Hildaborg groaned, stirring back to consciousness. "Alfric—"
"A boy—no—" The officer stepped forth. Hildaborg's lovely face turned toward the light, and he gasped. "She—"
Alfric picked up his spear and hurled it through the chief's throat. Then he lifted his dripping sword and stood by Hildaborg, waiting for the end.
"The Empress—the Empress, and the heathen—We've found them—"
The crowd had withdrawn, milling around the edges of the forum, too frightened and confused to help. The priest and his guards were coming on the double, yelling for help. Other armed men seemed to be springing from the ground.
"Alive!" shrilled the priest. "Take them alive if you can! A thousand gildars!"
The guards were well disciplined. They locked shields in a ring about Alfric and closed in. Man for man, he could have laughed at them—but this way—
Hildaborg swayed on her feet beside him. "So this is the end?" she whispered. "I love you, Alfric—"
He howled his rage, and sprang forward. The sword blurred in his hands, ringing on shields and helmets. A guard fell, shrieking, his right arm sheared off. Alfric stabbed another in the neck, kicked a third in the groin, and roared.