard the armed conflict and were worried there was another purge in progress.”

“In a way there is,” the King replied. “My regent, the Lady Ambrosia, is taking direct rule of Ambrose back from the usurper Urdhven. My Legion is fighting with Urdhven's men in the area of the audience hall. Those disloyal to me will, of course, be executed by the Lady Ambrosia.”

The kitchen staff poured out its professions of loyalty in an incoherent but urgently expressed chorus. Lathmar was skeptical—if they had been genuinely loyal to him, no doubt Urdhven would have killed them in the earlier purge of castle servants. But if they were willing to behave as if they were loyal, that was all that Lathmar could reasonably require.

“You can offer no real help to Ambrosia at the hall—and the truth is that she needs none. But the Lonegate, on the far side of the castle, is unguarded, as far as I know. Kedlidor, I appoint you the commander of this group of…of militia.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kedlidor said with real gratitude. “I was quite concerned about the ad hoc and unofficial nature of my leadership.”

“Take them to the Lonegate. If you find it empty, secure it against all intruders, until you have word from me or another of my ministers. If it is occupied by my soldiers, put yourself at the disposal of their captain. If it is occupied by Urdhven's thugs, wait until my Legionaries approach and put yourself at the disposal of their commander.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Go then. Good luck.”

The Royal Irregulars, First Cohort, trooped off down the hallway, wafting a distinct odor of onions and pork behind them. Lathmar shook his head and continued toward the City Gate, Guardsman Karn now firmly at his side.

There were only three possibilities, the King told himself as he chose his approach through the empty corridors. Either Morlock had secured the gate and needed no assistance; Morlock had not secured the gate, and it was held by Protector's Men; or the gate was held by no one. In the latter case it might be empty, or its possession might be in dispute. In any case, the King thought it would be best to approach the gate indirectly.

There was a second guardhouse on the inner side of the bridge over the river Tilion. From its upper floor, one could watch the uncovered bridge from bowslits. It was here that the King came, accompanied by Karn, so that he could have a long look at the bridge and the guardhouse at the far end before he entrusted himself to their dangers.

From here he watched as the Protector and his mirror image (but which was which?) fought on the uncovered bridge beneath a dark sky crossed with silver lightning. One Protector took the other's sword in his chest up to its hilt. Then the unwounded Protector leaped back, recovered, and deftly cut off his staggering opponent's head.

“Bravo, Morlock!” the King muttered. No illusion spell could disguise his fencing master's style of swordplay.

This guess was confirmed when the victorious “Protector” tugged with his left hand at his nose, as if bemused, and the likeness of Urdhven fell away from him in a heap of shining cord around his feet. It was Morlock, of course, who stood there, gazing with genuine bemusement at the headless form of the Protector, still standing in the middle of the bridge.

Morlock, holding his sword at full extension, stepped away from the discarded simulacrum and cautiously approached the standing body. Before the tip of the sword reached the Protector's chest the headless body brought its own sword up to guard, dashed Morlock's blade aside, and lunged for his chest. Morlock brought his sword back to parry and caught the other's sword in a bind.

“I told you,” the Protector's voice sounded on the uncovered bridge. “I told you that you could not kill me.”

The King gasped and saw that the Protector's severed head was resting against one wall of the bridge, watching his body's attack on Morlock with every appearance of detached amusement.

“I didn't know that I'd be facing you,” the Protector's head said calmly. “But I knew my quest for the throne would lead me to face Ambrosia. I knew I would need help, so I sought out a magical patron among the adepts—among ‘those-who-know,' as I believe you refer to each other.”

The Protector's body kicked at Morlock's feet and broke the bind. Morlock leaped back and coolly parried a flurry of attacks from the headless corpse.

“So, you see,” the Protector's head continued, “you cannot kill my body. And it is only a matter of time until my body kills you. It is like Hlosian again, but there is no scroll for you to sever, no weak point for you to attack.”

Morlock wordlessly retreated a step or two, and then again. The smile on the Protector's head became broad indeed. The smile faded a bit when Urdhven seemed to realize what the King already had: Morlock's retreat was bringing him nearer and nearer to the Protector's severed head.

The headless body leaped forward in a desperate assault. Morlock danced back and kicked the severed head like a football. It spun, lopsided, across the curving surface of the stone bridge and fetched up facefirst against the wall on the other side. The Protector gave a muffled groan of pain, and the headless body seemed to become disoriented. Morlock stepped forward and slashed off its sword-bearing hand.

“I've fought the living dead before,” Morlock said finally. “Your patron has misled you—perhaps deliberately.”

“I'm not dead!” the Protector's head screamed desperately. “I'll never die!”

“But you'll never truly live,” Morlock said. “You will never know peace, unless I or one of those-who-know give it to you.”

The headless body broke into a staggering run. It took a zigzag course toward the severed head, gaining confidence as it moved. The King realized that the head must be directing it by the sound of its own footfalls. Morlock let it go. It reached the severed head and picked it up, cradling it in its arms.

It turned to face Morlock. “You'll never defeat us,” the head hissed.