Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - Wyndmaster 1 (4 page)

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?”

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 through 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.