"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.
"Just in time," panted its chief. "The folk are ugly. They've killed a dozen guardsmen already, to my knowledge, a couple of priests, I don't know how many Temple slaves—Dannos smite the blasphemers!"
"Thanks." Alfric set the reviving girl on her feet. "Now I have to go—special mission, urgent—"
The chief looked sharply at him. "You have a barbarous accent," he said slowly, "and you're no Valkariona. Who—"