Blood of Ambrose by James Enge

outside the enclosure and as suddenly died down. The sound of marching feet rang out, and a tight formation of soldiers entered through the enclosure arch. At their center was Steng; his ropy boneless fingers clutched the shoulders of a young boy with a filthy face and frightened darting eyes: the King.
    The Protector stayed where he was, assessing the situation. Steng's expression was all gleeful pride, while the soldiers wore masks of stern fury. Steng had made the capture, then, and had fought with the soldiers over who would bring the Protector his prize. That was good. Urdhven had made a life study of the art of breaking a man's spirit, and he guessed that Steng was two-thirds his property now.
    As for the King…yes, the story could be that he had been kidnapped by Lorn's cabal of rebellious soldiers. When set upon by the Protector's Men, they had slain their captive in panic. The Protector's Men had overcome the Legionaries, and these would be executed for treason and regicide. (Urdhven knew of a company of soldiers he could easily sacrifice for this piece of political theater: Lorn's.) It would be an excellent pretext for a loyalty inquisition among the City Legion. Or perhaps abolishing them altogether—it was awkward to have so large a body of troops in the capital not under his personal control.
    “My Lord Urdhven!” came a cry behind him. In his reverie he had forgotten the cavalry messenger. He turned and crossed to the bar where the messenger, still in the saddle, was waiting.
    “Sir!” the messenger said. “War-Leader Kyric reports that he has fallen back and is re-forming his troops along the Old City Road. He has sent to the city for a company of bowmen.”
    Urdhven looked sharply at the messenger's face, streaming with sweat in the chill moonslit air. His voice had been tolerably steady, but there was no mistaking his fear.
    “Lancer,” said the Lord Protector harshly, “I sent your wing to capture or kill three refugees, only one of whom was armed and mounted, and one of whom was crippled. The third was a dwarf. Are you saying you met armed resistance?”
    The Protector's Men and Steng had come up, with the King in tow. Urdhven could hear them muttering behind him. Had he foreseen the nature of this interview he would have sent them to wait some distance away. Now it was too late: he judged that it would be worse to send them away than let them hear the rest of the bad news. Foot soldier morale would not be too heavily affected by a cavalry blunder, Urdhven judged—he took care to encourage rivalries among his own troops. (And Steng, of course, viewed all soldiers with contempt.)
    “My lord,” said the messenger, a note of pleading in his voice, “they used magic. The…the attack came when we were scattered. There was nothing we could do!”
    “From which I deduce that you did nothing. I'll have Kyric twisted for this—”
    “My lord—”
    “None of that. In what form did this ‘attack’ come?”
    The messenger did not answer immediately. In the silence they heard a faint but definite sound. It was something like a fierce inhuman scream, heard from afar. Urdhven automatically took a step back toward his men. He glanced about, trying to locate the source of the scream. His concentration was broken by the sound of hoofbeats: he looked up to see the back of the messenger as he rode off.
    Urdhven paused to promise himself that Kyric and his messenger would twist side by side, then turned to his soldiers.
    Their faces were expressionless; their hands were steady. No doubt their voices would be, if he required them to speak. But he knew these men: they were terrified. Moments before they had moved and stood with easy arrogance; now they were stiff, their shoulders set.
    He knew the stories they were remembering, legends accumulated over the centuries, in which the sorcerous powers of the Ambrosii were constantly invoked to protect or avenge their kinsmen of the imperial line. Urdhven was