"Talk!" he hissed into the ear of the writhing creature. "Talk, or I'll break you bone by bone. Why are you here?"
"He can't," said Freha. She came up to them, white in the moonlight, her long hair blowing loose about her shoulders. "The Temple breeds these slaves, raises them from birth to utter, fanatical obedience. And—see—" She pointed to the dead man gaping under the window.
Stooping over, Alfric saw that he had no tongue.
The northerner shuddered. With a convulsive movement, he broke the neck of his prisoner and flung the body aside. "What do they want?" he panted. "Why are they after me?"
"There is a prophecy—but quick, there will be others. Out, down to the taproom—we must have protection—"
"The assassins would hardly be so stupid as to leave us a way out," grunted Alfric. "Any down there who might help us are probably dead or made prisoner now. No doubt these men have friends on guard, just outside the door—men who'll come in pretty soon when these don't come out—"
"Aye—that would be the way of the Temple—but where, then, where?"
Alfric flung on his kilt, dagger belt, and baldric. "Out the window!" He whipped the girl to him, held her supple body against his, kissed her hard and swift as the swoop of a hunting falkh. "Goodbye, Freha, you have been a wonderful companion. I'll see you again—if I live."
"But—you can't leave me!" she gasped. "The slaves will burst through—"