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An Excerpt From: THE WYNDMASTER'S LADY
 CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2007.
All Rights Reserved, Samhain Publishing
Slowly turning his head toward the harsh glare of the torch that lit up the room, his narrowed gaze fell on Vargas and the agony in that man's stunned eyes hurt more than any cut that had come from the Dungeon Master's blades.
"Bring her here," he heard Vargas say and wondered who his man meant. What woman should see the awful thing done to him? He was looking into Vargas' green eyes--pleading silently with him for understanding--as a young woman was drawn forward and he shifted his attention from the soldier to her in surprise.
"See what your father has done," Vargas told her.
At first Celeste saw nothing save the man bound to the high slab but as a drop of blood fell over the side of the gray stone to plop to the floor, her lips parted in shock as she took in the pool of blood beneath the stone.
"Take her away!" Lord Charles screamed. "Do not allow her to see this!"
"Move your little ass, wench," Vargas said. "We want you to take a damned good look."
Her legs feeling like stone, Celeste reluctantly came closer to the slab. Very slowly her attention shifted upward from the crimson stain on the floor to the ghostly pale face of the prisoner. She saw dark brown wavy hair falling over the man's sweaty forehead. She saw livid bruises on his face then as full horror set in, she saw the scores upon scores of cuts on the flesh of his arms and chest. She came to an abrupt halt--hearing her father's protests coming from far, far away, all sound slowly fading to silence--her horrified stare locked on the grisly sight of the man's myriad cuts. Once more her gaze lifted to his wounded amber colored eyes and something dark passed between them only a fraction of a second before her eyes rolled up in her head and she began to fall.
Vargas leapt toward the girl, cursing as he did, and grabbed her in a rough embrace before she hit the floor. Swinging her up in his arms, he looked to Sierran for help.
Sierran was unable to speak for the gag between his teeth. MacDougal hurried forward to the head of the slab and bent over to slit the bloody material with his knife. His commander looked up at him for a moment as Mac gently pulled the material from Sierran's mouth.
"Commander?" Vargas asked over the enraged shrieks of the Dungeon Master whose eyes were bulging and who was practically foaming at the mouth.
Shifting his attention to Lord Charles, watching the man buck and twist in an effort to reach the woman, Sierran knew he had a way to hurt the Dungeon Master in ways far beyond the physical. He tried to clear his throat and with effort spoke to Vargas.
"Take," he whispered. "Take them with us."
Vargas shifted the slight weight of the unconscious woman against him and nodded quickly. He looked to Mac who was gently unlatching the shackles that held Sierran's badly bruised wrist. "Get a wagon prepared. The commander will never be able to sit a mount."
"Seth!" Mac called out. "Unlock his ankles."
"B...box," Sierran managed to say and Mac leaned over him. "Iron box for the gallows keeper."
"What iron box?" Mac asked.
"I saw such a contraption out by the stable," Seth said as he came to the slab and began undoing the restraints on Sierran's left ankle. "It's used for transporting prisoners."
"The sweat box?" Vargas said, his eyes narrowing as he met Sierran's eyes. "You were in that?"
Sierran nodded wearily.
"Drag that bastard out of here and throw him in the box," Vargas snarled. He whistled for Mac as that man started past him. "Take the lady with you."
"D...don't put her in the box," Sierran whispered.
"He won't."
Sierran watched as Vargas gently laid the unconscious woman into Mac's arms and tensed. The thought of his sergeant touching him on his lacerated back--or even moving him for that matter--sent waves of unease down his spine. He clenched his teeth as Vargas came to stand by him.
"I'll apologize in advance," Vargas said then very slowly and with great care slid his arms under Sierran's back and beneath the prone man's knees. "Do you want a blanket thrown on you?"
"No!" Sierran managed to reply. The very thought of his cuts coming into contact with anything brought tears to his eyes.
Brutish pain shot through his chest, arms and back as Vargas lifted him from the table. With his eyes squeezed shut against the stinging agony, his breath coming in shallow, rapid drags, it took the last of his strength to drape an arm around Vargas' neck. The cuts on the underside of his forearm stung like a hive of bees were attacking him. He let his free arm hang down beside Vargas' hip, too weary and hurting too bad to attempt to pull it up.
The climb up the stairs was slow and infinitely excruciating. Wounds that had closed were opened up to seep into the wool material of Vargas' tunic and drip blood down Sierran's limp arm and from his fingers. It was a relief when he was taken outside and the cool night air washed over his nakedness. The cold seemed to numb the pain and he welcomed it as Vargas carried him to a waiting wagon.
All around the lower bailey, the Dungeon Master's servants stood in silent fear of the armed men whose weapons were thrust toward them. Guards whose wrists were now bound behind them stared at the group with resignation and it was evident to the slowest man in Sierran's troop that the guards would not lift a hand to help Lord Charles as that man yelled and pounded upon the insides of the iron box into which he'd been cast.
A set of thick boards had been propped against the back of the wagon to form a walkway up which Vargas carefully trod. From somewhere a feather mattress had been procured and lay in the middle of the wagon which had been lined with a thick carpet of straw. Blankets and quilts were folded to one side. As he was being lowered to the mattress, Sierran forced himself to look around him.
"W...where is the girl?" he whispered.
Vargas frowned. He had lain his commander down and was hunkered there by the mattress with one knee in the straw. He turned to look over the tall bed of the wagon. "Where's the woman?"
Mac came striding forward, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "She's in the stable. I didn't know what to do with her. She's still out."
"Damned female vapors," Vargas complained then looked down at Sierran. "Where do you want her, Commander?"
"Here," Sierran said, flexing his fingers against the bare mattress, weakly scratching at the material.
Vargas' eyebrows shot up. "On the mattress with you?"
"Aye," Sierran said then closed his eyes. His head was splitting open with the beginnings of a migraine and he was shivering from the cold.
Vargas frowned and took up one of the blankets. Very carefully, he unfolded it and laid it over the lower part of Sierran's body, covering his legs and waist. "Bring her here, Solarian," he ordered Mac.
The Dungeon Master recommenced screeching to the high heavens for no doubt he'd heard the order through the small air holes in the top of the windowless box. "Do not touch her, you fiend!" he bellowed.
"He's calling me a fiend?" Vargas grumbled as Mac came striding up the platform with the unconscious woman draped over his arms. He stared at the girl as she was laid carefully beside Sierran. "Something tells me he don't know what a fiend is yet."
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