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trusted servants dying so suddenly in recent days. Do you suppose they caught that fever that's been spreading through the poorer parts of the city—or was it a disease that only strikes in palaces?”
    The Protector's smile was gone, but the predatory look remained. “The King's health you may assess yourself,” he said flatly. “If there is nothing else—”
    “Nothing from Morlock, but I believe that, speaking as the agent of the champion of Lady Ambrosia, the forms have not been met. Isn't the champion entitled to a representative in the judge's box, to argue points of honor, foul blows, that sort of thing?”
    “None came forward—” Urdhven began, but stopped as the dwarf tapped his chest modestly. “Very well,” he conceded. “Daen, bring another chair. But it is a mere point of honor, Wyrtheorn, since there will be no combat here today. Your champion has forfeited.”
    “The Lady Ambrosia's champion,” the dwarf corrected him gently, as he sat down on the King's right hand. “But, with respect, that word is not yours to say. The King is the judge of this combat, and he may grant my request if he chooses.”
    The Protector turned his masklike golden face on the King, who found he could not speak. He knew what his uncle wanted him to say. He knew what the dwarf wanted him to say. He knew what his Grandmother would want him to say. But he didn't know what to say. There was no rule to go by, no ceremony to tell him whose wishes he must obey.
    The silence grew long. It spread from the royal box to the crowd on either side. A quiet fell on the dusty enclosure. In it, all heard the dim cry of a horn sounding to the east.

 
    he horn sounded from the dead lands masking the broken city in the east. It grew louder as they listened. It ceased for a moment; when it returned it was louder yet. Soon, looking east, they could see the source of the call: an armed man on horseback appeared at the crest of a gray hill, the horn raised to his lips. The ululating call was unfamiliar to everyone in the enclosure. But it rang with defiance.
    The armed rider disappeared, plunging down the slope of the hill to be hidden by another. Presently he topped that one and could be seen more clearly. The horse was a powerful black stallion; the rider's armor was black chain mail; a long black lance with pennons was slung beside him. A black cloth covered his shield, but as he rode onto the plain where the enclosure stood, he threw the horn away and shook the cloth loose from the shield. Blazing out from a black field, the device was a white hawk in flight over a branch of flowering thorn—the arms of Ambrosius.
    “I withdraw my request, Your Majesty,” Wyrtheorn said with relief he did not even attempt to hide. “Ambrosia's champion is here.”
    Urdhven turned to him, his face a golden mask of fury. “If he uses sorcery he will die. It was not for nothing I brought my army here! He will die and she will die and you, too, will die, little man.”
    “I am not a man,” the dwarf replied. “Further, what is your army to Morlock or to me? Had we chosen to steal Ambrosia by night, or in the open day, you could have done nothing to stop us. But we desire that Ambrosia again be able to walk the streets of her city—”
    “It is not her city.”
    “It is her city. It exists because she created it. She has spent her life defending it. Her children have gone on to conquer half a world. The palace she designed and built justly wears her great ancestor's name. If Ambrosia is to enter it again, the lies about her must be crushed; she must be acquitted in law. Therefore, Morlock will use no magic. I tell you, he needs none to best any living man with the sword.”
    The Protector laughed derisively.
    The armed rider was now approaching the enclosure fence. He did not slacken his speed but bent forward, as if he were talking to his charger. It cried out and cleared the fence in a magnificent leap, landing in the center of the field.
    A shout