The next guard came at him with a wild overhead swing.
Alaric sidestepped the clumsy attack, seized the man's wrist in an iron grip, and wrenched the blade free in one fluid motion.
Before the disarmed guard could react, Alaric drove his boot into the man's stomach with brutal efficiency.
The guard doubled over and crashed across the cobblestones, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The remaining guards, eight of them now, formed a loose circle around Alaric and Fredrick.
Professional caution replaced their earlier swagger as they realized these weren't helpless merchants they could bully.
Alaric hefted the blade, testing its weight and balance.
Decent steel, if unremarkable.
It would do.
He sank into a low stance, the weapon angled across his body at chest level.
His crimson eyes swept over the encircling guards, reading their positions, their hesitation, the way fear was beginning to creep into their movements.
