No one. Nothing.
From one of the ships came a low, ominous laugh.
All three drew their swords, on an enemy who hadn't made himself visible yet.
"Did you really think you were going to just sail out of here, without a problem?" came the unmistakable voice of Sir Jehan.
A moment later, Jehan stepped out of the shadows, onto the deck of the nearest ship, alone. "Ah. I see you've done me the favor of finding our young magi- cian, Captain Lyam. Decided to turn traitor, did you?"
Lyam stood firm, his face set in a cold mask of anger. "Did you think you were going to maneuve King into a war with Althea, with no one noticing?"
Sir Jehan didn't answer right away. For a moment he looked doubtful, unsure. The reply must have sur- prised him, because it was some time before he regained his composure.
"Why, war is the last thing I want with Althea," he replied, bowing sardonically to Naitachal. "However, we made it clear to the Ambassador that we would consider any attempt to leave the kingdom an act of war. I suspect this is exactly what the Ambassador has in mind right now."
"You do not consider keeping an Ambassador pris- oner an act of war here?" Naitachal said evenly.
Jehan shrugged. "That was only a formality, until we clarified the situation. You made a big mistake by leav- ing the palace, Ambassador. By doing so you have implicated yourself in this sad state of affairs."
"It's not his fault," Lyam said. "I convinced him that he was in danger. For my own purposes, I assure you."
Alaire blinked, surprised at that answer. The Captain was actually trying to protect them!
Jehan shook his head with mock-sadness. "I wish I believed that. I really do. Clearly, you have betrayed the King. But the Ambassador is responsible for his own actions. And as for you, Lyam, you have neither rank nor friends to protect you. You will hang for this."
Alaire scanned the dock for Sir Jehan's men. No one. If we made a run for it now...
Sir Jehan continued, his tone and posture com- pletely casual, as if they were discussing some trivial matter over tea. "I must admit, Captain, that you have done the kingdom a service by rounding up bot Ambassador and his criminal servant. This will save us a great deal of time. Now, if you would be so kind as to drop your weapons, my men will escort you back to the castle."
"I don't think so," Lyam said, whispering something to his son. The boy took off running, and vanished over the edge of the dock without a sound.
"Where are his men?" Lyam whispered Alaire was looking too -- Sir Jehan wasn't planning to take them alone, was he?
Behind them, two Royal Guardsmen surfaced from the ship's hold. Then two more, from the shi Jehan stood upon.
"You make it difficult for yourselves," Sir Jehan said indifferently. Addressing his men, he waved in their general direction. "Take them," he said indifferently.
"But don't kill them."
The two on Lyam's end charged, and the big Cap- tain engaged them both, handily; Alaire charged the one that came for him, surprising him with his quick defense. Swords clashed in the moonlight; Alaire knew he had nothing to lose, and took chances he nor- mally wouldn't have. The man he fought still valued his life, and was clearly under orders not to take Alaire took full advantage of this situation. A strange sort of excitement came over him, and he laughed recklessly, startling his opponent considerably.
He thrust once, twice, leaving himself vulnerable both times. In so doing, Alaire managed to slice the leather armor on his opponents right arm. The pieces fell, and Alaire struck without thinking.
Blood spurted, forcing the wounded man to drop his sword. His first instinct was to kill the ma No. Not another death! Instead, he rushed at the wounded Guard, and pushed him over the dock's edge. The Guard hit the water, with a scream and gratifying splash.
Alaire turned, only to find that already there were others to replace him, dozens more, pouring off the ships like hungry ants. The narrow dock limited how many came at him at once, and he fought each one as they came within reach.
It was a downhill battle, there was no mistaking it, and he began to loose some of his energy and reckless abandon. Should I die now, or go to this thrice- damned Prison of Souls?
The impulse was to die now; a clean death, and not a slow wasting away, trapped by magic. He swung wildly with the sword, leaving his midsection open, then he swung again against three guardsmen, who all stepped backwards.
They collided with each other, suddenly leaving a space between two of them.
He seized the moment by shoving through them, screaming a hideous battle cry.
Before he reached the end of the dock, four more guardsmen stepped in front of him, bearing shields.
The wild sword swing wouldn't work here. Behind them were three more, aiming at his chest with cross- bows.
In his head a voice spoke, urging him, wait until the odds are in your favor, then try for escape. Nobody ever won by dying. He glanced wildly about, looking for an escape. There wasn't one.
Abruptly, his energy ran out, and he gave up, deflated. He threw his sword down on the dock, where it landed with a dull thud.
From behind him came two sets of arms, one wielding a dagger, placed near his throat. The metal bit into his windpipe. A sudden move, and it would cut into a major artery. For the moment, the desire to live overcame his fear of the Prison.
He dropped his arms to his sides and stopped moving.
Thick arms grabbed his wrists, pulling them behind his back. Shackles closed around them, and the cluster of guardsmen pushed him back up the dock, to Naitachal. Lyam was nowhere in sight. Four Guardsmen had surrounded Naitachal. With blinding speed the Dark Elf deflected the blades, giving no hint of backing down.
"It's useless to continue," Sir Jehan said lazily from his safe haven on the ship. "Look, we've captured your secretary. Give up, while he still lives."
At the far end of the dock, a score or more of Guardsmen lined up, wielding a mixture of swords and crossbows. They charged Naitachal.
When the elf saw what was coming for him, he raised his hands, and closed his eyes.
The guardsmen saw this and froze, confused and afraid; they must have known what a Dark Elf was.
Alaire struggled against the cold metal against his throat. A hand closed over his mouth.
He's going to raise Bardic Magic, Alaire thought, knowing that Naitachal was good enough to do so without needing an instrument. It hadn't occurred to him to do the same, before they shackled his hands; for him it took time and undisturbed concentration to raise any useful power, neither of which he had as the guardsmen attacked him. The instrument still hung at his back, but he had no way of using it.
The three holding Alaire pushed him closer to the elf, the knife biting into his neck, a sudden sting of pain, followed by the warm trickle of blood down his throat.
These idiots are going to kill me by accident if they don't watch out! he wanted to scream. What is Nai- tachal trying to do? What sort of spell would get us out of this?
But he hadn't begun the spell yet; hadn't even begun to sing a single note.