"Aye, my son is in the city guards. They told him to go hunt down the stranger and the Empress--the _Empress_!--and off he went." A grim chuckle. "But I think he is sitting quietly in some corner, waiting." "There is an old battle ax at home. My grandfather bore it in the Rurian war. I think I could still swing it if need be." "I am afraid--" * * * * * Alfric smiled, a steely grimace in the shadow of his visor, and led the way onward. But he was not to pass easily. He thrust aside a burly peasant, who turned on him with a snarl. "Mind your manners, guardsman! Is't not enough you should be traitor to the Empress?" "Aye, the city guards have sat about drinking and gaming and making the streets unsafe for our daughters," said another man harshly. "They didn't get off their fat butts till this chance came to go yapping after Hildaborg." Alfric tried to shoulder past the ring of angry folk who gathered. "Aside!" he called. "Aside, or I use my spear!" "Mind your manners, guardsman," grinned the peasant. He came closer, and Alfric smelled the wine on his breath. "What say we have a little fun with these priest-lovers, comrades? Will they squeal when we pummel 'em?" Alfric's fist shot out like a ball of iron. There was a dull smack, and the peasant flew back against the man behind. The barbarian flailed out with his spear butt, and the crowd gave way. "Through!" he muttered to Hildaborg. "Quick, we have to get away." "They're our friends," she whispered frantically. "Can't we reveal--" "And bring the guard down on this unarmed mob? We wouldn't last a moment. Come!" A stone clanged against the girl's helmet. She staggered, half collapsing into Alfric's arms. The crowd growled, beast-like, and shoved in closer. "Aside!" shouted Alfric. "Make way, or the curse of the Moons is on you!" "You talk like a priest," said a laborer thickly. He lifted a heavy billet of wood. "On them, boys! Kill them!" Alfric laid the half-stunned girl on the ground, stood over her, and drew his broadsword. "An outlander!" shouted someone, back in the sea of shadowy, torch-lit, hating faces. "A mercenary, hunting our empress!" The mob surged against him. He thrust around with the sword, striking to disable but not to kill--though he'd slay if he had to, he thought desperately. Stones were flying. One hit him on the cheek. Pain knifed through his head. "Hai, Ruho!" he roared, and banged a skull. The mob edged away a little. Eyes and teeth gleamed white in the bloody torchlight. A trumpet-blast sounded, harsh and arrogant over the rising voices. Someone screamed. Alfric saw spears aloft, steel gleaming red--a squad of guardsmen to the rescue. The rescue! He groaned, lifted Hildaborg, and sought to retreat through the crowd. Too late. The guards were hacking a bloody way through the mob; it scattered in panic and the squad was there.