Free Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior by M. S. Toboorg

morning…
    Her warrior. Did it mean anything to her? Or was he just another Knight of Westmoorland, a face among many faces she saw on her monthly visits there? Did she even remember him?
    The door opened behind him and in a dark corner of his mind, the warrior wondered if it was the Queen, coming to check on Marcus’ progress.
    It was Nathan, his arms laden with firewood. He dumped it beside the fireplace and looked at Marcus. “You sure you wanna do this?”
    The table moved again as Marcus stood up. “Why? You gonna chicken out on me, now?”
    Nathan crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed the warrior, his eyes black as night. “Hell, no. Just checking…”
    Marcus barreled past the other man. Going to the fireplace, he stoked the fire.

    The heat from the fire soon drove the two men to the other side of the dungeon. They cracked the door open and stood there, talking and laughing.
    But for the warrior, there was no escape. Less than a yard from the fireplace, the heat was oppressive. His body temperature was rising, driven up by the blazing fire. His eyes burned and his head pounded. The heated air seared his nostrils. The smell of singed hair, from his chest, thighs and groin, filled his nose.
    He heard the sound of shuffling feet and Marcus and Nathan stopped beside him.
    “See what I mean?” Nathan asked the guard. “The hot air will damage his lungs and he’ll die soon. We need to avoid that, if you really want him to suffer.”
    Marcus spat on the floor. “What can we do about it?”
    Nathan frowned thoughtfully. “Hmm. We need…we need a sack.” His eyes searched the room. “Like a gunnysack. A wet one. We’ll put it over his head. It’ll cool the air he breathes, keep him alive longer.”
    The guard nodded. “Okay. I know what we can use. I’ll be right back.” He rushed from the chamber.
    The warrior looked at Nathan. Nathan leaned against the wall, meeting the warrior’s gaze steadily. The man was only slightly inebriated, but his eyes gleamed from an inner fire.
    The warrior licked his lips, tasting blood again from his split bottom lip. “Why are you doing this?” He could grasp the guard’s motivations, but this man had no reason to hate him so.
    Nathan shrugged. “Why not?” He yawned. “Got nothing better to do, tonight.”
    “The Queen—”
    “The Queen doesn’t give a damn. You heard Marcus. We can do what we want, so…why not?” His lips curled up in something that might pass for a smile, in a distorted world.
    Marcus ran back into the chamber, a grungy bag clasped in his fist. “My laundry sack,” he said with a sneer.
    Nathan pushed himself away from the wall. “Let me see it.” He took the bag from Marcus and scowled. “I said wet , you idiot. Wet!”
    The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you said. We’ll get it wet.” He dropped the bag on the floor, undid the front of his pants, and began pissing on it.
    Nathan slapped the guard on the back with a short laugh. “Remind me to stay on your good side.” He joined Marcus in dousing the sack with urine. When they were done, Marcus picked it up and turned around.
    The warrior tensed. “I vow, Marcus, I will stick a dagger in your gut and watch you bleed out like a pig.” His eyes blazed with fury, but his voice was deathly calm.
    Marcus met his gaze and he saw a trace of fear register in the guard’s bloodshot eyes. But he quickly covered it with laughter. “Yeah, I’d like to see you try.” Marcus shoved the sack over the warrior’s head.
    The stench of urine and sweat and soiled clothes surrounded the warrior, taking his breath away. He involuntarily gasped, instantly wishing he hadn’t. The taste of the odors filled his mouth, gagging him. He coughed, which only made matters worse.
    But at least, the air that entered his lungs was now damp and cooler.
    Sweat covered his body. It stung in his wounds: the cuts on his nipples from the metal clamps, the stripes on his thighs, groin and abdomen