Blood of Ambrose by James Enge

wound. Then the smell hit him—not the blood (he had expected that) but mud—the unmistakable reek of mud and wet clay.…
    Wyrth whistled thoughtfully. Now he saw it all! Hlosian was a golem—somehow the black knight had realized it (probably from the smell of its blood, as Wyrth had), and that accounted for his attack on the Red Knight's breastplate. Only by severing or somehow destroying the name-scroll in the golem's chest cavity could the golem be beaten. The black knight had planted his sword in the golem's chest, and had lost his grip on it. The golem had severed its own name-scroll when lifting its arms to dispatch the black knight.
    The dwarf turned toward Ambrosia's champion, fearing the worst as he approached. The victor was hardly moving, issuing knife-edged wheezing sobs in the dusty air, like a horse that has been ridden nearly to death.
    “Morlock!” said Wyrth. “Morlock Ambrosius!”
    There was no answer, but the sobbing sounds continued.
    Dreading what he would see, Wyrth pulled back the visor of the black helmet.
    Eyes closed, head resting comfortably against the rail, Morlock Ambrosius was snoring. Wyrth could smell the stale wine on his breath.
    “You pig!” shouted Wyrth, really furious. “ Wake up! There's work to do!”

 
    he victorious knight made his painful way across the field, in the face of the now-silent crowd and the bristling rows of soldiery that stood beyond. Behind him his small but verbose herald dragged the dead form of his vanquished opponent, still fully armored.
    The King of the Two Cities, watching him approach, noted almost superstitiously that he limped and that his right shoulder was somewhat higher than his left. The battered chain mail jangled as he ascended into the Victor's Square. He paused there for a moment, then reached up and unbuckled his helmet, drawing it off.
    The King still expected a monster's face and so was somewhat disappointed. The features, dark and weather-beaten, were streaked with human sweat and mundane dirt. The dark hair was unruly and matted. Only the eyes were strange: a pale gray, almost luminous in the afternoon shadow across his face.
    “Sire,” said the black knight in a dusty crowlike rasp. He paused, cleared his throat, and resumed in a clearer voice. “I am Morlock Ambrosius, your kinsman and the kinsman of your imperial ancestors to the tenth generation.”
    This being a ceremony, the King knew exactly what to do.
    “Sir Morlock,” he said, “welcome. What is your desire?”
    “Sire,” said the black knight, according to the forms, “I have proven the charges against my sister to be false. If any of her accusers remain, let them rise up and defend their words with the sword.” He did not so much as glance at the Protector.
    “Her accusers,” the King replied, “have lost the right and the power of speech in this assembly. You have defended the right, and victory is your reward. The—that is, your sister is free this day.” The King paused uncertainly. The forms required him at this point to require his ministers to set free the appellant. But the soldiers about him were all the Protector's Men.
    Still, as if he had commanded them, a small party of City Legionaries set out across the lists to the pyre. Climbing up on the kindling, their captain untied the gag on Ambrosia's mouth and broke the chains at her wrists with his sword. Then he dismissed his squad and escorted Ambrosia to the Victor's Square. She said nothing, but placed a twisted hand on Morlock's upper shoulder, wincing with pain as she did so.
    “Sir Morlock,” said the King, “have you any other request of this company?” He asked this because it was the form; he knew all the forms and thought it his duty to keep them. He had never been to a trial by arms before, and he did not know the purpose of this question was to give the victor the chance to lay a countercharge against his principal's accusers.
    The King did not know, but the crowd knew. They knew