a horse and, being pressed for time, found an unusually tall sheep, shaved it raw, and painted it black. So I—”
“Get me out of this armor, Wyrtheorn.”
“Hm. I fear that Master Morlock's customary keenness of wit has been blunted by repeated blows to the head.”
“If that's the remedy, I ask only that you come within arm's reach.”
“Physical comedy can never make up for lack of true humor, Master Morlock,” the dwarf reproved him, pointedly approaching from behind. “Lady Ambrosia, if you'll grab these—”
“They broke her hands.”
“Not taking a single chance, were they? I beg your pardon, madam—I heard some such rumor while I was milling about in the crowd. The combat drove it from my mind, though. Can you step on these reins or something?”
Ambrosia nickered softly, spoke Velox's name, and the black charger came to stand quietly beside her.
“Hmph,” said the dwarf. “Then while I—”
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself so much.”
“Never mind.” He set to unbuckling Morlock's armor. “I'd see to your wrists myself,” he said to Ambrosia, “but Morlock is a better healer than I am, if you can believe it.”
Ambrosia expressed polite disbelief.
“You may well say so, but it's true. No doubt due to the practice he's had, bandaging up his own head lo these many centuries— Hurs krakna !” he muttered in dismay.
Ambrosia looked at the stretch of Morlock's shoulder Wyrth had just exposed. Repeated blows had shattered the chain mail, driving it through the dark cloth padding so that links of mail, like fish scales, were driven into Morlock's flesh. The shoulder was dark with dried blood where it was not gleaming with fresh. “Ugly,” she agreed.
“I had hoped it might not be so bad. I had really begun to hope, when I saw him snoring there on the field. Look at him, Lady Ambrosia, he's sleeping again.”
“He's in a bad way. I've cost you both much, this day. I owe you more.”
“Nonsense.” Wyrth shook his head. “Blood has no price.” He worked in silence for a while, stripping the shattered armor from his master's body and then laying him gently on the ground. He threw aside the blood-crusted rags that Morlock had been wearing under the mail and covered him with his own cloak. This left Morlock's legs bare, so Wyrth fetched the rags back to cover them.
“I'll have to be your healer after all, my lady,” the dwarf said. “I'm no herbalist, but I can at least bind your hands and splint your wrists.”
“You needn't bother, Wyrth. If I get back to the city before dark I can consult somebody.”
Wyrtheorn blinked and glanced at Morlock. “I doubt Morlock will be able to travel before nightfall—”
“I don't expect you to travel with me. You've done enough already, both of you.”
“Er. We, uh, we rather expected you to travel with us. And not to the city. Morlock thinks—”
“To the city I go, Wyrth. I can't leave little Lathmar to the Protector's mercy.”
“Lathmar?”
“The King.”
“Oh!” Wyrtheorn rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Not a bad little fellow. But you have to consider him as good as dead, you know. Revenge is what you owe him, not protection. Now, Morlock thinks—”
“Urdhven wouldn't dare kill him as long as I'm alive,” Ambrosia said with a knowing air.
“Oh, yes he would. In fact, he doesn't dare do anything else.”
Ambrosia frowned.
“Hear me out, madam. If I understand the law of the Second Empire, you may not claim the throne.”
“Correct. I'm not a descendant of the ancient Vraidish kings.”
“Then.”
Ambrosia stared at him, waiting.
“If the Protector arranges for the King to die,” Wyrth said finally, “there is no legitimate claimant for the throne. That makes the Protector as legitimate as any. And he is the man on the spot, with an army loyal to him controlling the capital.”
“The people would never stand for it.”
“Eh, my lady, what do the people ever have to say about such
“Get me out of this armor, Wyrtheorn.”
“Hm. I fear that Master Morlock's customary keenness of wit has been blunted by repeated blows to the head.”
“If that's the remedy, I ask only that you come within arm's reach.”
“Physical comedy can never make up for lack of true humor, Master Morlock,” the dwarf reproved him, pointedly approaching from behind. “Lady Ambrosia, if you'll grab these—”
“They broke her hands.”
“Not taking a single chance, were they? I beg your pardon, madam—I heard some such rumor while I was milling about in the crowd. The combat drove it from my mind, though. Can you step on these reins or something?”
Ambrosia nickered softly, spoke Velox's name, and the black charger came to stand quietly beside her.
“Hmph,” said the dwarf. “Then while I—”
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself so much.”
“Never mind.” He set to unbuckling Morlock's armor. “I'd see to your wrists myself,” he said to Ambrosia, “but Morlock is a better healer than I am, if you can believe it.”
Ambrosia expressed polite disbelief.
“You may well say so, but it's true. No doubt due to the practice he's had, bandaging up his own head lo these many centuries— Hurs krakna !” he muttered in dismay.
Ambrosia looked at the stretch of Morlock's shoulder Wyrth had just exposed. Repeated blows had shattered the chain mail, driving it through the dark cloth padding so that links of mail, like fish scales, were driven into Morlock's flesh. The shoulder was dark with dried blood where it was not gleaming with fresh. “Ugly,” she agreed.
“I had hoped it might not be so bad. I had really begun to hope, when I saw him snoring there on the field. Look at him, Lady Ambrosia, he's sleeping again.”
“He's in a bad way. I've cost you both much, this day. I owe you more.”
“Nonsense.” Wyrth shook his head. “Blood has no price.” He worked in silence for a while, stripping the shattered armor from his master's body and then laying him gently on the ground. He threw aside the blood-crusted rags that Morlock had been wearing under the mail and covered him with his own cloak. This left Morlock's legs bare, so Wyrth fetched the rags back to cover them.
“I'll have to be your healer after all, my lady,” the dwarf said. “I'm no herbalist, but I can at least bind your hands and splint your wrists.”
“You needn't bother, Wyrth. If I get back to the city before dark I can consult somebody.”
Wyrtheorn blinked and glanced at Morlock. “I doubt Morlock will be able to travel before nightfall—”
“I don't expect you to travel with me. You've done enough already, both of you.”
“Er. We, uh, we rather expected you to travel with us. And not to the city. Morlock thinks—”
“To the city I go, Wyrth. I can't leave little Lathmar to the Protector's mercy.”
“Lathmar?”
“The King.”
“Oh!” Wyrtheorn rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Not a bad little fellow. But you have to consider him as good as dead, you know. Revenge is what you owe him, not protection. Now, Morlock thinks—”
“Urdhven wouldn't dare kill him as long as I'm alive,” Ambrosia said with a knowing air.
“Oh, yes he would. In fact, he doesn't dare do anything else.”
Ambrosia frowned.
“Hear me out, madam. If I understand the law of the Second Empire, you may not claim the throne.”
“Correct. I'm not a descendant of the ancient Vraidish kings.”
“Then.”
Ambrosia stared at him, waiting.
“If the Protector arranges for the King to die,” Wyrth said finally, “there is no legitimate claimant for the throne. That makes the Protector as legitimate as any. And he is the man on the spot, with an army loyal to him controlling the capital.”
“The people would never stand for it.”
“Eh, my lady, what do the people ever have to say about such
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