Isle of Glass Read Online Free Page A

as a villein’s brat; and
you’ll be less when I’m done with you.”
    “Whatever you do to me, I remain a Knight of the Crown of
Rhiyana. Gwydion is far from the weakling you deem him; and he shall not forget
what you have done to him.”
    “From fainting lass to royal lord in two breaths. You awe
me.” Rhydderch tossed the whip aside. “Some of my lads here like to play a little
before they get down to business. Maybe I should let them, while you’re still
able to enjoy it.”
    The rage lunged for the opening. Alun’s eyes blazed green;
he bared his teeth. But his voice was velvet-soft. “Let them try, Rhydderch.
Let them boast of it afterward. They will need the consolation, for they shall
never touch another: man, woman, or boy.” His eyes flashed round the
half-circle of men. “Who ventures it? You, Huw? Owein? Dafydd, great bull and
vaunter?”
    Each one started at his name and crossed himself.
    Rhydderch glared under his black brows. “You there, get him
down and hold him. He can’t do a thing to you.”
    “Can I not?” asked Alun. “Have you not heard of what befalls
mortals who make shift to force elf-blood?”
    The baron snarled. “Get him down, I say! He’s trying to
scare us off"
    One man made bold to speak. “But—but—my lord, his eyes!”
    “A trick of the light. Get him down!”
    Alun lowered his arms. “No need. See. I am down.”
    Eyes rolled; voices muttered.
    “Damn you sons of curs! You forgot to fasten the chain!”
Rhydderch snatched at it. Alun dropped to his knees.
    He was still feral-eyed. A blow, aimed at his head, missed.
He tossed back his hair and said, “Nay, I was firm-bound. Think you that the
Elvenking would risk a mortal on such a venture as this?”
    “You’re no less mortal than I am.” Rhydderch hurled Alun
full-length upon the floor. Swift as a striking snake, his boot came down.
    Someone screamed.
    Pain had roused wrath; pain slew it. In red-rimmed clarity,
Alun saw all his pride and folly. He had come to lull Rhydderch into making
peace, and fallen instead into his enemy’s own madness. And now he paid.
    That clarity was his undoing; for he did not move then to
stop what he had begun. Even as he paused, they were upon him, fear turned to
bitter scorn.
    After an eternity came blessed nothingness.
    o0o
    He woke in the midst of a choking stench. Oddly, he found
that harder to bear than the agony of his body. Pain had some pretense to
nobility, even such pain as this, but that monumental stink was beyond all
endurance.
    Gasping, gagging, he lifted his head. He had lain face down
in it. Walls of stone hemmed him in—a midden with but one barred exit. The iron
bars were forged in the shape of a cross. Rhydderch was taking no chances.
    A convulsion seized him, bringing new agony: the spasming of
an empty stomach, the knife-sharp pain of cracked ribs. For a long while he had
to lie as he was. Then, with infinite caution, he drew one knee under him.
    The right leg would not bear his weight; he swayed, threw
out a hand, cried out in agony as the outraged flesh struck the wall. His
other, the right hand, caught wildly at stone and held. Through a scarlet haze
he saw what first he had extended. It no longer looked even remotely like a
hand.
    His sword hand.
    He closed his eyes and sought inward for strength. It came
slowly, driving back the pain until he could almost bear it. But the cost to
his broken body was high. Swiftly, while he could still see, he swept his eyes
about.
    One corner was almost clean. Inch by inch, hating the sounds
of pain his movements wrenched from him, he made his way to it. Two steps
upright, the rest crawling on his face.
    Gradually his senses cleared. He hurt—oh, he hurt. And one
pain, less than the rest, made him burn with shame. After all his threats—and
empty, they had not been—still—still—
    He found that he was weeping: he who had not wept even as a
child. Helpless, child’s tears, born of pain and shame and disgust at his