The Warlord prowled around us, circling several times.

"So, why don't you tell me who you are?"

My tongue was frozen, and Shane's only reply was another glare. The whip lashed out and struck the carpet, splitting the fabric to reveal the mountain rock beneath.

"I'll get answers one way or another..."

He raised the whip back and turned to me. My muscles tensed as I lowered my head and braced for the strike. It whistled through the air as I closed my eyes.

"An escort," Shane said abruptly. "I worked as an escort over the mountains. Dryden, Hindel, Rivermere, Trendel, among others."

The whistle stopped, and the whip came to rest lightly on my shoulder. "And who are you?"

It took me a second to convince my dry mouth to form words. "A trader. Traveling between Brightport and Cedarpoint. I hired him to escort me over the mountains."

The weight of the whip disappeared, although I didn't dare look up just yet.

"A lone female traversing the mountains on one mule with nearly empty saddlebags, and you expect me to believe you're a trader?"

The air whistled just before pain bit into my shoulder. My cry was drowned out by Shane's shout of fury. I dropped to my knees as he fought against his chains and hurled insults at the Warlord. His voice took on an edge that had me looking over at him.

Shane's muscles shuddered as orange lightning emanated from his necklace, strong enough that each bolt left small scorch marks on his shirt and the chains. Still, he thrashed against his bindings, trying to break free or force a shift. The gems in his necklace practically glowed from within, as if straining to contain his werewolf form.

"Just an escort?" the Warlord muttered, observing Shane's reaction with disdain, unbothered by the lightning.

My shoulder stung, and a damp feeling spread around it as my clothing clung unpleasantly to my skin. As he stepped away, I snuck a peek as hints of red appeared along the cut in my cloak. It was deep enough to bleed readily, but I didn't think it went to the bone.

"Describe his werewolf shape," the Warlord demanded of the watchdogs as he resumed his slow stalk around us.

"It is reminiscent of the paintings in the Great Hall. Halfway between man and wolf, capable of walking on two legs or four. When standing, he's almost three handspans taller than me. Several sentries claim he has a second shape, one of a dire wolf, although I have not seen that one." The primary watchdog didn't look directly at any of us while speaking, and I also noticed his fake country accent had disappeared.

"Both shapes would be larger, which explains why the chains are stopping his shift," The Warlord mused. "I was told the only way they prevented him from escaping was by threatening the woman. Is this correct?"

"The nets and crossbolts slowed him, but it was only when crossbows were leveled at her that he stopped," the watchdog said, no hint of emotion present in his voice.

I sent a glare at him for spilling that information, which he pretended not to see, absently staring at the far tent wall.

"This could be most entertaining once I wear him down enough that some of the chains can be removed..."

He walked in front of Shane, who still fought against his chains, although the lightning had faded.

"Strange that someone working as an escort would have such an elaborate piece of jewelry." He reached out, although Shane didn't pull back like I expected him to. When his fingers touched the pendant, orange lightning lashed out with an audible crack.

The Warlord pulled back his hand and examined the small burn marks on his fingertips as if examining hangnail. His lack of concern made my blood run cold. The two watchdogs exchanged a long look before resuming their vacant watch of the far wall.

The Warlord flexed his fingers, then backhanded Shane across the face. I started to sit up in concern, and the faint clinking and shift of the chains on my back informed me that several of the locks or links had come undone. I froze, not daring to even shift my weight lest any loose ends fall to the floor and attract unwanted attention.

The primary watchdog's eyes focused on me, although he didn't move or say anything. As far as I could tell, the Warlord hadn't noticed it. Yet.

The blow didn't faze Shane, and he glared daggers at the man, daring him to try it again.

"I've been waiting for this day ever since I was told my son was dead," the Warlord said, his voice far too smooth. "So, wolf, why don't you tell me why you killed him."

"You'd be better off asking his horse why it threw him," Shane retorted as his chains rattled.

"Ah, yes, and the horse also tore him to shreds, I presume?"

"No drop of your men's blood has polluted my claws or teeth, as much as I currently wish otherwise. He was a fool who chased a werewolf and was thrown by his horse."

The insult hit home, and the Warlord leaned dangerously close to Shane's face. His voice trembled in rage. "You killed my son, and you dare to look me in the eye? You'll pay for every day he won't be by my side."

Spinning in such a fashion that sent his long cloak flaring out behind him, the Warlord paced over to the table. His hands ran along the objects laying there, caressing them as if they were precious children and not tools for torture.

"Your death will be a very long time in coming," the Warlord said, his eyes still fixed on the dozens of implements.

Some shone like the extremely sharp tools they were, while others looked rusty, as if they were meant to cause pain instead of functioning properly. Many were small, like the thumbscrew and spiked clamps.

None of them were the sort of thing that would kill quickly.

I'd never been someone who liked pain or seeing others suffer, so it was sickening to see all these devices whose only purpose was to inflict it.

As much as I hated to consider it, being shot by a crossbolt was beginning to look like the least painful death. Unfortunately, the soldiers were more likely to tackle me to the ground as opposed to shooting at me, and even if they did shoot, they'd likely target my legs or another non-lethal spot. I still wouldn't be able to get away.

The Warlord continued appraising the possibilities even as I thought over mine.

I didn't like the conclusion I was coming to.