Alfric jumped out and rushed at the three, his blade shrieking....
The third was on Alfric like an angry jaccur. His spear-thrust furrowed along the barbarian's ribs. Alfric closed in, grinning savagely in the cold white moonlight, and thrust with his sword. The guard parried the blow with his small buckler, dropped his spear, and drew his shortsword. Bending low, he rushed in, probing for Alfric's guts, and the northerner skipped aside barely in time. The broadsword chopped down, through the guard's left leg. Blood spurted, the man crashed to earth, and Alfric stabbed him through the face before he could scream.
The second was climbing dizzily to his feet. Alfric knocked the sword from a nerveless hand and brought his own blade against the guardsman's throat. "Hold," he said. "One word, one movement, and you'll roll in the gutter with your comrades."
Freha came up, the cloak blowing about her wonderful naked body in the wild wind. She was a fay sight under the moons, and the prisoner groaned as he saw her. "Lady—lady, forgive—"
"Forgive a traitor?" she asked, wrath sparking in her voice.
"Why are the priests after me?" rapped Alfric.
The guard stared. "Surely—surely you know—"
"I know nothing. Speak, if you want to remain a man."
"The prophecy—the priests warned us about you, that you were the heathen conqueror of the prophecy.... Later they said that—" the guard's desperate eyes turned to Freha. "They said you, your majesty—" His voice trailed off.