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!"