He caught a snatch of muttered conversation. "—when they finish those siege engines, down the palace goes. But the Household will be out like a swarm of stinger asts. I don't relish fighting the best swords in Valkarion."
"No, but we outnumber them."
"My cousin is in there. I hate to think of—"
Alfric sprang! He soared from his perch and crashed into the chest of the man he had picked. The guard went down in a clang of armor and dry snap of breaking ribs. Alfric snatched his spear and jabbed it through the groin of another. Through that gap, then, he raced, low and zigzag among the bushes.
The siege line roared. The air was suddenly thick with spears and arrows. Alfric felt one rake his leg, and cursed between gasps. To the palace!
"Open!" he howled. "Open, let me by, in the name of the Empress!"
If the garrison took this for a ruse and shot him, it was all over. He plunged up the long staircase, past the crouching craven sphinxes of the Empire. The doors had been broken down in the first assault, but the Imperials had put up a barricade. He saw steel flash as he neared it.
"Hildaborg!" he bawled. "Live the Empress!"
They held their fire. He fell under the barricade while their arrows hummed overhead. The disorderly Temple pursuit broke into retreat, back out of bowshot.
Alfric climbed over the barricade into the great palace antechamber. Its golden glory was gutted by fighting, splashed with dry blood, the tapestries in rags and the furniture splintered. Dead men and wounded lay side by side against the walls, under the ancient murals of the Empire's greatness. A dozen tall cuirassiers in gold and purple uniforms—now torn and blood-stained—stood waiting for him. Their spears and swords, axes and bows were at the ready, their haggard faces bleak with suspicion.