But he hadn't begun the spell yet; hadn't even begun to sing a single note.
Sir Jehan seemed to recognize what the elf was about to do, however. "Stop what you're doing! Put your hands on your head! Or your servant will die right here on this dock!"
Eyes closed, lost in concentration, Naitachal stood motionless. The air about him began to hum.
"Stop it, Necromancer!"
His eyes fluttered open just long enough t Alaire, with the knife at his throat. The elf paused, his black hand barely beginning to glow.
"On second thought," Sir Jehan said, smugly. "Go ahead and cast a spell. Raise the magic. Break our laws! It would give me a reason to throw you i Prison of Souls along with Alaire!"
Alaire bit into his captor's hand, and in the moment it pulled away he screamed, "No! Don't do it, Master!"
The knife cut deeper into his throat. More blood trick- led down his neck. The hand closed over his mouth again.
The guards surrounded the Dark Elf with cross- bows carefully aimed in his direction. He heard a scuffle, then rattling shackles. They hurried Alaire off the dock to a crude wagon. Bolted to the floor of this was a series of iron rings. They made him lie down, belly first, and his chains rattled as his captors locked his shackles into place. He looked up at the sound of a footstep, and saw Soren, the fat wizard, holding a little wooden club.
Powerless oaf can't even use a spell to immobilize me, he has to use fetters!
A brief discussion in the Suinomen tongue fol- lowed. Soren climbed onto the wagon and stood directly above him. Then, light and agonizing pain exploded at the base of Alaire's skull, and he knew no more.
Chapter "Stop it, Necromancer!" Sir Jehan screamed a Dark Elf.
Naitachal's instinct was to ignore a command, any command, especially when trying to concentrate on raising magic. Why should I? he thought, torn between complying with the demand, and bla Sir Jehan and his men into the sea with Bardic energy.
But this was Suinomen, and they were renegades, and now both he and Alaire were in serious danger.
He opened his eyes and saw the Royal Guardsmen holding Alaire, with a dagger at his throat.
They had the boy. The game was over.
Defeat and despair settled over him as he accepted whatever fate Sir Jehan had for both of them. There was no way to raise enough power, even Bardic power, in time to do any of them any good. It looked like they'd even nicked the boy a bit already.
But he didn't drop the harp; he set it down, care- fully, so as not to scratch it, and stood solemnly.
The guardsmen swarmed around him. Those who did not bring crossbows to bear on him shackled his hands and feet, and pushed him towards Sir Jehan.
One of them picked up the harp, holding it gingerly, as if he thought it might come to fife in his hands.
Naitachal stood calmly before Sir Jehan, who remained on the ship. He avoided meeting the elf's eyes. He threw his men a black cloth. "Blindfold him," he said simply.
He said nothing as they put the cloth over his face.
It's the King who I must speak with again. I have not used magic, though it is obvious Alaire has. If there's any chance I am immune diplomatically, someho The guardsmen shoved him forward. The rattle of a wagon or carriage pulled up in front of him, followed by the creaking of a steel door. They threw him into the back of whatever had arrived, and he landed in a heap on a cold, iron floor. There's someone in here with me, he sensed. Behind him, the door slammed shut, followed by the sound of a key turning a lock.
They started off immediately as the Dark Elf strug- gled to sit up in the lurching wagon. Strong hands assisted him, and when he was sitting against the wall, someone pulled the blindfold off his face.
"Lyam," Naitachal whispered. Even in the darkness of their moving prison, he saw the Captain's outline.