Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - Wyndmaster 1 by The Wyndmaster's Lady (Samhain) Read Free Book Online Page A

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