“Look at him,” Arlon roared. “Not a wound on him. A stranger until recently and now we must ask: is he truly a son of Neverwinter?”
Shaken from his reverie, Sarfael glanced at Arlon, wondering who was catching the blunt of his tirade. The man was pointing straight at him.
“Why is he not wounded? Who is this Rucas Sarfael?” Arlon shouted. “Seize him, question him, make the traitor tell us where the crown has gone and who holds it now!”
Rough hands grabbed Sarfael before he could draw his sword and the maddened group of Nashers forced him to his knees by Arlon’s bed. Behind him, he heard Elyne and Montimort cry out.
The wounded Arlon grabbed a knife from another supporter and waved it at Sarfael.
“Go on,” he said. “Tell us. Tell us who attacked us. Tell us who took the crown.”
“I wish I could,” said Sarfael. For once, he was speaking the truth to Arlon but he doubted the man would believe him. Which meant, Rucas Sarfael thought, that his life was probably over… unless he could think of a very good lie. Arlon leaned forward. The blade pressed against his throat…