Wyndmaster 1 - The Wyndmaster's Lady

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “I don’t know of whom you are speaking,” Lord Charles stated, his chin raised. He swallowed hard—flinching at the stinging pain touching his flesh.

  Vargas DuMond turned flinty eyes to the young woman hiding behind the back of the lord of the manor and he smiled nastily. “What say you we ask your doxie, then?”

  “How dare you?” Lord Charles shrieked, eyes flaring. “This is my young daughter you slander, you animal! Speak with respect of her or I’ll―”

  “You’re no longer in charge here, you bastard,” Vargas snarled. With his free hand, he tapped the pocket of his jerkin. “I have the authority of the Federation backing me up. Hand over the Commander or by the grace of the gods, I’ll snatch up that tasty morsel behind you and throw her shapely ass to my men for their pleasure!”

  Celeste whimpered. She had no idea what that meant but from the stiffening of her father’s body, it was something horrific.

  “My daughter is an innocent girl,” Lord Charles said, his lips quivering. “She has never known―”

  “She’ll learn quickly enough,” Vargas interrupted. “Won’t take much doing on her part to lie on the table with her legs spread.”

  Gasping, Celeste thought she would faint from the vulgarity of the man’s words. She could feel her father’s body trembling with rage and his hand tightened on hers.

  “Leave my girl be and I’ll take you to him,” the Dungeon Master said.

  The leader stepped back, taking the sword point from Lord Charles's throat. “Then do it before I hike her skirts up o’er her head.”

  Releasing his daughter’s hand with some effort―for Celeste did not want to relinquish the only safety she felt―her father took her by the shoulders and looked into her terrified eyes.

  “Be brave, child,” her father said. “I’ll allow no harm to come to you.”

  “Papa, I don’t understand. What’s happening?” she said as tears fell down her pale cheeks. “Who are they looking for?”

  Lord Charles put a hand to his daughter’s cheek. “Stay here. I’ll―”

  “She comes with us,” the leader snapped.

  “No!” the Dungeon Master thundered, spinning around to direct a steely glower at Vargas. “She is too young and innocent to see―”

  “Then it’s time she grew up and took a good look at what her sire is, don’t you think?” MacDougal interrupted.

  “I will not have my child subjected to―”

  “Bring her,” Vargas said, snaking out a hand to grab Lord Charles’ upper arm and jerking him forward.

  “No! I beg you! She should not see―”

  Celeste flinched as the leader backhanded her father into silence, leaning toward him and saying something that bled the color from her parent’s features.

  “Do we understand one another, milord?” the leader sneered.

  Seeing her father lower his head in submission frightened Celeste even more and she could not even begin to imagine what evil thing her father had been threatened with to render him as meek as he turned and led the men out of the dining room.

  The young man who strode up to her had a stern, hard expression on his face but he made no attempt to put hands to Celeste. He simply cocked his head in the direction the others were going and she stumbled away from him, wringing her hands at her waist as she walked, her steps hindered by the tears wavering in her eyes.

  It was out of the main hall, down the steps and across the night-darkened lower bailey her father led them. The air was crisp and she shivered as the cold air wafted over her shoulders. Looking around her she saw armed men on horseback holding her father’s people at bay, a few of those she thought might be Dragonmoor guards lying face down on the ground, their hands behind their heads.

  Other than accompanying her father to certain rooms of the main building such as the dining hall, the chapel, solarium, and library, Celeste had never been inside the outer buildings. She knew the name of each structure on her father’s estate and thought the upper floors of the keep were where most of the castle’s retainers lived thus a place she had no reason to visit. But when her father took a key from his trouser pocket, unlocked the massive door to the keep then took a burning torch from the wall to light their way inside, she realized the place must be off limits to most of the staff for there were cobwebs festooning the inner guardroom and the smell of mold and decay was overpowering.

  “If the Commander has caught lung fever from being in this vile place…” Vargas began but MacDougal put out a hand to restrain him.

  Dank and dismal, malodorous and as cold as an artesian spring, the room through which Lord Charles led them had the feel of death about it. It was an overpowering sensation that had the men shifting their shoulders and Celeste putting a trembling hand to her mouth to hold back the whimper of fear that threatened. When he unlocked a second door and started down a long curving stairway, it was all Celeste could do not to beg her captors to allow her to stay above ground. Although her fright grew in leaps and bounds, she was even more afraid of the burly men who kept sending her hateful glances so she meekly followed the others, keenly aware of the man behind her bringing up the rear.

  For what seemed like half an hour the group descended into the dampness of the keep. The lower they went, the colder it became and the stronger the scent of decay. Absently putting her hand on the stone wall beside her, Celeste jerked it back, grimacing at the slime that came away on her palm. She ran her hand down her skirt, feeling sick as the feel of that unknown substance seemed to cling to her flesh.

  When at last the group reached the bottom of the stairs, her father held his torch to another unlit one flanking the door then unlocked the portal. He paused, turning to look at the man he thought to be the leader of those who had invaded his home.

  “I beseech you do not allow my daughter to see what is beyond this door. She is only a child with a tender heart. She―”

  “Has no idea who and what you are,” Vargas snapped. “It’s high time she learned.”

  “If you have any decency, don’t do this,” Lord Charles pleaded.

  “I’m about as decent as you are compassionate. Move, Dungeon Master!”

  Celeste frowned at the term. She had no idea what it meant though she knew what a dungeon was. There were references to such places in many of the fantasy books she read. But her father was a physician, not a man who ran a jail for miscreants. Surely these men had come to the wrong man, had mistaken her father for someone else.

  Vargas shoved Lord Charles into the pitch-black room beyond, the Dungeon Master’s torch sputtering as he stumbled forward, the light from the flames illuminating the various vile appliances scattered about the room.

  “It’s a bloody torture chamber!” the man behind Celeste hissed.

  “Where the hell else did you think he’d be, Seth?” another man asked.

  “Where is the commander?” Vargas ground out.

  “Through there,” Lord Charles said, arching his chin toward a darkened doorway.

  “He’d best be alive,” Vargas warned and snatched the torch from the Dungeon Master’s hand.

  Barely cognizant of the fingers that had wrapped themselves around her upper arm, Celeste found herself moving toward the doorway through which the tall, burly leader had passed.

  “No!” her father shouted, trying to get between her and the doorway. “She should not see this! Do not let her see! He is unclothed and―”

  Those men who had entered the doorway beyond, and who were now ringed about something in the center lit by the torch in the leader’s hand, were strangely quiet as her father scuffled with two other massive warriors who restrained him. His furious words, his demands that she be spared whatever gruesome sight lay beyond made Celeste cringe as she was pulled steadily forward until she stood behind the backs of the men who formed a barricade in front of her.

  “Bring her here,” she heard the leader say in a husky voice.

  “No!” her father shrieked. “Celeste, no! Do not go i
n there!”

  The men in front of her turned to look back at her with fierce, brooding eyes then—like a silent wave—shuffled aside, fanning back in an arc to each side to allow her a view of what lay beyond.

  “See what your father has done,” Vargas spat.

  Chapter Five

  When he had heard the noise coming down the stairs, Sierran had thought it was his torturer coming back. He had been unable to stop the fear that pushed at his throat. The mere thought of more pain, the prolonged sting of the slow, deliberate slices into his flesh set his insides to shaking. At the moment he heard Vargas’ unmistakable bark of a voice, he thought he was dreaming, but then he’d realized his men had come for him and he closed his eyes in thanksgiving to let fresh tears streak down his temples.

  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 things 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 there was nothing to see 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.

  “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 wrists. “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.”

  “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 badly 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 one i
s yet.”

  Sierran ground his teeth as the wagon started forward with Vargas sitting off to one side of the mattress and Mac and Seth sitting on the tailgate with their legs dangling. Pain constantly shifted through him as the wagon appeared to hit every rut and bump in the road. He managed, through tightly clenched jaws, to ask Vargas where they were headed.

  “We’ve your ship lying at anchor in Bowsted Harbor, Commander. We’re going to take you home to Zykanthos until you’ve healed.”

  “Did the Federation give you permission?” he asked, his eyelids heavy.

  “Didn’t need none,” Vargas said with a sniff. “We told ’em what we was going to do when we found out where you was and they didn’t say nothing. They ain't happy about Thurston's doings.”

  “Stop your posturing, Vargas. We got permission, Commander, and then we took leave,” Mac put in.

  “All of you?”

  “Aye, sir,” Mac agreed. “Every man jack among us.”

  Despite the agony he was experiencing, Sierran smiled. He was tired—his lacerated back paining him even more than the cuts on his chest and arms, and he longed for sleep. It had been days since he’d slept soundly yet he could not seem to drift off as he lay there. Instead, he turned his head and looked at the woman lying beside him.

  Her face was turned toward him and it was perhaps the loveliest he’d ever seen. A complexion that looked as soft and fresh as pale honey made the dark sweep of her long hair—curling gently around her shapely hips—appear to be even darker. Twin crescents of artfully shaped eyebrows and long, thick brown lashes intrigued him and if he had been able, he would have reached out to touch their feathery length with a fingertip. With high cheekbones, a pert little nose, and full lips that beckoned a man to have a taste, the young woman moved something in his heart that he had not felt in many years.

  “Vargas,” he croaked and his man bent over him.

  “Aye, Commander?”

  “Take a blanket and cover her. Her arms have chill bumps on them.”