Lora of Two Worlds

No, not just Alvin and von Klein. This life, he and Roland would die here too. The general swung his blade at Alvin. Alvin parried. The courtyard, like a powder keg with a lit fuse, erupted.

The rebel had been swayed by Roland's argument. He'd only meant to kill the guards, make a point.

But as he'd feared: the title of lord warden gave him little control over his household generals.

They obeyed when they chose. When they didn't, they had their own men. The rebel couldn't stop them without a civil war.

Seeing a guard raise a blade against the unarmed von Klein, the rebel cried:

"Don't kill the envoy!"

That single cry, Leon seized it. A thread of hope. He shouted:

"My lord! Didn't you say you'd petition for their merits? You said the Yorvik army won a great victory, drove the steppe khan's raiders back to the grasslands! Such a feat, and you never reported it to the crown!"

He blocked a sword stroke aimed at himself and von Klein, gasping the words out between blows.

What? The rebel's hand went up. The guards paused.

Von Klein, a man who'd survived three palace coups, picked up the thread without missing a beat:

"Yes, yes! Lord Warden, how could I forget? The moment we entered Yorvik, we heard the Yorvik army had defeated the steppe raiders! Such a triumph, why hasn't it been reported? When I return, I'll petition the King for your commendation!"

The rebel and his generals exchanged looks:

A leak among the guards? They'd only just discussed it, invite the neighboring steppe khan's men for a drink, fight a staged battle, push the khan's camp ten miles back, report it as real combat, and claim a reward from the crown.

But they hadn't had the drink yet. How had word gotten out?

Leon read their faces. He cursed inwardly:

That dog of a rebel! The "victory" was probably fake, a scam for crown funds. Thank God von Klein was sharp, he'd said "heard," not "confirmed." If they could bluff through...

But you don't hit a man who's smiling at you. The rebel's face was a tangle of emotions:

"No need to wait. Lord Envoy, write the letter now. Report what you just said. Send it to the crown. Men, take them all to the military prison!"

Thank God. The rebel wanted the reward money. He needed coin to keep his generals in line.

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Alvin looked back. Everyone dropped their swords. A guard pointed at the short blade on Roland's belt. They surrendered every weapon they could find.

Leon bent down. From his boot he drew a foot-long knife. The bird-headed dagger, still in the boot, slipped deeper in.

The knife was too long, it would be found. The dagger was shorter. If they didn't search thoroughly, it might pass.

Leon straightened. Clang, he tossed the knife at the guards' feet.

Fifty men were marched into the military prison. Alvin, Roland, and von Klein in one cell. Leon and the guards, deeper, in a larger cell.

"Leon, what do we do now?"

Linn hung on the bars, staring out. He couldn't see the cell where Alvin and the others were held. They couldn't even talk strategy.

"First, check everyone's wounds. See how bad."

Several men had been dragged or supported in. Alive, but maybe badly hurt.

A guard spoke: "My lord, your arm is bleeding..."

A sword cut. It had hurt at the time, adrenaline had masked it. Now he looked: the dark red fabric around the wound had turned black.

Linn reached to tear a strip from his undershirt for a bandage. Leon, seeing he couldn't refuse, pulled a handkerchief from his tunic:

"Use this."

Good thing Lyle wasn't here. He'd joke that Leon's arm and a dog's leg used the same handkerchief.

"At least Lyle and Shawn are outside." Linn's words were cold comfort. If those two could keep the young lady safe and get her back to Lohenheim, that would be enough.

"No. We've thirty men on the boats. Most of them guards. Ashford is there too..." another guard said, low.

Leon was quiet a moment. Then he shook his head: "You think they'll be luckier than us? Their cover was polemen. Kill them, and no one asks."

Silence.

Shawn crouched behind a tree on the bank. His eyes were red. He watched the men Leon had called "not lucky", fighting on the boats against the household guards.

A column of Yorvik guards had charged the canal bank. Ashford, still waiting for the deputy commander to return, had seen them too late. He'd led the guardsmen out to block them. It was futile.

The guards fought back. Kill one, even. Kill two, profit.

By the time Shawn reached the bank, only Ashford and a handful of guards were still standing, ringed by household guards, fighting on.

"Kill them! Kill these sons of bitches!"

No reinforcements. No escape. No Ten-Mile Pavilion rendezvous. Only the rage of men about to die.

"Charge!" Ashford's battle cry echoed in Shawn's ears, long after the sound had stopped.

Ashford had grown up with Alvin. Trained together, fought together. He was Alvin's most trusted right hand. Important tasks, Alvin gave them to Ashford without hesitation.

The twenty-odd covert guards, Ashford had trained them all...

Ashford ground his teeth. He couldn't let his face show grief. Head down, he slipped into the stream of civilians entering the city gate.

He had to reach the Shrine of the Two Lords. Meet the young lady. He still had his duty, the duty Ashford had handed off to him with a grin.

The young lady had changed into a northern-style veiled skirt. A white face-veil covered her to the waist. The cross-body satchel Margaret had sewn for her, plus a hidden-layer belt, solved the problem of carrying weapons and gold.

"My lady, ready to go?"

Linnie called from the door. She didn't want to stay another second. She wanted to be out, anywhere, until her godfather came back safe.

"Ready. Let's go." Lora looked at Linnie, veiled like herself. They went downstairs.

At the front desk, they asked Lord Horn for directions to the Shrine of the Two Lords. He laughed:

"You're southerners, why go there? That's where the Sogdians gather. Smelly, noisy. A young lady won't enjoy it."

"We just heard it's lively. We wanted to look."

"If you see something you like, don't haggle. Foreigners aren't like southerners. They've fewer tricks. Push too hard and you'll offend them. Also, do you speak any of the foreign tongues?" He asked, helpful.

"Foreign tongues? Only when I'm drunk."

Lora giggled.

But her heart sank: Careless. Going to a foreign quarter, and none of us speaks the tongue.

Good thing Yorvik had six or seven common languages.

Worst case, I'll speak English!

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