There was no need for guards on the lower levels of Dragonmoor. The cells were well underground and the doors there kept locked night and day, the prisoners never allowed outside unless taken to the dungeon at Lord Charles’ bidding. Those who had reason to venture past the heavy ebony door that led from the bailey down the rough stone steps, made the trip to the cells quickly then left hurriedly for the lightless, dank and stench-filled area was enough to make even the stoutest of heart uneasy. Some even said the cells were haunted by the ghosts of those tortured and slain in the dungeon and that might well be the case for unnatural sounds abounded near the cells, and cold unlike anything known to man permeated the wretched chamber.
Dropping their prisoner into a cell at the far end of the row of small units, the guards made haste to leave, Garton pushing them ahead of him as they came out of the cell. Locking the door behind them, the three practically ran up the stairs for a low moan had started up the moment they’d turned away from the commander’s cell and it had not come from the hapless man’s throat.
* * *
Sierran lay where they had left him. He had awakened as he was pulled over the stones and his shin ached with the abrasions. The heavy shackles on his wrists and ankles were still attached—dragging at his limbs—driving home the point he was no longer his own man but someone else’s. As weak as he was, he could not have moved even had he the heart to do so. Before him was unrelieved darkness and he knew that was what his world was to be from now until he was allowed to die. That Lord Charles would keep him alive for as long as he could was like a sharpened sliver of wood being driven under the fingernail of Sierran’s soul.
“Why?” he whispered but the gods had turned a deaf ear to him.
* * *
Sergeant Vargas DuMond was as angry as a man could get and not suffer a massive stroke. His face was as red as a beet, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had bled of color, and his teeth were gnashing against one another as he tried to keep the howl of fury from erupting over his men.
“I’ll see that bastard roasting o’er a slow spit before this is done!” Vargas’ younger brother, Seth, roared, his sword thrusting into the air along with the shouts of those around him.
“The first course of business is to find Sierran,” MacDougal said in a calm voice.
Vargas swung his shaggy head toward the Solarian and glared at him. No one knew from what part of that small country the man had come nor his first name. He was an enigma to all of them save their commander. What they did know was that he was a brave man, a methodical, steady fighter, and had no compunction about killing their enemies. “You think?” Vargas growled, his emerald eyes flashing.
Mac shrugged. “That we slaughter those who have hurt our leader is a given, DuMond. That we be quick in rescuing him is, as well, but we have to find him before we can do the rest.”
“There is no record of him ever having been arrested,” Seth said. “How can we find him without knowing where the fuck he was taken? As far as the Federation knows, the commander was punished for failure to comply with Thurston’s order and that he was flogged. They might not have agreed with Thurston, but they had to uphold the punishment.”
“Aye and that’s as far as it should have gone,” Vargas snapped. “There is foul play at foot here, men!”
“You think?” Mac drawled, throwing Vargas’ words back at him.
“So what the fuck do you suggest, Solarian?” Vargas bellowed.
MacDougal’s thin lips split into a merciless smile. “We go after Thurston and strip the skin from his fat gut until he tells us what we want to know.”
Vargas blinked. “Aye, and then we’ll hang for…”
“Who says the bastard needs to survive our visiting him?” Mac inquired softly. “All it will take is two of us to go to his tent tomorrow night and we overpower him. As I see it, it’s the only choice we have.”
Seth frowned. “Why tomorrow night? Why not tonight?”
Mac folded his arms over his stocky chest. “Because he’s got company tonight.”
“Two of them pretty-boy hookers from town,” Vargas said, then turned his head and spat on the ground, leaving no doubt how he felt about anything that would lay down for the general.
“Can’t we attack anyway?” Seth asked. “How much resistance will a pair of whores give us?”
“Think, brat,” Vargas said, flashing his brother an annoyed look. “If there are two boys there, that means Thurston will have invited another half-man from amongst the battalion. That would be three we’d have to take out quietly before ever reaching the general. That’s like sending an engraved announcement unless you think it could be done with no notice or noise.”
“I want Thurston’s balls for what he did to the commander,” Seth mumbled.
“Well, come tomorrow night, we will have them,” Mac stated. “And when that madman dies while he’s being questioned—his heart having given out on him due to the stress and all or maybe even from having accidentally suffered a puncture wound of some kind…” His smile was vicious. “Who will care about the loss of that crazed son-of-a-bitch?”
Chapter Four
There were no words Sierran knew that could describe the agony that was being visited upon his body. He lay stretched out, spread-eagle, upon a cold stone slab—waist height on Lord Charles—with his wrists and ankles locked under wide iron bands. Naked as the day he’d come into the world, he was shivering not only from the intense cold of the dungeon but from the all-engulfing pain that was slicing at his flesh inch by bloody inch. A thick gag had been wedged between his teeth and the cloying feel of its wetness from his own saliva made his stomach revolt. Pulled tightly, the gag had split the corners of his mouth and he could taste the saltiness of his blood from time to time.
“Such excellent muscle tone,” the Dungeon Master said, running a hand along Sierran’s quivering abdominals. “You are quite the specimen, Commander. It seems a shame to ruin such perfection but that won’t be for a month or two yet, so not to worry.”
Another slow, shallow slice dragged across Sierran’s stomach to join the dozens of others already there. Some cuts had closed and were healing, but most still oozed. Lying in a pool of his own blood, tensing as each new, methodical, and precise incision opened his flesh, Sierran could feel the Dungeon Master making his way down his belly and dreaded the moment when the razor-thin blade would begin its work on the most sensitive part of his anatomy.
As though he had intercepted that fearful thought, Lord Charles straightened up and tilted his head to one side. “Oh, no, Commander. I always save the best for last. Next, I will begin on your left thigh at the crease. After that, we will turn you over and I will begin at the top of your right arm and work my way down. We’ve many, many wonderful hours to spend together, my boy, and then we have the bottoms of your feet, between your toes, before I ever lay hands to your cock.”
It was all Sierran could do not to whimper. Though relieved to know his manhood would be saved such pain for the time being, he could not keep the muscles of his legs from tensing.
“Feel free to groan, if you like,” the Dungeon Master said. “I shall think no less of you if you do.”
Another slow, agonizing cut slid across Sierran’s flesh, just above his pubic hair and the pain was so intense, he had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut to keep from crying out. He didn’t know how much longer he could remain silent under the systematic incisions.
For the last week, Lord Charles had concentrated his efforts first on his prisoner’s right arm and then his left. From shoulder to wrist on the underside of the arm, small, defined cuts were inflicted with care. Then the torturer had moved on to Sierran’s chest, scoring slice after slice—not too deep, not too wide—but with an expertise that made the prisoner feel as though he were being filleted.
“Your pectorals are so well formed, so hard, Commander,” the Dungeon Master had observed as he ran his palm over Sierran’s cringing muscles, threaded his fingers thr
ough the crisp mat of hair covering his captive’s chest, before beginning to mar that smooth flesh. “You are, no doubt, a much disciplined man, eh?”
It was the unexpected heat and strength of the hand that wrapped around him that made Sierran gasp. His eyes flew wide open and he stared with horror at the Dungeon Master.
“Surprise, Commander,” Lord Charles said with a smirk.
Sick to his very soul, humiliated by the feel of the torturer’s fingers gliding over him—tugging gently upward, rotating softly downward—Sierran hissed behind the gag.
“Do you recall,” the Dungeon Master said as he ran the tip of his finger over Sierran, “how the general offered you the comfort of his embrace, and you spurned him?” He squeezed softly. “That was a mistake, don’t you agree?”
Sierran’s head whipped back and forth and the material of the gag sucked in and out of his mouth as he panted at the foul touch.
“Is it the degradation of this position that causes such fear in your eyes, Commander, or is it the anticipation that I might slice this offending shaft from your well-honed body?” A slow, merciless smile stretched over Lord Charles’ thin lips. “Or is it that you fear I’ll turn you to your belly and introduce you to something you fear more than the removal of your shaft?”
Straining to ignore the pleasure and pain that traveled up and down his shaft, Sierran locked his eyes on the rough stone ceiling overhead.
“Such a manly weapon,” the Dungeon Master observed, increasing the rhythm of his manipulations. “I am sure you’ve pleasured many a whore in your day, haven’t you?”
Despite the enforced restraint binding him to the Slab—as Lord Charles fondly referred to it—the bleakness of his situation, the threat of worse pain yet to come, Sierran could feel his cock hardening beneath the Dungeon Master’s tight grip. Blood was rushing into that treacherous tool and although he tried to will it otherwise, he began to burn for release—a release he knew would shame him and give his tormentor even more control over him.
“Feel the juices wanting to spurt, Commander,” Lord Charles said in a soft, mesmerizing voice. “You want the relief. You know you do.”
It was more than just the humiliation of his position, of a total stranger putting hand to his private parts that sickened Sierran. It was that he could do nothing to stop the outcome that was sure to mortify him. Tears gathered in his eyes and ran down his temples into his hair. His chest was shuddering in his effort to hold the climax at bay and when he realized he could not, that the man stroking him would win, his tears increased, flooding his eyes to make his lips quiver behind the gag.
“That’s it, Commander. Let go,” Lord Charles ordered gently, his hand moving quickly, fingers tightening and letting go, sliding and dragging down. “Release your juices.”
When it came, the climax nearly shattered Sierran’s sanity. He hated it with every ounce of his being and he hated the disloyal shaft that had allowed him to be abused, to be manhandled in such a base way.
“See?” the Dungeon Master said, releasing him. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”
Sobbing like a child, Sierra was so ashamed, he turned his head away.
“There, there,” Lord Charles said, patting his shoulder in a fatherly, consoling way. “I’ll give you a few moments before we begin on your thigh. You rest now.”
His tormentor moved away, the sound of his footsteps climbing the steps the only relief Sierran knew he’d find that night or day—he had no idea which it was and had only a vague sense that a week had passed.
Loathing himself, hating the man who had shamed him, brought him to such utter disgrace, Sierran lay there and cried, hearing nothing but the plop-plop-plop of water dripping in the recesses of the dungeon.
* * *
Celeste looked up from her embroidery as her father entered her room. She smiled, her eyes glowing at the sight of him, and laid the tapestry in her lap.
“Are you ready for supper, Precious?” her father asked, holding out a hand to her.
“Aye, Papa,” she said and secretly rejoiced that she would not have to spend another night alone in her room eating her supper. She got up and took his hand.
Lord Charles brought his beloved daughter’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “You are the very light of my day, Anna Celeste,” he said, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm.
“And you have made mine with your presence,” she said. She laid her head on her father’s shoulder.
Escorting her from the room and down the long, gracious stairs to the dining room where he had ordered the cook to prepare all of his daughter’s favorite foods, Charles Henry Allen was in a very good mood. He had undertaken a very successful day and though he had thought to return to his task after the meal, he decided he would much prefer having Celeste play the pianoforte for him to while away the hours until bed time.
“How was your day, Papa?” Celeste asked as her father held her chair for her.
“Very productive,” her father replied. “I accomplished a great deal today.”
“I am happy to hear it,” she said as he seated himself.
“Yes, I believe I had a major breakthrough with my patient today,” Lord Charles said. He shook out his napkin and laid it gracefully in his lap. “It is so rewarding to make noticeable headway.”
Celeste believed her father worked in a clinic in town, ministering to the ill and was very proud of him. Many were the nights when messengers came to the door to awaken him, to ask his assistance and though she hated that his rest was disturbed, she knew he was thoroughly dedicated to his profession.
“May I ask what ails him?” she asked.
“So many things, my dear,” her father said with a heartfelt sigh. “I really didn’t know where to begin when I started. Sometimes, you just have to let the body tell you.”
The servants came in quietly to place the food upon the elegantly appointed table.
“Is he very ill?” Celeste inquired as her soup was ladled into the bowl before her.
“Not so much ill as stubborn,” her father answered. “He refuses to accept his situation and that always makes my job so much more difficult.” He glanced at her as he sprinkled salt into his own bowl. “Though rewarding when all is said and done, and I’ve sent the patient on his way.”
“What of his family?” she asked, her eyes lighting up as she sipped a spoonful of the rich broccoli and cheese soup, her favorite.
Her father sighed. “He’s an orphan, I was told. No family left to worry over him.” He shook his head. “Such a sad situation. I fear I might well be the last to see him…”
He was interrupted by the sound of many voices raised in anger and then came heavy pounding that shook the rafters overhead, causing the crystal chandelier to vibrate, its dangling prisms clinking together.
“What the…?” the Dungeon Master began but then something heavy hit what might have been one of the gatehouses, and the sound of splintering wood and falling stones made the dining table shudder. The screech of the portcullis being lifted was easily identifiable.
“What’s happening, Papa?” Celeste asked with her eyes wide. “Are we under attack?”
“We’d better not be!” her father snarled. “I pay the military a goodly sum to protect my estates!”
Lord Charles pushed his chair back—the dainty piece of furniture crashing to the floor—and then stood, tossing his napkin to the table as he strode angrily out into the hallway beyond the dining room. “Fredericks!” he bellowed. “What is that racket?”
Celeste got shakily to her feet, her entire body trembling as she heard screams and shouts. A loud thump sounded and then the thunder of horses’ hooves pounding over the drawbridge. She backed away from the table—her hands over her ears—as the shouts intensified and the screaming began.
Her father came running into the room, his eyes wide. “Come, Celeste!” he shouted with a hand outstretched toward her. “We must flee!”
“Papa, what’s going on?�
�� Celeste asked as she took her father’s hand and he drew her toward a tapestry hanging on the south wall.
“Barbarians, thieves!” her father snarled from between clenched teeth. He reached up with his free hand to snatch the tapestry from its hanging rod to reveal a door in the wall Celeste had not known existed. Just as he put his hand on the heavy round iron pull, a crossbow bolt shot past his shoulder to bury itself in the wooden portal.
“Stay where you are!” a booming voice shouted.
Lord Charles fumbled with the door handle, scrambling to open the secret passageway and get his daughter inside. But just as he pulled the massive door toward him, a dagger sang through the air, narrowly missing Celeste.
“The next one goes in her back!”
Spinning around like a cornered animal, the Dungeon Master hissed, jerking his daughter behind him. “Leave her be! She is an innocent child!”
Celeste peered around her father’s shoulder to see the room becoming overrun with warriors, all fully armed with swords and daggers. They were a lethal-looking sight with angry faces that made her heart quiver in her breast.
“Where is he?” one man demanded, stepping forward with his sword held out in front of him.
“I have no idea to whom you are―”
Celeste gasped as the man with the sword lunged forward and the tip of the weapon was pressed to her father’s throat. She felt his hand jerk in hers.
“Thurston is dead,” the leader snapped. “He told us you have our commander here.” He increased the pressure on the sword point until a fine stream of blood oozed down Lord Charles’ neck. “Where is he?”
Trembling violently, Celeste had pushed herself close to her father’s back. Her teeth were chattering and she was terrified. As cosseted as she was, she was not accustomed to such violent behavior. Not once in her life had she ever heard her father raise his voice in anger until this night nor had he ever shown any indication he was capable of the aggression being exhibited by the intruders. Her idyllic world was crashing down around her ears and she was having a hard time coping with the drastic change.
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