Shadow of the Mountain (Fantasy, M/M) (COMPLETE)

[privateandrews]

another great chapter, so well written ,and so exciting.

[DeeperThanRed]

Quite an eventful chapter. Multiple POVs make wonders on this story's readability and worldbuilding.

Amadi's story was both touching and hot. I hope we get the stories of other captives, as well. Him joining the main "party" was heartwarming.

Taylor is such a fun character. Ambitious and charming, but you can see how he's a bit naive.

Thomas is getting more and more deranged. It's genuinely disturbing, but also fascinating to watch.

And I'm really curious about Hendrick's storyline.

It's astonishing how fast you can post these long and well-written chapters. Kudos. I'm patiently waiting for the next part. Please take your time meanwhile.

[Volobond]

I'm so glad to see another part of this story! It's so amazing how well-constructed it is, and the bondage just keeps getting better!

I really like the introduction of Taylor and seeing how Thomas captures him. I hope that Garrett is able to rescue Hendrick.

Don't feel like you have to rush! I'm just happy to get more of this story whenever it comes out!

[sharpliketoday]

I had to create an account just to let you know how much I've enjoyed this story! The characters and the world are very interesting, and the way you describe the bondage is just wonderful! Thank you so much for continuing the story

[MaxRoper]

Wow! This definitely qualifies as Literature. Extremely hot literature, but literature nonetheless. I usually have trouble staying interested in anything this long, but not here. You've obviously invested untold hours and the results are fantastic. I will never again complain about how long we have to wait, as I assume you have a life which must somehow be fitted round your writing.

Thank you!

[notreallyme06]

This is the hottest story on here!

I didn't know how much I needed a story featuring a travelling carnival of slavers.

[Charmides]

I had to create an account just to let you know how much I've enjoyed this story! The characters and the world are very interesting, and the way you describe the bondage is just wonderful! Thank you so much for continuing the story

My friend, I couldn't be more flattered! (If I could put you through a friendly rope-centric initiation ritual, I would.) Super glad you decided to drop by; welcome to the funhouse.

And thanks again to everyone for your kind words -- sincerely, I'm always excited to learn that someone's having a good time in this kinky little fantasy world. With any luck, I can get another installment up sometime next week. I'll keep you updated!

[sharpliketoday]

My friend, I couldn't be more flattered! (If I could put you through a friendly rope-centric initiation ritual, I would.) Super glad you decided to drop by; welcome to the funhouse.

Aw, thank you! I certainly wouldn't say no to any friendly rituals involving ropes! Thank you for the warm welcome. And again, for your writings.

[MountainMan_91]

Hey there...

Still my favourite read on this site! Keep the good writing coming.

Thanks

[Charmides]

PART 6

By the time Garret, Elias, and Amadi arrived at the gates of Red Haven, all three of them began to realize their exhaustion. Amadi had trouble keeping his eyes open, even swaying sometimes in his saddle, requiring a steady hand from one of his companions to keep him upright. Garret blinked the sleep furiously from his eyes, as if tiredness was another foe to be met and vanquished. And Elias stared down at the horses, worrying that they might be starting to feel the pressures of the day, too.

Two tall black doors stood open, built into the city's wide white stone wall. Two guards stood at the gate, and just as the three travelers came into sight of the doors, they began to swing them shut.

Garret blanched, tiredness forgotten. “Wait!” he cried, putting on a burst of speed.

“Hold there!” added Elias, galloping just behind. Shaken from a state of half-sleep, Amadi struggled to keep up.

The three of them pulled up hard before the gates, which were only few feet away from being shut.

“Sorry, travelers,” said one of the guards, his braided mustache falling all the way below his jawline. “Gates close at sunset.”

“We’re here on urgent business,” said Garret. “Please, it’ll only take a moment to pass by.”

The second guard scratched at his second chin, chortling. “How urgent, exactly?”

Garret’s eyes narrowed. “Very urgent.”

“I don’t think you heard my friend here,” said the first guard, with an infuriating little smile. “He asked: How urgent?”

Garret just then began to grasp he was being asked some sort of riddle. What did they want, some secret password? A phrase to get them through the gates?

But before he could open his mouth and sputter an answer, he heard something jingling beside him. Elias was rifling through his purse.

“How about,” said Elias, “Five gold each?”

The mustached guard’s smile vanished. “Ten,” he said.

“Five.”

“Very well, nine.”

“Five.”

“I can’t go lower than eight.”

“In good conscience, I can’t give you more than six.”

“Oh, Heaven preserve us,” exclaimed the second guard, “just skip the dicking around and give us seven gold each, it’s late and my feet are positively tenderized from standing here all day.”

That seemed to settle it. The guards got their gold, and Elias led Garret and Amadi through the tall black doors, just as they shut with a resonant metal clang behind them.

“I hope you two don’t think less of me,” said Elias with a grin. “Just think of it as a toll.”

Garret nodded. Elias was the only one of them who had spent any major part of his life in a city. If anyone could be their guide, it would be him.

“Where should we start?” asked Garret. “The first thing is probably to go to the authorities, let them know who we’re looking for, give them descriptions, then maybe start knocking on doors, asking around, seeing if anyone knows where —”

Elias raised a gentle hand. “How about,” he said, “we start by getting a room at an inn. If you could see yourself, Garret, you’d agree with me. It’s been a long day of travel. Hours and hours on horseback are enough to tire anyone out, and we’ll be of no help to Hendrick or Makaio at half-functionality.”

Garret began to protest… then caught a glimpse of Amadi, who could barely stay upright in his saddle.

“Tell you what,” said Elias. “I’ll go alert the guards before we go to bed. About everything — Thomas, the slavers, all of it. Sleep off the day, and pass along the work to the guards of Red Haven. At least until morning. Then, we search. Agreed?”

Garret hesitated — then, sighed. “Okay,” he said. “It’s difficult, though. To feel as if you’re not being of use.”

“Be of use to yourself first. Come on, Garret, Amadi, let’s find a few beds.”

It didn’t take long to find a nearby inn. Just past sunset, the streets were still humming with people, the black lamps lining the streets glowing amber in the thick settling night. The inn was called the Siren’s Nest. Their horses were put in the stable, and they paid for a room on the second floor with three beds.

Amadi sunk to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Garret watched from his bed as Elias left the room.

“Don’t wait for me,” said Elias. “Sleep.” The door closed, and he was gone.

Garret would have stayed up longer, thinking about Elias — how he took so much of the burden of this expedition on himself, without complaint, without discomfort, unshaken from his sunny, winking disposition. He would have stayed up later, thinking of how grateful he was that Elias was with them. But Elias had been right. Garret was very, very tired.

Garret’s fist closed around Inyatala’s yellow stone, as warm as his own skin. His mind faded to white fog, and he disappeared into the chasms of his mind.



***



Elias enjoyed walking the streets after dark. The murmur of the late-night stragglers (some drunker than others), the shoppers, the sight-seers, the people that made up the spectrum of life. Elias had studied leather working here in his youth, and even now, a decade later, the hum of the streets was a familiar comfort.

So he enjoyed the walk as much as he could, as he kept his eyes peeled for a guard. It wasn’t hard to find one, and soon enough Elias found himself tapping a young man’s armored shoulder.

“I’d like to make a report to your superior,” said Elias. “Please, take me to your barracks.”

Elias knew well that if he told just any guard about Thomas, or the Venesthian slavers, it would likely take at least a day for that information to get to anyone who could actually take relevant action. Elias had learned long ago that if you get the chance to skip rungs on the ladder, do.

After some startled stuttering, the guard finally brought Elias to his barracks. It was built into the walls of the city; a door leading underground, a series of long stone rooms filled with bunks, washpans, armories, everything needed to keep a city’s worth of guards supplied, fed, and rested. The guard Elias had found took him to a small room near the entrance, seating Elias on a bench to wait.

“I’ll bring my commanding officer here,” said the guard. “And what should I say this is in regard to?”

“It’s a long story,” said Elias. “But suffice to say, I have good reason to believe that some bad characters, including a band of Venesthian slavers, have infiltrated the city, and I’d like to aid in their apprehension.”

“Thank you, sir.” The guard left.

As a rule, Elias was perfectly at his ease being alone with his thoughts. He considered tactics for the next day of searching; how he should best explain the situation to the next guard; what he can do to keep Garret and Amadi healthy and whole…

And Hendrick.

Elias swallowed. All of the chaos of this search, the long horse rides, the picking up of mysterious strangers along the way, the planning, and waiting, the anxiety… It was all a very good distraction. It kept Elias engaged, it kept him thinking on his feet — you could almost say it kept him in good spirits. But most of all, it kept Elias from thinking about Hendrick, and how deep down, Elias truly was afraid for his apprentice. To think of him, being treated the way he himself had been treated by Thomas; bound up in ropes, tied, gagged, groped, used, abused… And still, Elias felt a hundred miles from being able to do a thing about it.

Elias realized water had started building up in his eyes. He wiped it away, took a breath. He waited.

Not long after, another man stepped into the small room. Instead of the usual guard’s chain mail, this one wore a full set of silver armor, so clear and bright it seemed to waver like liquid in the light of the lone torch lighting the room. On his breastplate, the familiar sigil of Red Haven, the white ship on a red background. A tall, broad man, perhaps as strong as Elias himself (who stood at least at six feet, three inches, and was considerably muscled). Surprisingly young for an officer, late twenties; clean shaven, dark eyes, and brown hair so short that it seemed to be collected on his head like a shadow of moss. His smile was wide and honest as he extended a gauntleted hand towards Elias.

“Evening, stranger,” said the man. “Officer Kent. Pleasure.”

Elias received the handshake. He wasn’t exactly used to Red Haven officers coming across as so… warm. But then, maybe this Kent would be an attentive listener.

“Thank you for seeing me,” said Elias.

“Of course. I apologize for the accommodations. Let’s speak closer to my office. This way, please.”

A more business-like demeanor descended on Officer Kent as he led Elias from the small, bare room. They passed a few straggling guards in the hallways… though to Elias, this underground structure seemed more evocative of a system of tunnels than hallways. The guards they passed quickly grew fewer and fewer, and the stone walls became less refined and polished; more jagged, less well-kept.

Finally, Kent brought them into another room, one surprisingly well furnished, considering the dingy setting; a candlelit desk, a few spare chairs, some shelves of books. Kent gestured to a chair. “Please,” he said. They both sat.

Kent cleared his throat. “Well, sir,” he said, “I don’t want to waste any more time. I’ve been told you know something about some slavers living under the belly of the city. If you’d be so good as to tell me everything you know.”

Elias took a breath, and told him. At least… told him most of it. The people of Red Haven, though occasionally religious, were not regularly superstitious, so Elias found little use in telling Kent about Thorn Mountain, and the sacrifice, and Garret’s story of what happened the night Thomas was meant to be sent to the summit. Suffice to say, Elias told the story of Thomas as a violent harasser, fleeing justice from Thorn Village. As for Amadi and Master Borhim’s Venesthian Circus, Elias saw no reason to leave anything out. The discovery of Amadi on the road; his story; the Venesthian slavers in the city; and so on.

Officer Kent listened with steepled fingers, eyes vague and on the floor, reacting every so often with a nod or a grunt. When it was over, he unsteepled his fingers and looked Elias in the eye.

“I see,” he said. “You’ve made my job very easy for me. You’ve come to me with a description of the slavers, their wagon, the name of their leader — it’s too much for me to usually hope, that someone like you walks in here with such a wealth of information. Please, come with me, and I’ll tell you what happens next.”

As Kent led Elias from the room, Elias said, “I’m very glad to hear that you’re as concerned as I am.”

“As concerned, if not more so,” said Kent, as the hallway took a slight but sudden downward tilt. “You know, I’m sure, that Red Haven is not always a place of honor. Bribery and blackmail too often grease the gears of power. Now, let me tell you what I would usually do in this situation.”

Kent stopped. The floor had leveled off; Kent had led then to a long hall, lined with barred doors. Beyond each, a small cell. Kent had led them to a real dungeon.

“Now,” said Kent. “Take a look around. These cells haven’t been in regular use for many years. But for criminals of a certain magnitude, they can be very useful. Generally, upon hearing about a foreign slaver and his cohorts, the strategy would be this: A city-wide man-hunt. The swift capture of our targets. They would be heavily restrained, muzzled, and brought down to these cells, where they would wait for trial. And should the trial go poorly for them — these cell doors would still be here, yawning open and waiting.”

As Officer Kent spoke, slowly, Elias began to experience a strange cold sensation ripple over his skin. Maybe it was Kent’s use of the word “would.” A bell went off in Elias’s mind, still too distant and muffled to be of any real alarm, but growing steadily closer and louder.

Elias smiled a tight, quizzical smile. “And this, I assume, will be similar to your strategy this time around?”

Kent laughed. The noise echoed violently off the walls. “No, no, of course not,” he said. His eyes, though bright with laughter, never left Elias’s face. Like the eyes of a curled viper. “In this particular case, something else is going to have to happen. Put yourself in Borhim’s shoes for a moment. You’re a slaver. You’re traveling through a densely populated, well-guarded trade city, one of the jewels of Valia. What do you do?”

A pause, and Elias realized he would have to answer.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose I would try to be cautious.”

“Exactly,” said Officer Kent. “You would want to minimize or eliminate the threat posed to you by the authorities. Which, as it happens, is exactly what Borhim has done in Red Haven. He’s not an unreasonable fellow, you know. He passes through every few years. He knows how things work in this city.”

Without his even realizing it, Elias’s hand crept toward his belt and grasped at nothing; any weapons he’d had, he had left at the inn with the Garret and Amadi.

Elias didn’t even bother to pretend a smile anymore. “What was it you said? Bribery and blackmail, greasing the wheels of power?”

Kent nodded. “That’s about right.”

Lightning fast, Kent pulled a whistle from his hip and blew. The warbling shriek made Elias’s skull vibrate as he turned and tried to run — but immediately around the next corner, six other guards appeared, reaching for the daggers, spears pointed in Elias’s direction.

“Apprehend him!” cried Kent, abruptly putting on a guise of righteous fury. “Infiltrator! He forced his way into my office, tried to steal city secrets! Detain him for questioning!”

All Elias had was one bare moment of calculation before he knew he had to make his move. How could he possibly get out of this? The way behind him, blocked by Kent; the way ahead, blocked by guards; and nowhere to turn except into the cells. He could try to plough his way through the guards. But even with Elias’s considerable strength, taking on six men at once, plus Kent, was not a winning proposal.

Maybe Kent himself was the key. This false accusation, his shift in tone — clearly, he needed his subordinates to believe that Elias was a criminal. Meaning, they weren’t in on the bribe. Just Kent, working from the top to make sure Borhim stayed outside the reach of the law. If Elias could only convince these guards, as quickly as he could, that they needed to listen to him, he may have a way out of this.

“Wait,” Elias cried, holding up his empty hands. “Just listen — Kent has been compromised, he’s been accepting brmMMPH!”

While he’d been speaking with the guards; who, for just a fraction of a moment, had been hanging back cautiously; Kent leapt up behind Elias. He wrapped his left arm around Elias’s body, pinning him to his chest, and with the other hand, using the leather palm of his gauntlet, Kent clamped his hand over Elias’s mouth mid-word, compressing his lips and smothering his speech.

“Now!” yelled Kent. “Restrain him, you mongrels, I won’t ask again!”

Before Elias could even consider whether or not he could escape Kent’s grip, the guards swarmed forward, and in a moment, they were all over him, pulling out ropes from their various pockets.

It all happened so fast; rope, coming at him from every angle, so swift and all-encompassing that Elias didn’t even have time to consider how to counter it. His legs were trussed together at the ankles, shins, above and below the knees, and at the upper and lower thighs. Hie upper body was quickly constricted in a harness, formed more from sheer volume of rope than through cunning.

And beneath that, a strange device had been administered to his arms, keeping them pinned together behind his back. It felt something like a long tube of thin, strong leather, shaped to fit around one’s arms from the wrists to the shoulders, and then, laced up, in a sort of arm-binding movement, forcing Elias’s thickly muscled, rope-bound chest forward. The rest of the chest harness was bound over this arm-binder, reducing Elias to a useless bundle.

Elias struggled and writhed through all of it, never yielding, and never stopping his attempts to be heard. He shook his head, he tried to shout something intelligible — “Hmmph! Plmmph! — but Kent’s leather-clad palm was unshakable, slapped tightly across his mouth and turning his cheeks red from the strain.

Finally, the guards stepped back, sweating and panting from the exertion (Elias had given them as good a fight as he was able). Totally bound from head to foot, his muscles restrained and accentuated by the rope, and Kent still behind him, holding him upright and keeping his hand over Elias’s mouth.

“Good work men,” said Kent, ignoring Elias’s squirming and indignant-sounding mufflings. “You’ve been a great help. Leave the rest to me. Now back to your posts, all of you.”

The guards wasted no time in dispersing. As they rounded the corner, Elias tried one more time to scream for their attention, hoping something could get through to them: “HMMPLMPH! GMMPH!” But within moments, they were gone, leaving Elias alone with Kent.

Kent laughed gently in Elias’s ear. “Not a bad struggler, are you?” Kent said, which only served to make Elias struggle even more.

“MMPH!”

“Oh, don’t be a sore loser. Anyway, you'll find Red Haven's methods of restraint very... advanced.” With that, Kent began dragging Elias backward into one of the cells.

Still hand-gagging his new captive, Kent pulled something off the wall that had been hanging there on a hook, something that Elias couldn’t make out in the dark. Then Elias was dumped onto a narrow cot in the corner of the cell, facing up at the dark, mold-stained stone ceiling. He took a breath to scream.

“HELP ME, I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY KMMPH!”

Elias should have figured that Kent would waste no time in shutting him up more permanently, but still, his only chance now was to make the effort to scream, even as Kent stuffed a large, soft foreign object into his mouth. Elias struggled to speak around it, even as Kent finished buckling the contraption in place; it was a black leather panel-gag, with a ball-like protrusion fitted into one side. Kent buckled it tight behind Elias’s head. Elias tried to see if he could loosen it by shaking his head; no such luck. It was stuck there for good.

“You’re definitely a talker,” said Kent, pulling something else off the wall — a small tube, attached to another small ball. “This is how I deal with talkers.”

Kent affixed the end of the tube to the front of Elias’s gag (apparently, there was an opening in the front of the gag that could comfortably receive it). He took the other end, the end attached to the small black ball, in one of his gauntleted hands. And slowly, he began to pump it.

Elias’s eyes went wide as he felt the shape in his mouth begin to expand. Pump after pump, the ball in his mouth continued to swell, forcing his jaw farther and farther apart, filling his trapped cheeks more and more with the inflatable filling.

Eventually, Kent decided that he’d pumped the nefarious device enough, and detached it from the front of Elias’s gag.

“Well,” said Kent, patting Elias’s stuffed-up red cheeks. “Have anything else you wanted tell the guards about me? That I’ve been compromised by bribery?”

“…Mplmmph, gmm-hmph…”

“I’m so glad you got that off your chest. Hold on a moment.”

Kent left the cell, giving Elias a moment to struggle. He did his best to find a weak point in the bindings, writhing so violently that he fell from the cot onto the cold stone floor. The arm-binder, the inflatable gag, the huge amounts of rope encircling all of his body… if only there was some way out…

But all Elias managed to do was work up a sweat before Kent returned, carrying what looked like a long, black piece of cloth over his shoulder. He smiled down at Elias, still mumbling uselessly, his muscular body wiggling on the floor.

“This,” said Kent, “is how I get you out of the way.”

Kent dragged Elias into the middle of the floor, straddled his waist, and began work on his feet. It took Elias a few moments to realize what exactly was going on — but then it clicked. The long black cloth, it was some sort of a sack. And Kent was feeding Elias’s body into it, feet-first.

As hard as he tried to buck Kent off of him, it was no use, and slowly more and more of Elias’s body surrendered to the sack; his feet, his calves, his thighs. Then Kent swiveled where he sat, and continued pulled the bag around Elias’s upper body.

Soon it was nearly over, and Elias knew it. The top of the bag fit neatly over his shoulders, with only a small section left hanging off the back, and Elias had a good feeling what Kent was about to do with it. Kent hauled Elias onto his feet.

“Don’t struggle, unless you want to fall and break your neck,” he said. Then he knelt down behind Elias, and began t tie up the laces built into the back half of the sack. Elias was shocked it could get any tighter than it was, enveloping his body, removing all the autonomy of his limbs, the laces getting tight from the legs to the waist to the arms, finally tied off neatly at the shoulders.

Elias tried to get in a pleading word before the last bit of material was used — but all that earned him was a laugh, a playful smack on his ample ass, and the hood being thrown over his head and laced up with ruthless tightness. The material had some give, and stretched tightly over Elias’s already-gagged mouth. But oddly — miraculously — there wasn’t a total blindfold in this hood. Elias still had a small slit that his eyes could see out of. It was the last part of him exposed to the air.

“Let me show you,” said Kent, “what we do with difficult prisoners.”

Kent picked up Elias and threw him over his shoulder. As much as Elias tried to thrash and curse and struggle, the only thing that earned him were occasional chuckles from his captor, and more than a few playful gropings of his ass, trapped in that tight black sack. Too little too late, Elias realized that a part of Kent must truly be enjoying this, just as they reached the end of the hall.

Kent set Elias upright on his feet again. “I want you to see this,” he whispered in his ear.

The very end of the hallway was a dead-end in the line of cells. There was a single door in this dead-end, much thinner than the others, and not barred; instead, it was made of a tough looking, riveted gray metal. Kent stepped toward it, leaving Elias to balance on his own for a moment. Kent opened the door.

“Welcome to solitary,” said Kent.

Inside was hardly a closet. It couldn’t have been more than three feet by three feet square. And the walls were padded. Not just with cloth to reduce sound, but padded voluminously, with thick, cotton-filled material that made the room seem like the hungry throat of a terrible cloud monster. The same thick, fluffy padding covered the inside of the open door. The implication was clear. Once a prisoner was set inside, and the door closed, the folds of cloth would compress, leaving them trapped upright, unable to do anything, not move their arms or legs, not yell for help… nothing.

Elias thought of Garret and Amadi, sleeping at the inn. Thank the gods, he hadn’t mentioned which inn the three of them were staying at. With any luck, they might escape.

All the same, all Elias wanted was to be there for them. He had a sudden vision of himself making a break for it as he was, hopping down the hallway as a trussed-up black sausage, hoping to alert another guard to his plight and hoping they wouldn’t just encase him in even more ropes and gags.

It was a desperate, pathetic vision, and before Elias could even dismiss it, Kent pulled out a thin strip of black leather and snapped it over his eyes, blindfolding him and completing the hood. Then, with a final squeeze of his ass, he forced Elias to hop forward. Once he was right in front of the door, Kent turned his captive around — then, pushed him inside so that Elias nearly fell backward into the soft prison waiting for him.

“Hmmph! MMP-blmmph!” Elias waited for some parting quip, some last stinging comment that Kent would leave with, something humiliating and sharp as a razor.

But Kent wouldn’t afford Elias even that. A rush of air, and the door slammed shut, compressing the packing all around him and locking him firmly in place. He tried to squirm. He tried to shout. He tried to move an inch in any direction. “Hlmmmph! Pm-hmph! Glrmmph!

But from outside, Kent stared at the riveted metal door, and neither saw nor heard any evidence that Elias had even been there at all.



***



Time is a strange thing in dreams. It was only Garret’s second night studying Sword and Snare with Inyatala, but already the hours of practice that stretched behind him seemed difficult to count. Drills, discussions of theory and form, exploring techniques of exponentially increasing complexity.

Inyatala began to show Garret the techniques of a weighted rope. By tying a stone or something similar to the end of the rope, with some careful maneuvering, you could tie up your enemy with both ends at once, lashing ropes yourself on one end, and allowing the momentum of the rope’s weight to carry itself in wide arcs on the other end. More than once that night (countless times, really), Inyatala and Garret bound each other up in all manner of strange positions; but it seemed that always, Inyatala had some strange new technique to pull of the air, and suddenly Garret would look down and realize that his entire body was inescapably wrapped with rope.

The question of gagging also began to majorly enter the picture. The ideal of Sword and Snare was restraint, not injury; and to gag an opponent mid-fight, there would normally be too great a risk of knocking out someone’s teeth, or choking them. But with real proficiency of form, some possibilities been to reveal themselves. Aside from simple rope cleave-gags, if you found yourself in a fight that required a quickly silenced opponent, carrying a heavily-knotted bandana on you could be a real boon. A number of pressure-points on the body result in an involuntary gasp — with the right timing, a victim could very safely have a wad of cloth lodged into their mouth and tied behind their head.

This was a position that Garret found himself in at the end of his second night of lessons; his ankles and knees had been tied together, his wrists had been tied to his thighs, and Inyatala sat on top of him, straddling his waist and tying a grey knotted cleave gag behind Garret’s head with a practiced, almost inhuman swiftness. Inyatal finished with a flourish.

“You see, my love, how labors bear fruit?”

“Hmpmph.” Garret nodded, surprised that Inyatala could stuff such a large knot of cloth so easily into his mouth, his cheeks red and distended, his lips wrapped helplessly around the thick stuffing.

Inyatala waved, and the bindings dissolved. Garret stood, stretching his jaw and rubbing his wrists.

“This art is old, and largely lost today,” said Inyatala. “But you’ve been making strides, beyond impressive. Some who’ve studied for months have done so without your grasp of technique, which you’ve built in a matter of hours.”

In modesty, Garret tried not to smile. The truth was, he felt it — the ease with which this new skill came to him. The coil of rope was beginning to feel as natural in his hand as a sword or a shield.

The mist of the mountain curled around them. Garret looked up. The grey brightened

Inyatala sighed, arms open in a gesture of loving regret. “Another night, gone,” he said. “Wake up, my love. Three days remain.”

The fog began to light up bright white, crystalline fire, and Inyatala disappeared from sight. Garret reached out toward him, still wanting to learn so much —

— and his fingers stretched toward the ceiling of the inn, dark gray wood, unremarkable. He was back in his bed, dawn glowing in a nearby window. Amadi was just stirring his bed at the other edge of the room.

“Good morning,” said Garret.

Amadi nodded back. “Morning.”

Then both of them saw Elias’s empty bed.

They went down to the innkeeper, asked him if they’d seen anyone of Elias’s description leaving the inn that morning, but no luck; he’d last seen Elias the night before, leaving the inn a little after dark. Garret asked a few patrons in the main room downstairs, where people sat around eating breakfast, sipping coffee and morning mead, but none of them had seen him.

Garret was calm. He swore to himself that he would be calm. Elias was a grown man, a strong man, and he could handle himself. So Garret was calm. His hands hardly shook at all when he and Amadi returned to their room.

Amadi’s eyes were wider than Garret had ever seen on a human being. In an effort to pre-empt panic, Garret put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sure that whatever happened, wherever Elias is… He has a good reason for not being here.”

“But he didn’t tell us,” said Amadi, the words spilling over each other, “he’s just gone, without a trace, and now what are we supposed to do, if this slows us down, then the slavers could leave soon, maybe tonight, and then I’ll never see Makaio again —”

“Amadi.” So, Amadi was a nervous talker. Fair enough. Garret took a steadying breath. “There’s no need to be overly concerned. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to follow the same plan we made yesterday. I’m going to go asking around at the marketplace to begin my search. I want you to go downstairs and eat breakfast. When you’re feeling calm, go find some guards. Tell him about Elias, give them a description of him. I’m sure we’ll find him in no time.”

Garret went over to his bag, sitting at the foot of his bed, and fished out some coins. He extended them to Amadi.

“Have you ever had Valian bacon?” asked Garret, forcing a smile in an effort to maintain levity. “Exceptional stuff.”

Amadi looked at the coins with his owlish eyes, then back up at Garret.

“Are you going to look for Thomas, or Makaio?” asked Amadi.

Garret’s smile slackened. His reason for being there, his reason for this entire misadventure, was to bring Thomas to justice, and to get Hendrick back. And he didn’t have much longer to do it. He had the rest of that day, and then the next day… but after that, Garret would certainly need all of the remaining third day to make the journey back to Thorn Village, and bring Thomas to the summit of the mountain. Time was roaring against them. And sometimes, when Garret let his mind wander, in spite of himself, he remembered being bound up and gagged by webbing at the top of the mountain, set down on that strange altar under the stone dragon… and those noises, the noises of the storm —

“Thomas first,” said Garret. “Then Makaio.”

Amadi hardly even blinked. “I’m here to salvage my honor, Garret. I thought you were going to help me.” It was something between a plea and an accusation, and it sent a needle through Garret’s heart.

“At noon,” said Garret, “we’ll meet here again. We’ll reconvene. Maybe Elias will be back by then. And we’ll share anything we’ve learned so far. Okay?”

All this time, Garret had never let fall his handful of coins. And finally, after another moment of hesitation, Amadi took it. But the way his face fell as he did so was no great consolation to Garret.

Garret scarfed down a piece of jerky and a hunk of stale bread from his pack. He belted on his sword and hung a coil of rope from his waist.

“Be safe,” said Garret. “I’ll be back soon.” And then he left.

Moments later, he emerged from the inn, the sun already climbing into the sky, the people of Red Haven churning out of their houses and into the streets like a rising tide. Garret tapped an elderly woman on the shoulder, asking for directions to the marketplace. He got his directions, and dove into the throng.



***



It wasn’t much comfort, but at least Garret had been right. Valian bacon was very good.

Amadi sat at the bar, the low mumbling of early-risers and leisurely brunch-eaters waning and waxing behind him. He kept his eyes on his food, a plate of fried eggs, boiled potatoes, buttered toast and bacon. This was a strange country, with strange food. Unspiced, unrefined, and saturated with grease and fat. The people were strange too. They kept their promises, but also didn’t.

He felt small, sitting there with the morning business roaring around him. And not only because of his less-than-towering stature. He was a stranger here, and now he was alone.

As guests and customers lumbered past the bar, tall and pale-faced and bristling with strange-colored hair, Amadi stopped eating in the middle of a mouthful of bacon. What if he were to begin his own search? His own quest for Makaio? If Garret could go out looking for someone in this huge city, without a lead or a good clue of where best to start, then why couldn’t Amadi?

He wiped his face with a napkin, trying to forget his discomfort with the city. If Amadi was here to salvage his honor, then he would at least have the strength to start on his own.

The innkeeper moved down to the other end of the bar. “Morning,” he said. “What can I get for you?”

“Blood sausage and eggs for both of us, my friend, your very best blood sausage and eggs,” said a terrifyingly familiar voice.

Amadi’s finger’s locked up around his napkin. He stared down at his half-finished plate on the bar, an icy sweat breaking out over his body, trying to make himself as small as possible. He dared not look up. He dared not steal a glance at Master Borhim and one of his henchmen, sitting a few seats down the bar.

“Everything accounted for?” said Borhim.

“We have sales scheduled for tomorrow afternoon," said Borhim's associate. "Then we leave.”

“New cargo?”

“We have three prospects. No family, no friends. Easy on the eyes; young city bachelors. You know the type.”

“I certainly do,” said Borhim with a belching laugh. The food arrived swiftly. Borhim shoveled a red bite into his mouth. “I trust you and the others can take care of acquisition?”

“As always.”

“Hmm.” A moment of silent eating. Then: “I’m on my way to the warehouse after this, to check on the goods. Perform the morning show without me, will you?”

“Yes, Master Borhim.”

“And do try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” said Borhim, his fork clattering onto an empty plate. “Maybe even smile. It’s good for business.”

“Yes, Master Borhim.”

Two stools scraped across the floor as Borhim and his employee stood up. Some coins clattered onto the bar. Then the two turned and left.

Amadi let out the pent-up breath that he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. They hadn’t seen him. Somehow, miraculously, they hadn’t seen him. The mere sound of Borhim’s voice had cast Amadi’s mind back into his days of captivity, life spent stripped down to nothing but tight briefs, a huge leather ball gag plugging up his lips, his limbs shackled, no use squirming, no use trying to scream —

But now that they were gone, Amadi realized what had just happened. Borhim was going to visit his “cargo.” He was going there now. And he was getting away.

Am I really about to do this? Am I really about to charge after the only man in this city I never want to see again as long as I live?

After a small moment of consideration, Amadi was shocked to realize that the answer was yes. Not because Amadi was brave, or cunning, or powerful. But because it was what Makaio would have done.

Amadi clumsily dropped some coins onto the bar, having no idea what this currency was and blindly hoping this would pay for his meal. That morning, he had borrowed a spare cloak from Garret and Elias’s supplies. He pulled the hood over his head and made his way out the door.

He emerged into the rushing stream of people, casting his eyes around, hoping he wasn’t too late. He wasn’t. There was Borhim, his back to the inn, walking down the street, standing at least a head taller than most of the other city-walkers.

Amadi wasn’t very strong. Amadi wasn’t a very good fighter. Against the likes of Borhim, Amadi could be easily overpowered, bound, gagged, and thrown onto an auction block.

But Amadi was thin, and quiet, and careful. Amadi could sneak. So he pulled his hood closer to his face, and followed.



***



Hendrick woke with a start, the smell of the streets hitting him like the heat from a sudden fire. He rubbed his eyes and examined the angle of the sunlight. He’d slept late. It was well past dawn.

The previous night, after escaping from Thomas, Hendrick had run until the sun was down. He had no money, nowhere to turn, no one to go to, and all parts of the city were equally mysterious to him. So he had run through the labyrinth of wood and stone until he’d arrived in a mostly-empty, desolate-enough looking backstreet. He found a cranny under the awning of an old shop, long left to disrepair, and sank into an instant, thoughtless sleep. No dreams that night. For that, Hendrick was glad.

He got to his feet and began shuffling through the streets. Eventually the city around him began to fill with more and more passers-by, and soon enough Hendrick found himself in a part of Red Haven that was at least partially alive.

Hendrick knew how he must look — dirty and tired and weak, in poor-fitting clothes with a wild, grimy mess of red hair. If he could keep from bothering any of the more wealthy-looking folk, maybe he’d be okay. But right now, his goal was simple. Find the slavers again. Free the prisoners. Return to Thomas’s lair. Free his second “catch.” And then, finally, finally… go home. There wasn't a choice in the matter. To leave any of those other young men to suffer in torment would haunt Hendrick forever. His only choice was to rescue them.

The white city wall loomed high over him as he made his way forward. Surely, there must be a way to find the market. He’d in the captivity of Thomas and the slavers just long enough to have overheard most of their plans. He knew that they would be performing in the market, and that was where he ought to begin. Except that he was weak. His limbs felt strange and brittle after days spent savagely bound. Even his mouth was still getting used to the sensation of being free again, no longer stuffed to the limit with three dirty socks, and tied shut with various clothes and bandanas. He needed food. And he needed help.

He turned a corner, and saw a couple of guards casually talking to each other on the sidewalk. Perfect. Sure the authorities could help him, if only to point him in the direction of some food. And if they believed him about the slavers, or Thomas —

Hendrick stopped. Beyond the guards, he saw something dangling from the city wall. Three somethings. At first, he couldn’t tell what it was… then he took a few more steps, and his breath caught in his chest.

Three young men were suspended by rope from the wall. Each of them was tied up severely. They each seemed well-built, but scantily clad, in nothing but old, poorly-fitting tight clothes filled with holes, garments these boys must have outgrown years ago. Men of the streets, then; pick-pockets, thugs, who knows. But each of them had energy enough to struggle in their bonds, swaying fruitlessly in the air, hanging a good thirty feet above the hard, cold ground.

One of them was hanging from his wrists, which had been bound in rope cuffs over his head. His elbows were similarly bound together, as were his thighs, knees, and ankles. His bare feet writhed uselessly in the open air. He wore a black blindfold, and his mouth was full of an industrial-looking black ball gag, his full lips trapped around it, sputtering in vain attempts to speak, to plead into the darkness, to shout for help.

The next one was tied with much more rope. Unlike the first one, this young man was trapped in a viciously tight suspended hogtie. His ankles, tied together, his knees forced to bend; then, his ankles were roped tightly to the back of his thighs. His wrists, bound in the small of his back, kept there by an elaborate rope harness, constricting his beefy chest and biceps. He was suspended in the air by two ropes, one attached to his ankles, and the other one to the ropes encircling his back, courtesy of his chest harness. His mouth had clearly been stuffed full with some cloths; who knew how many; and kept in place by a huge knotted cleave gag. On top of it all, this one was blindfolded just like the first one.

Then, the third captive. His bindings were at once much more thorough, and much less complex than the bindings of the other two. This one was bound from shoulder to foot, almost completely mummified in rope. Hs hands were pinned tightly to his sides, so that his fingers flailed out from some gaps in the rope like the tiny fins of some absurd fish, flapping desperately to find some traction in the water. He hung from a single strand of rope, attached to his bindings just between his shoulder blades. His head was covered with a tight black hood, and Hendrick had a feeling that underneath it, this final victim hadn’t likely been spared an excruciating, mouth-filling gag. More than the other two, this one looked the most like nothing but a feeble worm, a bound-up sausage writhing around in mid-air. Even at this distance, Hendrick could hear their combined muffled cries, just barely audible over the wind and the murmur of the street.

Underneath the three struggling bodies, a sign was built into the wall: “Vagrants, Thieves, Loiterers, Beware.”

About this time, Hendrick looked back at the two guards again, and was alarmed to see that they were looking right back. They whispered a few words to each other, never taking their eyes off Hendrick. And then, slowly, they started moving toward him.

Hendrick’s knees started to tremble. He would have stayed, tried to explain to them his situation, all the horrors he’d been through, how he had come to be here… But in the eyes of those guards, he saw the truth. They just didn’t care.

He started to back up. The guards increased their pace. And then, like a cork out of a bottle, Hendrick turned heel and ran, keenly aware that behind him the guards themselves had broken out into a run. They blew a whistle behind him. Hendrick urged strength into his legs and kept running.

One block, and the noise of blood pumping in his ears was defeaning. A sharp right turn and a second block, and now Hendrick could better make out the clanking footfalls of the guards behind him. Three blocks, and the footsteps were even closer.

Please, he thought. Not after all this. Please. Please —

He took a sharp right turn, and stopped dead.

A temple surged up from the earth in front of him. It was different than any other building on the street, or any building he'd seen in the city. A different stonework, dark grey, worn away by decades, probably centuries. It stood smaller than many other buildings on the block. Even with its bare, needle-like spire piercing the sky, it couldn’t have been more than two, two-and-a-half stories high. Double doors of such a dark wood they seemed almost black sat in the center of the street-facing wall.

And above those doors, a stain-glass window. Two wings, spanning across the length of the wall. A vibrant, eclectic mix of colors, shimmering in the sunlight. Ruby, blue, amber, grass-green, silver and gold. A giant butterfly.

Hendrick launched himself inside, the dark doors clapping shut behind him.




To be continued.

[privateandrews]

WOW WOW WOW I will post a further comment soon after I get over your latest instalment. WOW

[DeeperThanRed]

Cool foreshadowing about the city guards. Poor Elias can't get a break. It must be hard for such a big guy to be constantly being thrown in tight, closed spaces.

I'm worried about Amadi. Between the corrupt law enforcement, slave takers and Thomas, lad will have a hard time getting to Makaio without getting captured.

And Hendrick's own story line seems to be getting somewhere interesting. Looking back, it's impressive how he and Garret developed since their last meeting.

[sharpliketoday]

Another great installment! As soon as Kent was introduced I hoped for some devious guards, and was definitely not disappointed The descriptions of Elias's capture were just wonderful, arm binder, inflatable gag and all. I also approve of the city guard's way of dealing with their criminals wholeheartedly.

[Straitjacketed]

I *love* that Elias can’t get a break.

Also loving those double-crossing city guards and wondering what other fiendish delights they have down there in those catacombs...

[noescape]

This has been a very well-written series, full of tension and achy twists and turns -- not unlike the many bound and gagged victims depicted. I cannot wait for the next installment!

[privateandrews]

Do hope the Author of this amazing story is ok, so keen to read the next instalment.

[Mummyboi]

Are you going to continue this amazing story.... your a great writer.... I hope you do soon. Miss your writing.

[Camguy2050]

As always fantastic stuff cant wait to read the rest of the story

[Charmides]

My friends! So... I have to apologize that it's been so long since I've updated this story. I'm afraid a few life-things have been getting me sidetracked, but from here on out I think I can start writing more regularly.

Miraculously, I know there are a few folks out there who've been interested in following this adventure, and I want to apologize to you most of all, since I was kinda swallowed up by the earth for a few months without a word. Many thanks and apologies especially to [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention], [mention]sharpliketoday[/mention], [mention]Straitjacketed[/mention], [mention]privateandrews[/mention], and everyone else who's been kind enough to offer me some feedback and encouragement. Ya'll rock, and I'd be honored to go on fantasy-themed bondage adventures with any of you, any day of the week.

I have another update in the oven now, and I should have it posted within a couple hours or so. Thanks again, my esteemed bondage colleagues.

[Charmides]

PART 7

The white noise of the crowd rose around him like a swollen river as Garret stepped into the market. The last few days had been the most dangerous and turbulent of his life, and yet, in this moment of calm (or at least, this moment in which no one was actively trying to tie him up and stuff up his mouth with two or three socks), Garret realized just how different a big city like Red Haven was from anything he’d ever known. Never before had Garret seen so many people in one place as he did in this market. And somewhere in this tall, white-walled labyrinth of a city, this place swarming with tens of thousands of people, was the one person he was looking for. Thomas.

Where could he possibly start?

Garret’s sword was carefully concealed under his cloak, as was the coil of rope hanging from his belt. He passed by stalls of vendors selling baubles and clothes, food and wine. The smells of roasted meat simmered everywhere, and smiling faces clogged up the alleys between tents. At least some people in this city seemed to be happy.

The most obvious option was to begin asking around if anyone had seen a young man of Thomas’s description. It seemed absurd, like spearing a worm on a hook, dangling it into the open ocean, and hoping to catch a whale. But there was nothing else for it.

A particularly hearty laugh (something between a laugh and a belch, truth be told) caught Garret’s ear. A husky city guard with oily black hair had taken off his helmet and was chatting away with a gaggle of merchants and pedestrians.

“… And this lard-for-brains,” the guard wheezed, between chuckles, “this entitled shit-stain of a vagabond, had the gall to ask me what gave me the right to do that to his lover!”

“Well, what did you do?” asked a wine-seller, half-empty bottle in hand.

“Oh, you know, I’m not paid to tolerate rabble in Red Haven. Caught the young man pick-pocketing, so I dangled him from the wall. You know the way.”

“So what did you do? With the second boy, I mean.”

“I figured he could use some fresh air to clear his head, and maybe seeing his lover again would soothe his nerves. So they’re dangling together as we speak!”

A roar of laughter from the little circle of gossip mongers. They passed around the wine bottle. Someone let out a terribly conspicuous fart.

Garret looked around. Were there any other guards nearby? Any at all?

It seemed not. Garret sighed, walked up behind the guard and tapped him on the shoulder.

The guard turned to face him, brushing a greasy lock out of his eyes. His expression darkened at the intrusion.

“And what’s the problem with you, laddie?”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Garret. “I’m looking for an old acquaintance of mine. I lost him in the market the other day. Have you seen him? Tall, blond, about my age, um… Very athletic, and with hair like —”

Garret remembered what Elias had told him; that Thomas’s head looked as if someone had shorn it off with a scythe, leaving it a raw, wild mess, the scalp practically tenderized underneath. It was likely, then, that Thomas wouldn’t be parading his horrible head in public.

“… Well, actually,” Garret continued, “he would be wearing some kind of hat. He responds to Thomas. Have you seen him?”

The guard smelt powerfully of alcohol, smoked meat and sweat. “Thomas, eh?” He scratched his head. “No, no Thomas, not that I know of. But come to think of it, there was a fellow earlier, he had his head covered. Over there,” the guard gestured vaguely northwards. “Near the circus wagon.”

Garret’s stomach turned to ice as the guard decided that this conversation was over, and turned back to his friends. Circus wagon?

Restraining himself from breaking out into a full-on run, Garret quickly and carefully made his way through the crowd, dodging wheelbarrows of vegetables and old ladies laden with shopping bags. He searched with wide eyes, an owl in the night, scanning the world —

Soon Garret reached a small crowd, gathered around a wooden wagon. Hung from the lip of the roof, banner rippled in the wind: Master Borhim’s Venesthian Circus.

The shock of the sudden discovery was almost paralyzing. In his first day of searching — no, his first hour — he had discovered the slavers. There sat their cart, baking in the noon sun. Too easy to find.

Almost as if, Garret thought, they have no real fear of being spotted.

Garret gently nudged through the crowd, and found a space to stand where he could see the front of the wagon unobstructed. Three olive-skinned men in loose clothes of sandy-yellow and black were putting on a show, in an empty circle just in front of the wagon door. It seemed that the three Venesthian performers had invited one of their audience members to participate in some kind of escape challenge. One of the performers was being tied up by his colleague, hands behind his back, ropes wound around his ankles, knees, and chest. The third performer was doing the same to a burly man from the crowd; middle thirties, with thick dirty blond hair, a bit of scruff on his chin and a pair of forest-green eyes. He had the build of a blacksmith, muscled and callused — clearly, he thought that he’d be more than a match for these performers.

“Just you wait!” he called out to a few of his friends in the crowd. “I’ll be out of this in no time.”

“Good,” shouted back one of his friends, “I’ve got five gold riding on you, Cal.”

“Well, I’ve got five riding against,” said another. “Hey, Venesthian. Gotta make sure he can’t use his teeth to undo the knots, right?”

The performer tying up Cal looked over at Cal’s friend, and winked. The friend smiled widely, turning slightly red around the ears.

“Hah!” Cal said. “You call these ropes? You should come over to the stables, take a look at the ropes I work with, at least twice as thick as thmmgmmph?”

With surprising grace, the Venesthian pulled a large black leather ball-gag out of his pocket, swung himself behind Cal, and stuffed the ball into his open, prattling mouth. An appreciative laugh went up from the crowd as Cal’s words were abruptly cut off, and his friends whooped and cheered.

“Gmmph!” Cal scowled in their direction, face turning slightly crimson from embarrassment (or maybe from the wide, tight straps of the gag) as the Venesthian tied his final knot and backed away. The bound Venesthian standing across from Cal had received a similar treatment, a large ball stuffed into his mouth.

One of the unbound Venesthians rushed into the wagon, and emerged with a large, plain-looking hour glass.

“Best of luck, gentlemen,” he said. “Your time begins — now!”

He flipped the glass over onto the cobbled ground, and the crowd applauded and shouted encouragingly as the game began. At first, Cal seemed to be smiling under his gag, if that’s even possible, writhing in his ropes, and trying not to fall over onto the stony street. In short order, his look of good-natured determination had faded into grim concentration, and finally, frustration as a few beads of sweat began to roll down his face.

“Hmpmmph…” He grunted, swiveling his bound chest. “Hm — gmph?!” Then, Cal made the mistake of looking over to see how his competitor was doing. The bound Venesthian had already freed his hands, and was in the process of untying his legs. Then, within moments, the performer’s chest was free, and with a flourish, he removed his gag, wiping a bit of saliva from his chin and bowing to the crowd.

“Nmmmph!” Cal mumbled in defiance as the crowd cheered. “Ymmph-dmm… HMMP!”

The cheers swiftly transformed into full-throated laughter as Cal lost his balance and tumbled to the cobblestones, where he lay, writhing like a worm in his ropes.

“Well done, both!” said the Venesthian that had bound Cal. “Now stranger, there’s no shame in admitting defeat. Would you like to be untied, or do you still think you can escape before the sand runs out?”

“Ymmph!” Cal shouted, still trying to undo his wrists.

“Very well,” said the Venesthian, glancing at the hourglass. “You have a minute left!”

The crowd was a very fair-minded about the whole thing, shouting encouragement to Cal as he squirmed around with determined spirit, the ropes budging not the breadth of a hair. As the sand poured down, Cal’s group of friends started chanting his name, and in no time at all the whole crowd was chanting, “Cal! Cal! Cal!”

One of the Venesthians keeping an eye on the hourglass struggled to make himself heard, shouting out the final seconds: “Five — four — three — two — one —”

The Venesthian blew a whistle, and the crowd let out a collective groan. Cal slumped to the ground in his bindings, breathing heavily against his gag. One of the performers walked over and removed his gag.

“So, Cal,” he said, “do you still have any doubts about our expertise?”

“Okay, okay,” said Cal with a smile, “no need to be a poor sport about it. Now if you could untie — ”

“Just one second!” Cal’s group of friends came rushing over, and one of them knelt down next to their bound friend. “I think you’ve still got something to prove, don’t you, Cal?” And then he looked up at the performers, and said, “We’ll take him from here.”

The three escape experts looked at each other and shrugged. “As you will,” said one of them with a sly smile. Then, he turned dramatically to the crowd and exclaimed, “An enormous hand, for Cal, everyone, the man who almost got away!”

As the crowd cheered, Cal looked up at his friends, beginning to get a little nervous. “Hey, pals, really, I don’t know if you get a kick out of this or what, but maybe — hmmph!”

It was of little surprise to anyone when one of Cal’s friends shoved a hankie in his mouth, and held it inside with a knotted bandanna forced between his lips. This got one final laugh and cheer from the crowd as Cal’s friends hoisted him onto their shoulders, laughing and joking the whole time, and started to carry him away. Cal struggled, grunting in annoyance and rolling his eyes as he was bundled off into the crowd and out of sight.


As the crowd dispersed, Garret considered his position. Yes, he'd decided to pursue Thomas first, but he would have to be an enormous fool to pass up this opportunity to track down Makaio, and the other captured young men. What’s more, none of these Venesthians matched Amadi’s description of Borhim, who would likely be the most dangerous of the slavers. If there was a time to take some action, it might be now.

And yet, Garret couldn’t exactly rush over to the three slavers and demand to know where their merchandise was being stored. Even with his new skills, three-on-one didn’t seem like odds that Garret would bet on. Especially since, as their little performance had just demonstrated, these three men weren’t exactly slouches when it came to bondage.

Garret almost turned around and tried to track down the day-drunk guard, to get the city’s help… but what then? A half-hearted attempt at capture, that would lead to the slavers escaping? No. Garret would have to trust in his own skills, his own discipline of mind and body.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to face three of them on his own. Just one.

By this point, the crowd had mostly dissolved, leaving the three Venesthians to quietly disappear inside their wagon. Garret centered himself, the way he might have if he'd been back home, out in he practice fields on a golden, misty morning, drilling swordplay in the dawn-light… And so, he walked toward the wagon, mounted the few wooden steps, and knocked on the door.

A moment of stillness… and then, the hinges murmured as the door swung open. A pale eye glanced out of the darkness, looking Garret up and down.

“Hello,” said the Venesthian. “Our next show isn’t for another hour, so do come back then. Good day.”

“Just a moment, please,” said Garret, before the door could close. “I’m not here about the show.”

The door opened an inch wider. “No? Then how can I help you?”

Garret lowered his voice, and took a small step forward. “I’ve been looking for a few certain… products for a long time. I was told by a friend of mine that you might be able to help me.”

“Is that so?” The man took a step out into the daylight. His dark head was shaved smooth, and his eyes glittered in the sun. “Who sent you? A mutual friend?”

“… I really shouldn’t say.”

“Come, now, our list of buyers is modest. I’m sure I’ll know your friend, if you just give me a name.”

Garret glanced around, as if making sure they were alone. “Maybe there’s somewhere we could talk?”

“But of course,” said the Venesthian. He took a step back, and pushed open the door to the wagon, which yawned open blackly.

“Actually,” said Garret, “I’m afraid I’m no good in small spaces… I’m afraid it’s a nervous condition, I’ve had it since childhood… Perhaps we could find somewhere quiet nearby?”

The Venesthian gave Garret a long, appraising look.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked.

“I’d prefer to be nameless, at least for the moment.”

“You’re no fool. Come.”

The man stepped out of the wagon, closing the door behind him, and brushed past Garret and into the market. Garret followed.

After a few minutes weaving in and out the crowd, walking in silence a few paces behind the foreign slaver, the crowds started thinning. They travelled down a few dim blocks, and suddenly the roar of the market was just a distant waterfall, many leagues off.

The slaver turned a corner, and led Garret into a dark, barren alley. At the far end, a brick wall. Then he swiveled to face Garret.

“Now,” he said, with a smile very much unlike his toothy grin during the performance. This was a business smile. “Might I ask what you’re looking for in particular?”

“… In what way do you mean?”

“A servant? A lover? Something pretty to look at? Not all our products are the same. You catch us in a moment of limited merchandise, but I will do my best to meet your needs. So, what will it be?”

The rope hanging on Garret’s belt suddenly felt very heavy. “Is there any way,” he asked, “that I could see your selection?.”

The slaver chortled. “A window shopper. Very well. But now I really must insist: What is the name of our mutual friend?”

A momentary pause. Garret cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if it would be in good faith for me to —”

“Tell me the name, or no sale.”

The two stared at each other. Garret tried furiously to think of a way out, a way to make this man lead him to Makaio. He could already see the slaver’s eyes becoming harder, a sort of frost creeping into his smile.

Fine, then. It seemed that the masks were coming off. Garret was never great with honeyed-words, anyway. He stood up a little straighter, and the nervous facade drained out of him.

“I need you to take me to the men you’ve captured,” said Garret, his voice firm and low.

The slaver’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. He clucked his tongue against his teeth. “You know, boy,” he said, slowly stepping closer to Garret, “you’re not half bad looking. I’m not sure if you’re really afraid of cramped spaces, or if that was just another lie. But for your sake, I dearly hope you’re not.”

In a flash, the slaver whipped a short wooden club and pair of manacles out from the folds of his clothes, Garret drew his sword and his coil of rope, and the two launched themselves at each other from across the alley.

The slaver made the first move, swinging his club at Garret’s temple, but Garret saw it coming a mile away and parried with his sword, while spooling out his rope into a loop that could easily catch a stray wrist or ankle.

The manacles glimmered dully in the muted light of the alley. Garret had never practiced Sword and Snare with manacles before. This wouldn’t be like escaping a rope; if his wrists were caught, it was over.

Garret swung the rope toward the slaver’s hand, but he was too quick, and the loop of rope whistled shut over empty air. The slaver lunged again, making another club-strike toward Garret’s head, and Garret moved to parry —

But just before the weapons made contact, the slaver dropped the club, and the sword shrieked harmlessly through the air. Before Garret could tell what was happening, the slaver used a free hand to grab the wrist of Garret’s sword arm, and his thumb pressed down on a pressure point.

“Argh!” Garret shouted; his fingers spasmed painfully, and his sword clattered to the ground.

He’s had training, Garret thought, not in Sword and Snare, but some other martial art.

Garret tried to pull his hand back, but it all happened so fast — the noise of his sword clanging on the cobblestones had barely faded before Garret heard a click and looked up. The slaver had fastened a manacle around the wrist of his empty hand.

“I don’t like to harm the goods,” snarled the slaver. “Give in now, before — ”

The man was cut off as Garret flashed forward again with his rope. The slaver’s upper body rocked backward — which was just what Garret had been hoping for. He feinted, lashed downward, and ensnared the man’s knee in a coil of rope. Garret gave the rope a pull, and the slaver fell flat on his back.

This could be the only moment where Garret would have the upper hand, and he seized on it. The slaver was still reeling from the crack of his head on the stone ground when suddenly Garret was on top of him, flipping him over onto his stomach.

What happened next felt like Garret was back in his dreams with Inyatala. The fear and anxiety of the battle melted away, and the pure, cold craft of a practiced skill took over. Through force of muscle memory, and with only a few deft flashes of rope, Garret bound the man’s knees together, then his ankles, then used the last of the rope to tie his wrists behind his back, and finally yank the limbs together into a tight hogtie. The slaver continued to struggle beneath him. But Garret knew he had won.

“You fucking brat,” he growled. “I’ll ask you once. Untie me. Now.”

Garret gave the slaver a quick pat-down, and quickly found the key to his manacles.

“I take no joy in this,” said Garret, as he fiddled with the lock around his wrist. “But I have a few questions for you. To begin, I need to know where you keep the —”

Garret looked up from the key just in time to see that the slaver had nearly freed his wrists from the ropes; the knots had loosened, and he was only half an inch away from pulling his hands free. In a moment of panic, Garret unlocked his manacles and slammed them down on the Venesthian’s nearly freed wrists, chaining them together permanently.

It had been foolish to forget, that this man was an accomplished escape artist. That would have to be taken into account.

Luckily enough, the slaver, who had sunken into a sullen silence, carried another coil of rope on him. Garret used it to reinforce the bonds, tying a harness around the man’s lithely muscled chest, as well as binding his elbows together and adding some new tight coils around his legs. He even used some discarded twine he found lying in the alley to bind his captive’s fingers together, so that even if he could reach the knots, he wouldn’t be able to do much with them. Between that, the extra feet of rope, and the addition of the manacles, Garret felt much better about the slaver’s long-term security.

“As I was saying,” said Garret, sitting on the ground in front of the slaver. “Where are you keeping your captives?”

The slaver grunted something that might have been a bitter laugh, staring down at the ground. “And once I tell you, what will you do? Let me go? Kill me? I doubt you have the courage to do either.”

“One thing at a time. Where do you keep your captives?”

Finally, the slaver looked up, and met Garret’s eyes. A moment of probing, of consideration.

Garret made one last push. “I know all about Borhim,” he said. “I know about your captives, about your business. It’s all about to be revealed to the city, and you don’t have time to run. Your slaving days are over. But if you help me, I’ll be sure that your good deeds aren’t forgotten. Not be me, or the city officials… or anyone who ends up deciding your fate.”

A long pause. The slaver’s lip curled with contempt.

“On the far edge of the city,” said the slaver, “where the river runs under the city walls, there’s an old abandoned fishery warehouse. Underneath. The basement.”

That was good enough for Garret.

Knowing that he couldn’t very well take the tied-up man with him, Garret had to improvise. He looked around, and found a few discarded wooden boxes and pallets in another nearby alley. It wasn’t long before Garret had erected something of a makeshift shelter at the dark, far end of the alley, in a dusty corner that no one had likely set foot near in a long time. He began dragging his adversary towards it.

“Do you really think,” said the slaver, wincing as his body scrapped over the cobblestones, “that I won’t still be able to find some way to escape?”

Hmm, thought Garret. That’s a good point.

The slave’s mouth was bigger than Garret anticipated, so he used both of his captive’s balled-up socks to stuff it fully, his cheeks bulging from the two wads of cloth. Garret took the liberty of ripping off the slaver’s sleeves, exposing his toned, muscular arms; one sleeve, he use to cleave-gag the stuffing in place, and the other, he used as blindfold.

“Your cooperation is appreciated,” said Garret, as he heaved the writhing mass into his makeshift box, covered up the exposed side of it with a pallet, and tied it in place with the last of his string.

Garret left the alley lightheaded, the increasingly panicked mewling of the slaver hardly audible after ten feet or so (“Hmmphlmm! Brmmph!”). It had all happened so fast. Suddenly, he knew that his nights of training with Inyatala were working. Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite helpless. And suddenly, he knew where to go next.

But first, a quick stop by the marketplace was in order. Garret found himself lacking for a coil of rope.



***



If anyone had been around to hear it, passers-by would have surely believed that there was a monster living underneath the old abandoned inn, rotting at the edge of the city. What else could have made a noise like that? What else could let loose a scream, like something out of the jaws of hell?

Thomas looked down at his fingers. Bloody and shivering. He looked down at the ground. He’d reduced Hendrick’s empty box to splinters, pounding it with his fists, again, and again, and again.

Baggage was gone. His first Baggage was gone.

Thomas realized that he was still screaming, and stopped. His throat felt as tenderized as his hands. The world was red.

Thomas rushed over to the coffin-shaped box housing Baggage Two. He slammed his fists down on the wood. The bound body inside squeaked in terror.

“If you struggle any more,” said Thomas, “if you even think about leaving this box, I’ll fucking nail you to the wall. To the wall.”

He pounded on the lid again. Baggage Two’s desperate mumblings gave way to a wretched gagged sobbing. The box stopped twitching with the captive’s struggles, as he made every effort to stay still.

Then Thomas roared up the basement steps and tore out the front door, like a dragon exploding out of its mountain lair, full of fear and fire and fury.

He raced down the streets, looking around, as if Baggage might be nearby, out in the open. But of course not. Thomas wasn’t even sure when he escaped. Thomas hadn’t looked in on that box since he first stuffed Baggage in there. He could be gone. Gone for good.

Thomas let out a long, high, keening noise of anger through gritted teeth and stopped in his tracks.

He needed more time. More time.

The sun crawled overhead. It was past noon now. Thomas ran toward the river.

Thomas’s inn-hideout wasn’t far from the abandoned fishery where Borhim kept his merchandise; both buildings were situated in the same unused part of the city, fallen into disrepair, and ghostly silent. Most folks knew to stay away, or hardly knew that it was there. So Thomas hardly saw a single soul as he plodded toward the tall building by the river.

He burst through the huge front doors. The warehouse amounted to a single, huge empty room, the sunlight buzzing in the huge windows near the roof. Devoid of all signs of life. Thomas walked over the corner, dropped to his knees, and felt around with his blood-sticky fingers in the dirt of the floor. He found the trapdoor, pulled it up, and leapt inside, the earth swallowing him.

As he shot through a few maze-like hallways, he heard the far-off echoes of voices. He turned a corner and arrived at his destination — the sale room.

It was long, low-ceiling space, with heavy wooden beams sporadically sticking up from the floor, supporting the weight of the warehouse above. To two of these beams were tied two of Borhim’s captives, the ones who hadn’t been sold yet; there was the first one Thomas had ever set eyes on, the young, muscled, heavyset one, and then the one that Borhim kept in tighter bondage than the rest, the one with the darker brown skin. Both wore only their tight white briefs, and were roped to the beams with clinical precision, at the ankles, knees, waist, and chest, with their wrists tied high over their heads. The shorter boy wore only a ball gag, but the other one, like last time, was more heavily restrained, with a wide leather strip forming a skintight seal over his mouth, and the ball gag inside it. Further, he was blindfolded, and the ropes around his wrists had been reinforced with manacles.

Between them stood Borhim, and another man, a tall, refined-looking type. He wore a long silky blue robe, his shoulder-length dark hair carefully and expensively styled. Not too old; likely a rich-kid type, maybe nobility, or even an aspiring mage. He steepled his pale fingers and cast his eyes over the two bound subjects.

“Beautiful,” he said, with a dark velvet voice. “You’ve outdone yourself, Master Borhim.”

“How kind you are!” Borhim gestured grandly toward the two captives. “Your happiness is mine. Now, shall we shake on it?”

The man in the blue robe took a few steps closer to the unblindfolded captive, giving him one last long long. He lifted one slender finger, and without breaking eye contact, began to slowly trace the outline of the boy’s cock through the tight white fabric.

The boy’s uncertain, watery eyes widened. After a moment of gentle fondling, and seemingly against his own will, the young man’s package started to engorge. He let out a muffled little whimper behind his gag, and the tall man in the robe licked his lips.

“Just this one,” he said, gently withdrawing his finger from the bound boy’s quivering manhood.

Borhim cleared his throat. “Of course, Lord Castero. Might I ask why you’ve decided not to buy both?”

“Come, Borhim. We know this game well. The extra restraints on the other one? I’m afraid I can’t afford a flight risk, not now.”

Borhim nodded. “Shall I assist with transport?”

“Yes, thank you, I have a carriage waiting a block away.”

“I’ll have it done. Thomas, would you please assist us?”

They both turned to Thomas, standing in the doorway, breathing heavily. Castero looked surprised by the intrusion. Borhim adopted an expression of almost parodic patience.

“We need to talk,” said Thomas.

Castero’s eyebrows went up. He turned back to Borhim. Borhim smiled.

“Re-bind this young man for transport first, my lad. There are some sacks in the corner there.” Borhim turned back to Castero, and said, “A new apprentice of mine. A fiery heart, this one.”

“Borhim,” said Thomas. “This can’t wait.”

The patient, placating smile never left Borhim’s face, but in his eyes, something small and sharp glittered dangerously.

“My Lord Castero,” he said, “if you’d be so good as to excuse me and my apprentice for a moment. Please, feel free to introduce yourself to your new boy. I’m sure that you’ll enjoy… familiarizing yourself with him.”

Castero’s grin was the grin of a fox. “If you insist,” he said, and slowly stepped toward the bound boy, whose erection had, if anything, only gotten worse. His expression was one of innocent bewilderment as the tall man closed in, while at the other end of the room, without a word or glance in Thomas’s direction, Borhim swept out of the room. Thomas followed.

They climbed up out of the basement, into the warehouse, and stood there in the gaping emptiness. Even after mere hours of absence, Thomas had forgotten that in person, there was something ineffable about Borhim that would brook no dissent. But the urgency of the moment overpowered his unease, and Thomas plowed forward.

“I need you help,” he said. “One of my captures is gone. Alert your men. We need to find him before we leave.”

Borhim stared with reptilian implacability. “You lost one of your boys.”

“I didn’t lose anything,” said Thomas, fighting back a snarl. “He just… I just need to get him back.”

“Lord Castero is one of my best clients. You made him uncomfortable.”

“Did I?” Thomas ground his teeth. “That’s a shame, but right now, my problem is a little more urgent, don’t you think?”

“Urgent.”

“The one that escaped… He knows about us. He’ll bring the city watch down on us. We both know you haven’t bribed all of them. We have to find him, fast.”

“That’s more than enough of this ‘we’ business.” Borhim took a few long, fast strides, and suddenly stood towering a full head above Thomas. Thomas shrunk back by instinct, and hated himself for it.

“I allow you to carry on a personal collection,” Borhim continued. “The maintenance of that collection is your responsibility. As for the ‘urgency’ of the moment — we leave the city tonight. That much hasn’t changed. Perhaps we’ll advance our timeline by an hour or two, because of your incompetence. But, I have no fear of Red Haven. I am a businessman, Thomas. A vastly accomplished businessman. I have seen the world. I have seen cities that dwarf this one, I have sold and bartered flesh in the shadows of palaces so grand that their turrets pierce the clouds. And you think I should fear the city guards of Red Haven. Are you afraid of them, Thomas?”

“Of course not.” In anger, Thomas’s voice wavered, but from the outside, it sounded alarmingly like fear, and Thomas went red with embarrassment.

Borhim nodded sagely. “Of course,” he said. “If you wish to continue our little arrangement, take my advice. Control yourself. You let your captive escape. You walked here with your head uncovered, advertising your horrific, easily identifiable scalp. And on top of it all, you think you know what is best for my business. You do not. As for your escaped boy… consider it a hard life lesson in the virtues of caution, and move on.”

Borhim walked over to the trap door and flung it open.

“Really, Thomas,” he said with a chuckle as he started descending the ladder. “I thought at the very least you could tie a proper knot.”

Before Borhim could disappear entirely below the ground, Thomas shouted, in a steely voice he hardly knew as his own, “Lord Castero, was it?”

Borhim paused. “Yes. His name is Lord Ca— ”

“I like the look of him. And I have an opening in my collection. Food for thought.”

Borhim’s eyes widened. For the first time, he looked genuinely shocked. As if Thomas had suddenly pissed on his face. And Thomas couldn’t help but smile in response.

Borhim climbed out of the trapdoor. He lumbered over to Thomas. Thomas was more than willing to engage in another staring contest, as long as his point was made, and this pompous Borhim would think twice next time about —

CRACK. Borhim slapped Thomas across the face. Even open-handed, the strike was so heavy and sharp that it sent Thomas sprawling to the ground.

Thomas choked on a mouthful of dust, trying to find his voice again, when THUNK — Borhim kicked him in the stomach. Thomas doubled over, incapable of breath for a full second, then ravenously gasped for air, his guts liquified, his head light and spinning.

Borhim bent down, lifted Thomas by the collar, and turned Thomas’s face toward his. Borhim was a mask of icy, pale anger.

“You will receive no more warnings,” he said, then thrust Thomas back to the ground, and vanished into the trapdoor.

A wounded beast may wail, or cry, or decimate the world with its claws. But for a few minutes, all Thomas could do was lie there, trying not to throw up.

Once the nausea had passed — whether it was brought on by the blows or the humiliation, who could say — he stood up again. He brushed the dust from his clothes.

It had seemed like such an excellent idea. A noble idea. To take up with the slavers. Learn the craft of subjugation. Travel the world, taste its pleasures, conquer its beauties. Borhim had called him an “apprentice.” But what was Thomas, really? Just a mule. Just another body, to pull the wagon, to collect coins in a hat after the circus performances, to take orders and keep his head down. It was hardly better than being one of those trussed up young men, used and abused for profit.

No. Whatever the dream had been, reality; the reality of Borhim; wasn’t quite measuring up. Action would have to be taken. And Thomas knew what to do.

He started walking toward the warehouse doors. He meant to make his way to the market. There was something he had to buy.

And he would have made it all the way there, too, if he hadn’t been diverted by the noise of a sudden crash, just outside.



***



Amadi could hardly believe it worked.

He spent half an hour trailing Borhim from a safe distance. The tall, broad slaver moved through the crowds the way you might expect an elephant to wade through a river. He was hard to miss. Amadi keep his hood up and followed.

Eventually the crowds became less dense, making it more difficult to hide; and so Amadi held further back, two, three blocks away from Borhim, nervously ducking into alleys and behind corners whenever he had the chance. Soon the roads became deserted. Borhim and his subordinate slaver stopped just outside of a tall, rickety-looking warehouse near the river. They turned to each other, spoke for a moment, and then Borhim walked inside. The other slaver, however, started walking back the way he came.

Amadi gave the slaver a wide berth, taking a loop around the block, hardly daring to let the man out of his sight. Soon he was gone, walking toward the market. There was nothing between Amadi and the warehouse.

Makaio. Are you in there? I’m here. You don’t know me well, and if you did, you wouldn’t think much of me… But I’m coming to free you.

Amadi made a loop around the warehouse, searching for other entrances, perhaps a back door — but there was nothing. One way in, one way out. But — there were windows. Maybe ten, fifteen feet off the ground, large windows extended up toward the roof. If Amadi could only see inside…

He went around to the back of the building, and for the first time in a while, felt like luck was with him. A few dozen wooden crates littered the street by the docks, and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

After a few minutes of grunting, and a few sizable splinters in his thumbs, he was able to stack three of the crates on top of one another. He pounced, clambered up the boxes like a cate, and peered through the dust-caked glass, his nose just barely poking over the windowsill.

Empty. Completely empty.

Amadi wiped away some the dirt, trying to get a better view… but there was nothing. Not even Borhim.

Panic began to murmur in Amadi’s stomach. Had Borhim left while he wasn’t looking? Had he somehow realized that he’d been followed?

Amadi thought he heard a footstep, and swiveled his head around. But there was nothing.

I’m not afraid, thought Amadi. I’m here to save Makaio. Forget everything, but never forget that; for my honor. For Makaio.

Amadi knew he could be patient. So, he lay in wait. Someone would come back. Borhim, or one of his men. Something would happen.

How long Amadi waited, it was tough to say. But soon the sun was just passing the summit of its arc, and Amadi was beginning to doze, due to the formidable power of boredom. It took the sound of two hearty voices laughing together to snap Amadi back to attention.

Standing in the middle of the warehouse was Master Borhim, stroking his beard, his stomach bouncing with laughter. Standing next to him was a ghost of a man, tall and pale, in a long blue robe. He made Amadi’s skin crawl. Back in the Mirror Islands, the islanders told stories of terrible sea spirits, the belatask — blue phantoms that rose from the depths once a year, to steal away young men from their beds, binding them with seaweed and thick ropes stolen from shipwrecks, and stuffing their mouths with sea sponges. Amadi shuddered.

Borhim opened up a trapdoor, and led the blue man below. Amadi’s heart fluttered.

If Makaio is here, he’s in the basement.

Should he wait, or go in after them?

Cowardice or bravery? Intelligence or recklessness?

As Amadi stood there, paralyzed by his choices, another figure abruptly entered into the warehouse. Amadi blinked at the sight of him, unsure of what he was seeing. Maybe it was just the grime of the window, but there was something strange and misshapen about his head. And he didn’t move like any living man Amadi had ever seen. His run was a chaotic thing, between a shamble and a sprint. He was swallowed by the trapdoor as quickly as he’d appeared.

Whether it was cowardice or intelligence that won him over, Amadi couldn’t say… but in any case, he decided to wait and watch.

He didn’t have long to wait. A few minutes later, Borhim and the man with the strange head emerged. They exchanged words… tense words, if Amadi could read a situation correctly. And these suspicions were confirmed when Borhim slapped the younger man to the ground, kicked him in the stomach, then stormed back into the trapdoor.

It began to cross Amadi’s mind that he might be a bit too exposed, staring in the window. Whatever was happening down in that basement, there was an alarming amount of coming and going. Maybe Amadi could find a better place to watch. He gripped the windowledge, readying himself to climb down — and saw a large black Valian cellar-spider sitting on the back of his right hand.

As it so happened, by some quirk of nature, the Mirror Islands had no spiders. This was Amadi’s first time ever setting eyes on one. And this particular Valian cellar-spider; a nasty, dark-furred creature that usually made its home in lightless, musty places; had a body the size of a small mouse, with a leg-span that stretched all the way across the back of Amadi’s hand, like a second set of fingers draped over his. Its fangs twitched.

Amadi didn’t even have time to scream. He instinctually flapped his hand wildly, trying to dislodge the nightmare from his body — he could feel the pinprick of its tiny legs digging into his hands —

Finally, with one last huge shake, the spider lost its grip, and sailed past Amadi’s face and landed somewhere behind him. The wooden boxes under Amadi groaned dangerously under his shifting weight, and he spun his arms like windmills, trying to regain his balance —

CRASH. The boxes imploded. Amadi went sprawling backward. Midair, he had just enough time to turn around and face the incoming dirt before he met it, face-first.

He didn’t pass out. But the world became underwater, slow and muffled. He tasted blood. After a moment, lying in the dust and desperately hoping none of his bones were broken, Amadi pushed himself onto his back.

The man from the warehouse stood over him. He blocked out the sun. His otherwise handsome face was twisted into a look of animal menace. His hair, hardly human; the fur of an animal after wild combat.

The face mutated into a smile.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” rasped the beast.

Eyes wide, breath labored, Amadi couldn’t even suck in enough breath for a scream before the creature descended on him. The man yanked him from the ground. He wrapped his left arm around Amadi’s lithe frame, pinning him completely to his chest. Then he took his right hand and slapped it over Amadi’s full, quivering lips, creating an airtight seal over his mouth. Amadi blinked in thunderstruck surprise at how quickly he’d been rendered completely helpless. He tried to kick his captor, only to realize his feet were dangling an inch or two off the ground. He tried to scream.

His muffled mewling was barely audible to himself. He shook his head, but the hand was going nowhere.

“Hmmpllph! Phlmmm! Plmm!”

The man bent his face toward the crook of Amadi’s neck and inhaled deeply. Amadi froze in fear.

“It was meant to be,” murmured the man. “Everything. Me finding you. Someone is trying to tell me something…”

“Plmm!”

“Oh, you’re still trying to speak! Remember this. Your voice is mine now. So is your mouth. So is your body. Understand?”

Amadi squirmed, heart racing, still unable to process what was happening. Makaio. No, Makaio —

“Now,” said the man, “my pretty, full-mouthed little Baggage. It’s time to make you more comfortable.”

Like a rabbit in a trap, all Amadi knew how to do was wriggle uselessly and plead into the iron palm stopping up his mouth, as his captor bundled him away from the warehouse, into the unknown.



***



As the dark doors shut behind him, the first thing Hendrick saw was color.

Most of the room was dark, yes — but the sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass butterfly above the door, flooding the front of the temple with a spray of vibrant colored light. The temple itself was just a single stone room. A few empty wooden pews sat facing the front of the room, where, breaking through the stone floor, was a tree. It reached up into the darkness of the room (Hendrick realized he couldn’t make out where the ceiling was), and was impossibly green and lively. No tree should be able to live in such a dim place.

In front of the tree, a stone basin of water rose from the floor, like a birdbath. And sitting in the front pew was the only other person in the temple; an older man, with thin white hair and a long, wispy mustache. He turned as Hendrick entered. He smiled.

“Welcome,” he said. “Are you here to worship?”

Hendrick took a moment to catch his breath, then said, “Where am I?”

The old man sighed, which seemed to vaguely deflate him. “I thought as much,” he said. “No one worships here anymore. The glory days of the Worldly Temple are over. There are no more druids, after all.”

The old man stood. He wore a plain brown robe. He walked toward Hendrick, hand outstretched. “How rude of me! I am Brother Cecil.”

Hendrick shook the hand, in a daze. His eyes flitted about the room, questions flaring up inside him. His eyes settled on the tree.

“That tree,” said Hendrick. “How is it still alive?”

Brother Cecil shrugged. “I have no idea. Won’t you sit down, my child?”

Hendrick let the old man lead him to a pew, and they sat. Now that they were closer to the front of the room, and the light of the window, Brother Cecil seemed to take a good hard look at Hendrick for the first time. Hendrick fidgeted, suddenly realizing that he must look as if he’d been chased out of hell. (And I guess I was, in a kind of perverse way, thought Hendrick, daggers of memory ripping through his mind.)

“Are you ill, my child?” asked Brother Cecil. “Do you require food? Rest?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to trouble you… I…” Hendrick stopped, and realized he was hungry. Ravenous. Fleeing for his life had made him forget the habits of his own body.

For some reason, this was the thing that made Hendrick start to cry. He’d never gone hungry before, not really. He’d never had to ask for the charity of strangers. And judging from the look in this man’s kindly blue eyes, Hendrick would only have to ask, and Brother Cecil would give him food and lodging. How long had it been, since Hendrick had seen a kind face? Surely, it couldn’t have been too long ago. Days. Only days.

Only days since he’d seen Elias. Or Garret.

It felt like weeks. Months. Kindness seemed worlds away.

As Hendrick broke down crying, Brother Cecil planned an arm gently around his shoulder. “Shh, shh,” he said. “You’re safe. You’re safe…”



***



Brother Cecil took Hendrick to a small hut that had been built into the back of the temple, where he fed Hendrick hot porridge and eggs, and gave him cool water, and even some pieces of toffee that the old man had been saving for a rainy day. Hendrick nearly choked at first from shoveling it into his mouth, but eventually found a safe pace of eating, and savored every speck of every morsel.

The two of them sat around the hut’s small table as Hendrick ate. When he was finished, Brother Cecil asked, “And now, you must sleep. Take the bed. Please, I see that you’re weary…”

Hendrick shook his head, drinking the last of his water. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s no time. I have to…”

Hendrick paused. What if he told Brother Cecil everything? About Thomas, about the traveling slavers, about the poor young man that Hendrick had left to his fate, bound, gagged, rolled up in a carpet and stuffed in a box? What would happen?

Then, Brother Cecil would become involved. Hendrick couldn’t let that happen. Too many people were suffering already.

“You have to what, my child?”

Brother Cecil’s look of grave concern was so sincere, Hendrick could hardly bear it.

“It’s… the temple,” said Hendrick. “Please. Tell me more about… what did you call it?”

“The Worldly Temple.” A huge smile broke out on the old man’s face. It had probably been a while since he’d truly been able to discuss his faith. “In ancient days, we were better in tune with the energies of the world. Not like wizards or magicians you see today, tinkering with the frayed edges of reality. The earth, the water, the sky, the very plants that grow around us… Worldly energies move through everything. A river, always passing, always rushing.

“But no one was better in tune with the worldly energies than the druids. They were born into ancient and noble bloodlines. They could do things that would make today’s mages weep.”

Hendrick willed his heart beat slower. “Do you mean,” he asked slowly, “that these druids… they could do things? Control things?”

“Control? No. No druid ever controlled anything. Remember this, my child. Every human being alive has been born blessed with the ability to listen to nature. We can feel its ebbs and flows, we can tell where the wind is blowing. But the druids… for some reason, they were people that nature herself respected enough to listen to. Druids never controlled nature. They conversed with her. I think I have some more toffee left, if you’d like some?”

“No, please, I’ve taken too much of your food already —”

“Not at all.” Brother Cecil took a box down from a nearby shelf and put it in front of Hendrick, who tentatively helped himself to the last of the candy inside. “Nowadays,” the old man went on, “not so many people are concerned with listening to nature. So why should nature listen to us? Now, there are no more druids. The bloodlines are gone, long gone, lost to war and tragedy. But, they were real, once. And that is why I pray at the Wordly Temple. I pray in the light of the butterfly, the old symbol for the druids. I pray in front of the Old Tree, itself planted by a druid, in some bygone age. I pray to the worldly forces, in the name of all the things that used to be real.”

Hendrick closed the toffee box with shaking fingers. Brother Cecil noticed.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to sleep?”

“I-I… Thank you. But I have to go.”

“Before you do…” Brother Cecil rose from his chair. “I’m afraid I have to go to the inner city today… I’m petitioning the nobles for a few coins to help renovate the temple… But while I’m gone, I want you to know, you can stay here. The key is under the second step outside. Always remember, there is a place for you in the Worldly Temple.”

Before Brother Cecil left, Hendrick tried to find the words to thank him, but could’t find anything closer to his meaning than a plain “Thank you,” and so, that had to do. Brother Cecil left, leaving Hendrick to his own devices in the hut.

Brother Cecil had hardly been gone five minutes before Hendrick reentered the Worldly Temple.

He approached the tree. Under the light of the window, its leaves glittered with every color on the spectrum.

Hendrick felt like an idiot. He had been the benefactor of a few fortunate coincidences. The root that had tripped Thomas, the night he was captured. The sharp plant tendril that allowed him to free himself. And the dreams. The dreams of the forest, of Garret, of the butterfly…

Feeling more like an idiot than ever, Hendrick closed his eyes and tried to listen.

He tried to quiet the clamoring in his soul. He tried to let his mind go blank-white, as if he were Garret, practicing his sword craft out on some foggy morning, trying to be nowhere except where he was, trying to be no-one but who he was…

But he heard nothing, because he was listening to a tree, and trees were inanimate objects.

Which made it all the more surprising when Hendrick began to hear bizarre little gurgling noise.

He opened his eyes. The tree hadn’t changed, but his eye caught a flicker of reflected light in the stone basin of water. The water was moving.

Hendrick rushed to it. It wasn’t bubbling, exactly. It was more like the water had become agitated, as if someone invisible was stirring it. Hendrick stared at it with dumbfounded shock, as the shimmering ripples began to take up his entire scope of vision…

Images appeared. A human body. A face. It was Elias. Elias, riding into Red Haven on a horse… and beside him, Garret… and beside them, a stranger…

The horses disappeared, and Elias was alone. Suddenly, he was attacked on all sides by city guards, each laden with coils and coils of rope. They wrapped him up tightly, binding his ankles and legs together, forcing his arms backwards into a strange leather arm-binding device, then looping yet more coils around his waist and chest, ignoring his shouts for help, not that anyone could hear him, now that someone had slapped his palm over Elias’s mouth…

The worst was yet to come. All the guards disappeared except one. A tall, muscled man with short brown hair. He stuffed a gag into Elias’s mouth, a huge ball sewn into a panel, and then he used a device to inflate the tight gag, engorging the mouth stuffing till Elias’s cheeks were nearly bursting. Then, he enclosed Elias’s whole body in a black sack, laced it up, threw him in a white-walled cell, and slammed the door.

The picture shrunk in Hendrick’s mind, as if he were moving backwards very fast. Then suddenly he was staring at a door built into the city wall. And somehow, he could feel the presence of this door, as if it were calling out him under the soil, eager to be opened.

Elias and Garret were in Red Haven. They’d come to find him. And Elias had been captured. But Hendrick knew exactly where he was.

Hendrick staggered away from the basin, the vision fading, the water becoming still. Over him, the leaves rustled in the windless room.

“You can hear me,” said Hendrick, breathless, even now not totally able to believe it.

The branches stopped swaying. A single green leaf fell in front of Hendrick’s eyes. He plucked it out of the air. He delicately placed it into his pocket, next to his acorn.

Hendrick left the temple. He was still afraid… but not in the same way he was before. Now, something was different. Now, with every step he walked, with every footstep that connected his body to the foundations of the earth… Hendrick felt heard.

There was a lot to do. And Hendrick wasn’t sure he could do it alone.

He needed his friends back.




To be continued.

[notreallyme06]

Yay! So glad the best story on this site is back!

[Volobond]

So excited to see an update! You've done it again, another wonderful and exciting chapter. Love the scene with Cal

[sharpliketoday]

So happy to see you are continuing this story! And I do hope you've been well, despite distracting real-world things Pleasure to see you back in business.

[DeeperThanRed]

It's always worth the wait for this story, glad to see you again on the board!

You've outdone yourself with worldbuilding and characterization again. Red Haven feels like a living, breathing place and it makes all these characters with distinct motives playing a complex game of tie-ups with each other all more exciting.

Thomas and Borhim both being terrifying for different reasons, Garret giving the slaver a taste of his own medicine, poor Amadi letting himself get caught and Hendrick discovering more about himself were all highlights.

[Mummyboi]

Love this story and the continuation of it.... especially what Elias is bound in.... I would love that experience tooo. Can’t wait for the next part of the story....also what will happen to our spider fearing captive tooo