"Old sewers—not used now when water is scarce—a warren under the city—" gasped Freha.
"We can hide here, then," he panted.
"No—only the Temple knows all the passages—they'll have slaves guarding every exit—we'll be trapped unless we get out soon—"
Dim sky showed ahead, a hole with a rusted iron ladder leading up into it. Alfric doused his torch and swung noiselessly up the rungs to peer out.
The manhole opened into one of the ruinous abandoned districts, crumbling structures and shards of stone half buried by the drifting sand. Three guardsmen stood watching, spears at the ready. Otherwise there were only the moons and the wind and the silently watching stars.
Alfric's lip twisted in a snarl. So—the holes were already plugged! But—wait, all egresses could not be guarded yet; best to go on in search of another—no, by the time the fugitives got there it might be watched too. Here there was as least an absence of people to interfere.
He sprang out and rushed at the three, so swiftly that they were hardly aware of him before his blade was shrieking about them. One man tumbled with his head nearly sheared off. Another yelled, leaping back to thrust with his spear. Alfric dodged the jab, grabbed the shaft in one hand and pulled. The guardsman stumbled forward and Alfric's sword rang on his helmet. He dropped, stunned by the fury of the blow.
