Blood of Elves Read Online Free PDF Page B

legs wouldn’t obey him. He yelled and rolled down the stairs, bumping against the walls of the little corridor. The trapdoor opened beneath him with a dry crack and the troubadour tumbled down into the darkness and stench. Before thumping his head on the dirt floor and losing consciousness, he remembered Mama Lantieri saying something about the pigsty being repaired.
    The pain in his constricted wrists and shoulders, cruelly twisted in their joints, brought him back to his senses. He wanted to scream but couldn’t; it felt as though his mouth had been stuck up with clay. He was kneeling on the dirt floor with a creaking rope hauling him up by his wrists. He tried to stand, wanting to ease the pressure on his shoulders, but his legs, too, were tied together. Choking and suffocating he somehow struggled to his feet, helped considerably by the rope which tugged mercilessly at him.
    Rience was standing in front of him and his evil eyes glinted in the light of a lantern held aloft by an unshaven ruffian who stood over six feet tall. Another ruffian, probably no shorter, stood behind him. Dandilion could hear his breathing and caught a whiff of stale sweat. It was the reeking man who tugged on the rope looped over a roof beam and fastened to the poet’s wrists.
    Dandilion’s feet tore off the dirt floor. The poet whistled through his nose, unable to do anything more.
    “Enough,” Rience snapped at last – he spoke almost immediately, yet it had seemed an age to Dandilion. The bard’s feet touched the ground but, despite his most heart-felt desire, he could not kneel again – the tight drawn rope was still holding him as taut as a string.
    Rience came closer. There was not even a trace of emotion on his face; the damp eyes had not changed their expression in the least. His tone of voice, too, remained calm, quiet, even a little bored.
    “You nasty rhymester. You runt. You scum. You arrogant nobody. You tried to run from me? No one has escaped me yet. We haven’t finished our conversation, you clown, you sheep’s head. I asked you a question under much pleasanter circumstances than these. Now you are going to answer all my questions, and in far less pleasant circumstances. Am I right?”
    Dandilion nodded eagerly. Only now did Rience smile and make a sign. The bard squealed helplessly, feeling the rope tighten and his arms, twisted backwards, cracking in their joints.
    “You can’t talk,” Rience confirmed, still smiling loathsomely, “and it hurts, doesn’t it? For the moment, you should know I’m having you strung up like this for my own pleasure – just because I love watching people suffer. Go on, just a little higher.”
    Dandilion was wheezing so hard he almost choked.
    “Enough,” Rience finally ordered, then approached the poet and grabbed him by his shirt ruffles. “Listen to me, you little cock. I’m going to lift the spell so you can talk. But if you try to raise your charming voice any louder than necessary, you’ll be sorry.”
    He made a gesture with his hand, touched the poet’s cheek with his ring and Dandilion felt sensation return to his jaw, tongue and palate.
    “Now,” Rience continued quietly, “I am going to ask you a few questions and you are going to answer them quickly, fluently and comprehensively. And if you stammer or hesitate even for a moment, if you give me the slightest reason to doubt the truth of your words, then… Look down.”
    Dandilion obeyed. He discovered to his horror that a short rope had been tied to the knots around his ankles, with a bucket full of lime attached to the other end.
    “If I have you pulled any higher,” Rience smiled cruelly, “and this bucket lifts with you, then you will probably never regain the feeling in your hands. After that, I doubt you will be capable of playing anything on a lute. I really doubt it. So I think you’ll talk to me. Am I right?”
    Dandilion didn’t agree because he couldn’t move his head or find his voice out of