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

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

Post by Charmides »

PART 1

It doesn’t take long to learn the character of a mountain. There are towering, snow-capped peaks that rise like fangs out of the earth, as thrilling as they are beautiful. There are low, rolling mounds of soil, blanketed in grass and pine, warm and familiar, comforting and green. Steep cliff faces, dark crevices, lines of mountains so long they melt into the horizon. There are mountains of all kinds, and they are not difficult to read. Mount Thorn, however, was different.

The mountain stood alone in the flat landscape. The mist-shrouded crags twisted and slashed at the sky like a briar bush, colorless and implacable. Even on the clearest of days, the summit was invisible, eaten away by the white clouds that always seemed to engulf the mountain’s heights. Some villagers in the valley below, the people of Thorn Village, even whispered that Mount Thorn had no peak. It was a bridge to another world. To Heaven, perhaps. Or maybe on the other side of that mountain was the true, material world, and the people living at the mountain’s roots had been in Hell all along. Of course, those were just superstitions. But even the most skeptical townsfolk knew that their lot in life was far from the brightest. Maybe the Mountain wasn’t a bridge… but who could deny that it was home to the Beast? Impossible to deny. Especially because, sometimes, just when the town had started to forget the shadow of the mountain, the Beast demanded a sacrifice.

The Beast was all that Garret could think about. It was early morning, and he was out in the fields on the outskirts of Thorn Village. This was where the young men of the town trained for combat. There must have been over a dozen of them out that morning, sparring with each other in the early-morning dew, firing arrows at haystacks, and slashing dummies with swords and daggers as smoke rose benignly from their home village a mile down the road.

Garret wiped the sweat from his brow and cast off his shirt. He was just entering full manhood, having recently turned twenty. Muscled and flexible, pale green eyes and short brown hair, he was known among the village to be one of the most accomplished young fighters coming up the ranks. He was likely to lead the town guard one day, so the gossips said.

But Garret didn’t spar with any of his peers. He trained alone. For him, martial prowess was less a sport than a meditation, an art that allowed him to disappear inside of himself. That’s what he did now, his honed muscles sliding under his skin as he lunged repeatedly at a hay-stuffed dummy, finding new ways of attacking, feeling the weight of his body, making the best use of the weight of his sword.

“Garret!” called out Hendrick, of his old friends. “We’re heading home for breakfast. Coming?”

Garret caught his breath and gave his friend a wave. “Thanks, Hendrick,” Garret called in response. “Just a few more minutes.”

Knowing that “a few more minutes” meant that Garret would probably be out here another hour, Hendrick gathered up his things, and he and his friends went home.

The dummy had a mouthless potato-sack head. It looked at Garret dumbly, its head tilting in vapid curiosity every time he struck its chest with a sword. There was a peace in the air, and a peace in his heart, and Garret relished it. He enjoyed the early morning chill on his damp skin. He enjoyed the low mist lying over the meadow he was training in. He enjoyed being alone.

Almost alone.

“Still fooling around with that sword, Garret?”

It took Garret a moment to realize that someone had just said something. Then he recognized the voice, and sword arm froze. He turned. A few yards away stood Thomas.

If it was ever fair to compare a human to a hyena, perhaps that comparison can be fairly applied to Thomas. Another young fighter, a few years older than Garret. The two shared a similar athletic build, but to look in Thomas’s eyes, you’d see none of Garret’s kindness, none of his introspection. You’d see hunger. You’d see Thomas constantly daring the world to take him on.

His long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He’d taken his shirt off, too, which didn’t surprise Garret. Thomas had always been something of a showoff. But that didn't really matter. The awful feeling in the pit of Garret's stomach went much deeper than that.

About a year ago, the village baker’s dog had gone missing. Wanting to help the poor man, Garret had gone off into the woods near the base of the mountain to search. There, in a creek, he came across Thomas. He was standing over the dog’s body, kicking it. The dog was long dead. Blood pooled and spilled into the nearby creek.

When Thomas finally noticed that Garret was there, he looked up and shrugged.

“Fucker bit me,” he’d said. “No choice.”

That’s what Thomas had said. But Garret had seen the hyena in his eyes.

Later, Garret brought the body back to the baker. He never told anyone about Thomas. Everyone assumed it must have been a wild animal that killed the dog, maybe even the Beast. But no. The only Beast that ever scared Garret was Thomas.

Garret sheathed his sword and nodded at Thomas, giving him his best approximation of a friendly smile. “Good morning, Thomas. You’re out late this morning. Everything all right?”

Thomas smirked. “Actually, I was hoping to run into you. Thought we could spar. You up for it?”

Garret felt his throat getting dry, but made an effort not to show any signs of it. A week previously, Garret had enlisted in a village dueling tournament. Practice swords, a referee, different tiers of combat; all very by-the-books. Garret jumped in, just for the fun of it. He advanced quite far in his weight class. Then he came up against Thomas.

Fighting Thomas was like fighting a tornado. During their match, it felt like the blond-haired young man forgot that this was all meant to be in good fun. The hyena had begun to stir.

In his frenzy, it was very easy for Garret to use Thomas’s weight against him. Garret won.

Thomas never said a word about it. But after their match, Garret stepped away for a cup of water, and caught a glimpse of Thomas looking at him. It was like the creek and the dead dog all over again. It was the face of the Beast.

Garret quietly approached the referee and withdrew from the competition. Sprained wrist, he said — best not to agitate it. But the truth was, if Garret went on to win that tournament (which he likely would have done), he wouldn’t have felt safe. He would have started to feel the hyena breathing over his shoulder.

“Well?” said Thomas. “What’s the matter? Wrist bothering you?”

“No,” said Garret. “That’s all better.”

Thomas stood very still, staring Garret down. He was clearly not going anywhere.

Garret wouldn’t have been nervous… except that they were alone out here. Just like the creek.

“Maybe some other time,” said Garret. “I see you don’t have a practice sword… maybe tomorrow —”

“No swords,” said Thomas. “Wrestling.”

Garret started breathing a little easier. It was much tougher to fatally wound someone in a wrestling match. And maybe giving in would be the only way out of this bizarre stand-off.

“… Okay,” said Garret. “I’d be happy to.”

Garret cast off his sword-belt, and the two took their positions, crouching low, circling each other.

“On my mark,” said Thomas. A moment of quiet. Then:

“Go!”

The two lunged at each other. One-on-one, no weapons, Thomas was clearly the stronger of the two. Garret was nearly overwhelmed and pinned to the ground right off the bat, but found a way to slip out of Thomas’s grip and grab at his waist.

They stood locked there for a moment, at a standstill. As Garret planned his next move, he didn’t even see Thomas reaching into his pocket. And just as Garret decided to make a break for it and go for his opponent’s legs —

Crack.

Thomas struck Garret on the back of the head with a small rock. Lights exploded in front of Garret’s eyes, and his limbs went weak. Thomas wasted no time, and immediately pinned Garret to the ground, sitting on top of the small of his back.

“Nmmf,” Garret groaned, face pressed into the grass, still recovering from the weakness and dizziness. “Wuh… Wait…”

Too late. Thomas took a loop of rope he’d been hiding behind him, hung on the loop of his belt, and quickly and methodically bound Garret’s wrists together. Then, his ankles. With a savage yank, he pulled the ankles and wrists together into a hog tie. Garret’s back arched from the strain. He finally started to return to his senses.

“Thomas,” he sputtered, “wait, we were just playing around… if I’ve done anything to offend y—glmmf!”

Something soft was abruptly pressed into Garret’s mouth. Thomas had tied a huge knot into an old worn rag, and now he stuffed the knot between Garret’s lips, tying the whole thing tightly behind his head, causing his cheeks to distort from the bite of the cloth.

“Think you’re better than me,” Thomas muttered, tying off the gag with a violent flourish that jerked Garret’s head backwards.

Thomas dismounted his captive and used his foot to push Garret onto his side. He squatted down, so his face was inches away from Garret’s.

“You think you’re better than me, Garret the Good? Huh? You think you’re a better person? A better fighter?”

“Nmmph,” Garret said, shaking his head as hard as he could. Trapped. Cornered. The Beast had come. It hadn’t demanded a sacrifice of the village since before Garret was born, but now it had come, and it had come for him.

“No?” said Thomas. “Why’d you drop out of the tournament? Did you think you would win?”

Garret shook his head.

“Don’t lie to me. Did you think you would win?”

Garret shook his head.

Thomas kicked Garret in the stomach. “GLMPH!” cried Garret, trying to bring his legs up to shield his abdomen, but the hogtie wouldn’t let him.

“Did you think you would win?”

Garret felt tears gathering behind his eyes. A moment’s hesitation, then: “Ymmph,” he said, nodding his head yes.

“You wouldn’t have won,” said Thomas. “You got lucky and I tripped, and that’s how you beat me. You wouldn’t have won. You don’t have the stomach for it. If a dog bit you, I garun-fucking-tee you that you wouldn’t have the guts to deal with it.”

Thomas kicked Garret again, and then marched off back toward the road.

“Think’s he’s better than me,” he muttered, throwing the small rock from his pocket into the nearby woods, and then he was gone.

Garret lay there panting for some time. The urge to cry was overwhelming; so, he did. A few minutes later, the urge passed, and Garret got to work trying to free himself.

The knots wouldn’t come undone, that much was clear. No matter how he maneuvered and writhed, his wrists and ankles were stuck, bound together behind his back.

As an experiment, Garret took a breath and cried out as loud as he could:

“HLMMMPH!”

It was considerably loud, but the gag still dampened his efforts. Even if someone was on the road, which was a good fifty or sixty feet away, who knew if they would hear him, depending on where the wind was blowing? And forget about anyone in town hearing his pathetic muffled groans.

Soon the sun reached its peak and began to fall. Garret tried to find a stone, or a stick, or anything with a point or an edge that he could use to cut the ropes. But there was nothing. And he couldn’t worm very far in his search, considering the tightness of his binds and the severity of his position.

Garret stopped struggling. It was time to conserve strength. He fell into himself, into a meditative state, like when he was practicing his swordplay. He calmly felt once more for any weaknesses in the rope work. He found none.

Who knows how long Garret would have stayed there, if, around mid-afternoon, Hendrick hadn’t returned to the training field in search of his old friend.

As he saw Hendrick’s lean frame and wild mop of red hair walking toward the field, he cried out into his gag. “Hnmmdmmph! Hlmmm-mhmmp!” For a few moments, he was afraid that his friend wouldn’t hear him.

But of course, he did, rushed over to Garret, and got him out of his binds.

Hendrick wanted to know who did this, so they could report the culprit to the town council. But Garret wouldn’t say.

If I tell anyone, thought Garret on their walk back to town, then who knows what could be next? This felt like a warning. But next time...

Rubbing the rope-burn on his wrists, Hendrick and Garret finally returned to the shadow of the mountain. And then they both heard something that no one in the town head heard in over twenty years. A gong. The sound of a gong, from up the heights of Mount Thorn, rolling down over the village like a wave. Window frames shook. Horses whinnied and reared. Birds fled and the very sun itself seemed to dim.

Hendrick stared at the mountain with wide eyes, the dark mass disappearing into the sky. “Was that…?”

Garret nodded. It was the summons. The Beast was demanding a sacrifice.


***


The whole village gathered in the town hall. Mayor Barlon, a portly mutton-chopped man in a blue robe, stood on a small stage with the rest of the town council.

“Not all of you remember the last summons,” said Barlon. “It was so long ago. But I do. Let me warn you all: This will be a very difficult time. It’s a terrible thing, to lose one of our own. But for the good of the village, it must be done.”

Barlon nodded to someone in the wings, and two men brought a wide stone basin onto the stage. The mayor held up a small piece of parchment before the eyes of the overflowing town hall.

“This,” he said, “is the way it has always been. The Beast will tell us whom it requires. The sacrifice will spend the night in meditation. At dawn tomorrow, we bring the sacrifice up the Mount Thorn. And then, the Beast will allow our village to survive.”

Not the slightest sound disturbed the hall. Only the occasional crackling of fire in the wall lamps broke through the silence. In another town, there might have been riots. There might have been weeping and wailing. But here in Thorn Village, the people went faced this gruesome ceremony with stoic resignation, with deep breaths, with an almost religious acceptance. This was the way it had been for their ancestors. This was the way it would be forever.

Garret stood near the side of the hall. He willed his heart stop beating so fast, as if the thumping were disturbing to the other townsfolk. Garret tried to meditate, but the only thought on his mind was: Who? What if it’s someone I know? Hendrick, one of my friends? What if it’s Mayor Barlon himself?

What if it’s me?

Mayor Barlon dropped the paper into the stone basin. A moment of stillness… and then, the smell of fire began climbing into the air. A thin plume of smoke rose from the basin. The villagers watched with wide eyes and open mouths. So, this was what magic looked like.

The smoke stopped. The mayor took the paper from the basin. Even at distance, Garret could see that there was something written on the paper that hadn’t been there before.

The mayor read the paper, and looked out over the townsfolk with a quaking chin and a sad eye.

“Thomas Clayborn,” he said.

From the middle of the crowd, there came a screech — “No!” — and the blond-haired form of Thomas exploded out of his seat and ran for the exit. Garret got a good look at his face. Pale, dripping with cold sweat, a snarl curling his lip as he sprinted.

“Stop him!” the mayor shouted.

The town guards at the door did just that. They tackled Thomas together. And when it looked as though Thomas might be able to overpower the two of them and escape anyway, some of the villagers leapt form their seats and piled on him themselves. This was their civic duty. The survival of Thorn Village was on the line.

“No!” screamed Thomas, as he was hauled to his feet by a crowd of six. They started pushing him toward the stage. “You bastards, let go of me! I’m not going to the mountain, you hear me? You can’t make me! No one can make me do anything! Get off of me!”

A few more men had brought a heavy chair onto the stage behind Mayor Barlon. It had two long poles extending from the chair arms; the whole device was like a throne meant for carrying, or a roofless palanquin. The villagers and the guards forced Thomas into the chair, his hair becoming nearly undone as he flailed, yelling, struggling. Some of the guards pulled some rope from offstage.

“So it shall be,” said Mayor Barlon, “that Thomas Clayborn will give his life for Thorn Village. He will live forever in honor among our beloved dead.”

“Bullshit!” Thomas screamed. But the guards and villagers had already started binding him to the chair. First his wrists and forearms to the arms of the chair. Then his ankles and shins to the chair’s legs. Finally ropes were pulled around his muscular chest in an X-like fashion, pinning him tightly to the back of the chair.

The mayor left the stage for a moment. And when he came backache carried in his hands something that Garret thought, at first, was the head of some animal. But then he realized it was a mask; the mask of a stag, with two horns thrust out of the head, and the stuffed face gazing thoughtlessly over the crowd. Barlon stood behind Thomas’s chair while two guards held his head still.

“No!” cried Thomas, looking with horror up the neck of the stag’s head. “This isn’t happening! Stop! There isn’t a Beast! It’s a myth! Let me go! No! No! No — NHMMMPH!” The mask was brought down over his head, covering up his whole face and muzzling him, his words and frantic yelling stifled by the mask.

Now the stag-headed sacrifice sat mute, squirming in his bonds as four guards each assigned themselves to one corner of the palanquin, lifted it, and carried it off the stage, through the crowd, and out the door, Thomas’s muffled shouting growing fainter all the time, until, with the clunk of these doors closing shut, silence settled in once more.

After a moment, the mayor spoke. “Thomas will be held in the granary till morning. At down, we will all make the pilgrimage up the mountain. This will be the difficult part, my friends. Stay strong. Sleep well. Our duties await us in the morning.”

The villagers began disbanding, heading back to they homes with heads low, some with tears in their eyes, others struck dumb by the whole affair.

As for Garret… He was surprised at himself. When Thomas’s name had been read, a terrible thought came across him: Should he be happy? Happy that this dangerous person was out of his life?

Maybe. But whatever Garret should have been feeling, the fact was, he wasn’t happy at all. He was terrified by the idea that someone, whoever that might be, was about to be sacrificed to the Beast.


***


That night, after all of Thorn Village had settled into an uneasy sleep, Garret got out of bed, got dressed, lit a lantern, and made his way to the granary.

He knew that if he let Thomas go to the Beast without making some effort to set things right… to reach out to the human behind the animal… he would always regret it. And then, Thomas would always be there, for the rest of Garret’s life. A story unfinished. An animal left to roam free. How could Garret possibly ever sleep again, knowing that he didn’t make an effort toward kindness?

Garret stole through the village roads in the shadows, the moon a thin sliver overhead. He arrived at the granary, a long, low building on the edge of town.

He mounted the steps. He took a breath. He lifted his lantern, and pushed the door open.

Inside there were barrels of grain, lining the walls, and smatterings of the stuff dusting the floor. And in the center of the open floor, Garret could see, as his eyes adjusted to the light, the chair, the roofless palanquin. Garret took a step forward, still unsure what he was about to say. Then in the dimness, he realized something was slightly different about the chair from what he remembered. He took a step closer.

In the seat, there sat a loose collection of ropes, and on top of them, the head of the stag, staring Garret dow with huge glass eyes.

Thomas was gone.

“Out pretty late for a stroll, aren’t you, Garret?”

Garret didn’t even have time to turn around and face the dark shape that had been waiting behind the door. All he felt was a terrible thunk as the blunt end of a pitchfork connected with the back of his head, and Garret sank to the floor, the world winking out around him.


***


The first thing Garret realized when he woke up was that he couldn’t move his arms.

He came to with a gasp, his eyes going wide. He looked down. he was sitting in the heavy chair, his wrists and forearms bound to the chair arms, his ankles and shins to the chair legs, his chest trapped to the back of the chair by an X-like pattern. Garret, in a white hot panic, began to struggle — and then stopped cold, realizing that Thomas was kneeling right in front of him, tying up the final knot on his right foot.

Thomas stood and looked down at Garret. Then, a slow smile spread across his face.

“Well, Garret,” he said, “I guess this really couldn’t have worked out any better. Don’t you think?”

Garret gasped like a fish, not knowing where to look, what to do, what to say. He looked down, and realized that while he’d been unconscious, Thomas had switched their clothes. Now Garret was wearing what Thomas had been wearing at the town meeting.

“You know,” said Thomas, pulling something out of his pocket, “I always knew that I was different. The people in this town, they look at me, and they think I’m just another meathead. I’m more than that. I’m better than that. I’m better than them.”

“Thomas.” Garret’s voice was dry. “I came here… to… to apologize… I didn’t want us to… part on bad terms —”

“Oh, don’t worry, we’re not parting on bad terms. Right now, you’re doing the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me.”

Thomas kept fiddling with the object in his hands. It looked like a large leather ball, string onto a long, tough leather strip.

“These guards thought I was being too noisy, even with this thing on my head.” Thomas kicked the stag’s head, which was lying next to the chair. “So they used this. I figure, I wouldn’t want you making much noise, either. Wouldn't want anyone to recognize your voice. So…”

Slowly, causally, even leisurely, Thomas walked behind the chair. Silence.

Garret swallowed. “It isn’t fair,” said Garret. “I know it isn’t fair that you were chosen for the sacrifice. But please, Thomas… where will you go? You can’t stay in Thorn Village. The next town isn’t for many, many, miles, and you can’t ask help from anyone here without exposing yourself. But… I can help you. I’ll help you escape, and I’ll never tell a soul. The story would be, you slipped away in the night, and no one ever found you… no one even has to know I was invol—hlmmph!”

With a sudden, animal ferocity, Thomas grabbed Garret’s face by the forehead, pulled his head back, and stuffed a thick cloth into his mouth. In his shock, Garret could do nothing but muffle in confusion as Thomas prodded the whole thing inside. Then, once the entire cloth was plugging up his cheeks, yet another cloth was jammed into Garret’s mouth, in front of the first.

“Nmmp! Shmmp! Hmmblmm…” Garret grunted and moaned as the last of the massive mound of cloth was stuffed into his gob, leaving his lips parted and his face red from the strain.

And even as Garret tried to push the thing out with his tongue, feeling the bulging of his cheeks from all the cloth, Thomas took the ball on a strap and pressed it forcefully between Garret’s open lips. The leather straps were pulled sharply around the back of his head, forcing the stuffing in even deeper. One final yank tightened the large ball gag, and then Garret felt the device being buckled behind his head. He felt his eyes watering from the tightness, his mouth forced to clamp down on the foreign leather ball in his mouth. Thomas swung around the chair, back into view.

“Hmmph!” Garret could hardly make a sound, let alone form any meaningful words. “Hlmmplmm!”

“It’s a nice offer,” he said, patting Garret on the cheek. “But unless I go up the mountain tomorrow, everyone will be looking for me. I can get out of here alone. I can do everything alone.”

Thomas picked up the stag head, and Garret renewed his struggles and pleadings, pure panic in his eyes. “Wmmph! Hmm-gmmph!”

“What was that? Are you saying, thank you for sending me to the Beast, Thomas, I’m a smug little goody-two-shoes who deserved it?”

“Hmm-mblmmph!”

“You’re very welcome, you son of a bitch.”

Thomas thrust the stag mask down over Garret’s head. In the the tight, dark confines of the head, he felt the massive gag in his mouth being compressed even further. All Garret could do was shout into darkness as he heard Thomas’s footsteps leave the granary, the door closing with a sickening click in the nighttime stillness. He struggled in his bonds, but he couldn’t move an inch in any direction, the rope digging into his muscled body whenever he made the slightest attempt at movement.

There was no chance for meditation now. Garret’s calm had deserted him. There was only darkness, and muffled screams… and somewhere in that darkness, Garret knew, was a prowling, hulking shape, smelling him, getting closer and closer — the Beast.




To be continued.
Last edited by Charmides 3 years ago, edited 3 times in total.
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cj2125
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Post by cj2125 »

Cool story! I like the attention to detail and how you built the world! And a nice cliffhanger too! I'll certainly be waiting for the next part!
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Post by bondagefreak »

[mention]Charmides[/mention] Super well written, mate!
What a thrilling cliff-hanger you've left for us! Almost cruel of you ;)

Poor Garret. I feel terrible for him, but at the same time I have to admit I absolutely LOVED the end scene where Thomas forcefully gags his yapper with cloth and ballgag. Now THAT'S what I call a serious gag 8-)

You got me hooked, bud!
Can't wait for the next part.
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Post by Charmides »

[mention]cj2125[/mention] [mention]bondagefreak[/mention] D'aww, thanks ever so kindly for the support, gallant friends! And I'm so glad you enjoyed the last scene, bondagefreak. (I wasn't sure if you would ever come across this story, but something told me if you did, you might enjoy that part.) Aha! Tags and cataloguing. On it; thanks for the reminder.
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Post by DeeperThanRed »

I'm very impressed by this story and can't wait to read the rest.

Characters and setting are very detailed, pacing is great and bondage scenes are really hot. I loved the way Garret was gagged with a mask so people can't tell it's him.

Great job!
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Post by Xtc »

There's a lot of work here and really good writing. Thanks for posting it.
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Post by FelixSH »

Well written with an interesting setting. I enjoyed the atmosphere that you created. Looking forward to more.
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Post by Straitjacketed »

Really fascinating amount of detail that makes me look beyond the bondage (which is, naturally, hot) and want to know more about the wider world in which it's all set. Feels a little bit Young Adult Dystopian Fiction in a GOOD way. :)
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Post by BoundWolf »

Absolutely loved the setting and story, so curious to see what happens next with Garret. Feel bad for him but also can't help but feel bad for Thomas too for even being put in the situation he was throne into. Can't wait to read more, hopefully soon
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Post by Charmides »

PART 2

Morning rolled in with the fog, and Hendrick clambered out of bed just as grey sunlight started beating down through his window. Not that he’d really slept much that night. He’d had a bad dream.

In the dream, Hendrick and Garret stood at the base of Mount Thorn. The mountain path crawled ahead of them, disappearing among the rocky crags and the waves of mist. Somehow, Hendrick knew that this was a path that Garret had to walk. And Hendrick wanted nothing more than to walk it with him.

He looked over at Garret, his lean and chiseled frame outlined in the sunlight, his hair tossing in the wind. Hendrick wanted to reach out, to touch his face, to grasp his hand. But Hendrick knew, as certain as gravity, that Garret wasn’t able to see him. And if Hendrick touched him, he wouldn’t be able to feel his hand, either.

There’s too much of real life in this dream, thought Hendrick. Then, knowing it was useless but unable to restrain himself, he reached out toward Garret, to run his hands along his jawline, to trace his fingers down his neck —

Then suddenly, his wrist was caught in midair. He froze and looked down. A tendril of thin, whiplike root had shot out of the earth, coiled around his wrist, and held it in place, like a tether anchoring an eagle to the ground. Hendrick was about to try reaching Garret with his other hand, but then, fwip — another root from the dirt, around his other wrist. The two rope-like plants retracted into the earth, cementing Hendrick's arms at his sides.

Garret stared up at the mountain pass as if hypnotized. He started walking towards it.

Hendrick was about to call out, to stop his friend from taking this dangerous path alone, but quick as thinking, more roots and vines shot from the ground, at least half a dozen this time. They writhed and twisted and tightened around his body, coiling around his ankles, knees, thighs, then his waist, chest, and shoulders, pinning his arms to his body.

As more and more vines encircled him, Hendrick opened his mouth to shout, to call for help, to get Garret to come back — but a thicker vine wrapped around his head, lodging between his full lips and pulling tight into his open mouth. He felt something bloom on his tongue, some sort of flower, soft and thick, inflating in an instant until it stuffed up his cheeks and burst from his mouth, red petals as vibrant as his crimson hair.

Garret mounted the path and started climbing, and the vines began pulling Hendrick down into the earth. Hendrick tried to scream, tried to break out of his bonds — “Gmmph! Hllmpmmph!” — but the vines were too strong, and the gag too filling and tight. Garret grew smaller and smaller in the distance. The very shadow of the mountain itself seemed eager for him, hungry to catch him, smother him, and swallow him up. The earth closed in around Hendrick as he screamed, the dirt climbing up past his neck, his mouth, his eyes —

Hendrick had woken in a sweat at midnight. He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. Soon enough it was morning. Like most dreams after the fact, the terror of it felt more silly and distant with every passing second Hendrick spent awake. He went through his usual morning ablutions, and walked over to the granary.

A crowd had already gathered by the time Hendrick arrived. Mayor Barlon stood on a box just outside the granary door. Hendrick look around. Over the years, he’d gotten very good at spotting Garret in a crowd. He was so distinctive, after all — so disciplined, so poised, almost statuesque in his reserve.

The two of them had grown up together, training as fighters, as was the civic duty for the young men of Thorn Village. But Hendrick wasn’t a fighter, not in his heart of hearts. He was apprenticed to the town leatherworker, Elias, and lived the common life of a common person. He ate, he drank, he studied what he had to and seldom worked harder than a job absolutely required. In short, even though Hendrick and Garret were of an age, there was very little that the two young men had in common. And Hendrick was all but certain that Garret didn’t pay him much mind in everyday life, except maybe as a friend, or occasional ally.

But dammit, Hendrick had gone and fallen in love with Garret anyway. A foolish thing to do.

Hendrick was unable to find Garret in the crowd. Odd. The entire town seemed to be there, milling about uneasily. Nevertheless, Hendrick shook off his heartache and joined the mass of people.

Mayor Barlon raised his pudgy little hands, and the murmuring quieted down. “Today,” he intoned, “we make the pilgrimage up Mount Thorn. Today, Thomas Clayton goes on to glory. Today, we shall follow in procession behind him. Be steady, my friends. To the mountain”

Barlon stood back as the doors to the granary swung open. Four men walked out, bearing the chair from the night’s previous meeting. A male figure was still tied roughly in place, hands and feet to the chair’s arms and legs, chest bound to the chair’s back, the mask of a stag’s head pulled over his face. Even now, the figure squirmed and bucked fruitlessly under the heavy bindings. The antlers of the mask waved menacingly in the air as the head swung back and forth.

The chair passed through the crowd. For a moment, it was so close to Hendrick that he could have reached out and touched it. He heard the muffled mewling and pleadings of the figure in the chair, thoroughly softened and made inarticulate by the muzzling mask. Then the chair and its bearers marched toward the mountain. A young boy fell in line behind the chair, beating a drum. The rest of the village followed, Hendrick included. A forced funeral march.

Hendrick had never been up the mountain path. Few ever had been. Sure, sometimes he and his old friends dared each other to see how far they could walk up the path without turning back, but Hendrick’s record was only about fifty feet, just before the start of the path vanished from sight. Now, the whole village marched into the unknown together, the path narrow enough so that no more than four of five people could stand shoulder to shoulder, the way twisting up past crags and boulders, a labyrinth with only one way forward and one way back.

During the trek, Hendrick thought about Thomas Clayborn. The village was obviously torn up about sending a young man to his death, in his prime. But in his private heart, Hendrick celebrated. It didn’t take a genius to know that it had been Thomas who’d trussed up and gagged Garret the day prior, out in the field were Hendrick had discovered him. It didn’t take a genius to know that there was bad blood between Garret and Thomas, made worse by a recent fighting tournament that Garret had won. And it didn’t take a genius to tell that there was something not quite right about Thomas in the head.

No, Hendrick wasn’t a genius. But he knew enough to hate Thomas Clayborn.

The trek lasted an hour, and then the people of the village spilled into a broad, circular rock plateau, large enough to fit the towns’ population twice over. Steep rocky walls of grey fenced in the whole area like a bowl, with only two exits: the path which Hendrick and the rest had just come from, and another path, much wider and much steeper, directly in front of them. The fog clung thickly to the mountainside, denser and denser the higher you went. Hendrick looked up the wide path ahead; the fog obscured it entirely after only twenty, thirty feet. Hendrick clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. It was just a morning chill. Yes, that was all.

The chair-bearers set down the struggling victim in the center of the plateau, then backed away. Mayor Barlon stepped toward the wide, fog-obscured path, and raised his arms.

“Unknowable One,” he said, his voice sounding flat and small in the mist, “you ask and we answer. You command and we obey. Your will is our will. Take this token, and be at peace.”

“Nmmph! Hmmphlmm!” The stag head swung wildly, the sacrifice squirming under his ropes. The mayor stoically ignored him.

One of the mayor’s assistants brought him a small gong and mallet. Mayor Barlon took them; a moment of stillness; and then, he struck the metal. The noise rippled through the cold mountain air like the song of a whale, filling every crevice of every rock, then fading back into silence.

Mayor Barlon returned the mallet and gong, then addressed his people:

“It is finished. You’ve all done well. Now, its time to go home. And always remember: Today, we have saved our village.”

And so, the procession of townsfolk trickled back down the path, most of them ashen, some crying, others in a state of shock. Soon they were all gone. Except one, who lingered behind.

Alone with the sacrifice on the plateau, Hendrick walked toward the chair. The figure was still struggling, so Hendrick didn’t get too close; those antlers could take out an eye. So he kneeled down about five feet in front of the chair, his eyes crawling derisively over the bound body.

“Do you remember me, Thomas?” he said. “Do you remember my voice?”

The struggling stopped for a moment.

“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. I’m Hendrick. And I wanted you to know… I’m glad it was you.”

The struggling started again. The chair creaked and moaned, and barely audible whimpers emanated from the mask.

“I don’t know what made you the way you were,” said Hendrick. “I don’t know. But before whatever’s about to happen to you, happens to you… I want you to think about Garret.”

The struggling subsided again. Eyes wide, Hendrick leaned forward.

“Yes… Think about Garret. Think about how he’s the most skilled, the most disciplined, the most courteous, the most —” Hendrick almost said “beautiful.” He swallowed the word and continued. “… The most worthy friend anyone could ask for. Think about how you were cruel to him. I really am glad that it was you.”

Suddenly the sacrifice started bucking in his chair again. Hendrick stood.

“What’s the matter? Ropes too tight?”

“Hmm-dmph! Plmmph!”

“Goodbye, Thomas.”

Hendrick turned heel and left.


***


Thorn Village returned to uneasy life. The sun climbed in the sky. And on the outskirts of town, at the edge of the woods, there sat a rundown little shack, long forgotten and left to rot. Inside sat Thomas Clayborn, nursing the final wisps of a mild hangover and plotting his next move.

After switching places with Garret the night before, Thomas could have made a break for it, disappearing into the night and leaving Thorn Village behind him forever. But he was weak from those hours spent tied to a chair, and he knew it was dangerous to wander the woods alone, especially at night, and with the next town so many miles away. So he broke into a neighbor’s cellar, stole a wine bottle, and wandered in a burning stupor to the edge of town, where he happened upon this eroding little one-room hut, half hidden by overgrown vines and trees. He drank the bottle and fell into dead sleep.

Mid-morning he began the gradual process of waking up, and by noon he was able to take stock of his situation. He had to leave. It might have been a mistake to wait so long. At any moment, someone could come along and see him…

Thomas laughed. There was no furniture in this dilapidated room, so he had used his hands to shovel in a mound of mulch from outside, and that was his bed. He sat on his pile of moldering earth and laughed. It was time to begin his new life.

He smashed the empty wine bottle. His hands shaking from laughter, he grabbed his hair; long and blond and drawn into a ponytail. With the razor edge of the glass, he sawed it off.

One fistful at a time, he sawed away at his hair with the wine bottle. His eyes watered from laughter. Soon he felt the slick warmth of blood between his fingers, as his erratic slashing began to cut up his scalp. He stopped. There was no mirror nearby, so Thomas could only imagine how he looked. Nothing left on his head but ragged tufts of blond hair and jagged red lines, splitting his head like fault lines. He was no longer himself. He was something more.

The Beast, whispered a small part of him, and Thomas chortled with new vigor.

Soon he recovered his composure. He needed a plan. There were two options. Leave in the daylight, or wait until night. In daylight, he might be seen. Under cover of night, the forest paths might not be safe.

Then Thomas realized that fear was idiocy, and he decided to leave that very day. For that, he would need a horse. Easy enough to steal one from a nearby barn he knew about, not far from his hiding-hut. But the farmer who owned it was poor, and didn’t have a saddle. And if Thomas was going to steal a horse, then what the hell, he might as well do it right.

He left the hut, and, sticking to the shadows, began making his way toward the leatherworker’s shop.


***


Hendrick spent the better part of the middle of the day looking after the store with Elias. It was a small shop, selling leather necessities; belts and buckles, aprons and knife sheaths and saddles. Elias stood behind the counter, and Hendrick wandered around the shop floor, assisting customers with questions, and twiddling his thumbs during slow hours.

During one hour of particular slowness, Hendrick walked up to the counter. “Elias,” he said, “let’s have a bet. How many more customers do you think we’ll get today?”

Elias smiled. He was a big man, the sort you’d associate with a butcher or a blacksmith; tall in stature, with a strong wide chest and thickly muscled arms, straining against his plain green shirt. For a master of his trade, he was rather young, only in his mid-thirties. He had chillingly bright blue eyes, a few day’s worth of stubble, and short black hair, only just starting to go grey around the temples.

“If I had to guess,” said Elias, his voice low and soothing, “I’d wager between none and one hundred.”

“That’s unhelpfully broad.”

“Here’s your lesson for the day, Hendrick: When you run a shop, you never know who’s about to walk in the door. Always stay on your toes.”

Hendrick sighed. Elias was nothing if not a kind man; a gentle giant, and a silent ox, to boot. Sometimes Hendrick just wished that kindness extended as much to his employee as his customers.

“All I mean is,” said Hendrick, averting his eyes and drumming his fingers on the wooden counter, “our rush has long since passed. If I could get out just a little early… I thought I could catch up on sparring with some friends. You know I’m hopeless at it.”

Elias raised an eyebrow, a smile tickling his lips. He walked to a nearby shelf and started straightening some belts hanging from a hook. “Which friends?” he asked.

“You know, whoever’s around.”

“Maybe Garret?”

Hendrick’s breath stuck in his throat for a fraction of a second, but he recovered gracefully (or so he thought). “Sure,” he said. “Why not? He’s the best fighter around. I’d love to spend more — well, that is to say, I have a lot to learn from him. Fighting-wise.”

“Fighting-wise,” said Elias, nodding sagely. Then he turned fully to Hendrick, and placed a firm, warm hand on his shoulder.

“Hendrick, my boy,” he said. “Today was a long day, for the whole town. I don’t suppose we’ll have any more customers today. I was thinking of closing early. What do you say?”

Hendrick’s eyes brightened, and he smiled up at his mentor. “Thank you, Elias.”

“Nothing to thank me for. You let me know how your… sparring goes with Garret, you hear me?”

Hoping that his face wasn’t turning totally red, Hendrick nodded and made for the door. But before he could leave, Elias called out behind him:

“And Hendrick. About today… The mountain… Did you want to talk about it?”

Hendrick turned back. The look of concern-disguised-as-curiosity on Elias’s face was a great comfort.

“No,” said Hendrick, surprised by the conviction in his voice. “Thank you. See you tomorrow.” And with that, Hendrick was gone.

Elias shook his head and began sweeping the floor, preparing to close up shop for the day.

Hendrick had no parents, no siblings, and it certainly wasn’t lost on Elias that he might be the closest thing to family that the red-haired young man had. Sometimes, it made Elias feel uncomfortable, stepping into Hendrick’s life with questions and advice that ought to come from a father, or big brother… But then, if Elias didn’t give him that support, who would?

A half hour later, Elias was ready to put up a closed sign in the window. Just as he finished putting out some new merchandise for the following day, he heard the clatter of the door opening.

He turned to the stranger with the grey hooded cloak pulled over his head. “Evening, friend,” said Elias, his smile easy and wide. “You caught me just before I closed shop. What can I do for you?”

The figure took a few steps forward, face mostly hidden in the shadow of his hood. “I’m looking for a saddle,” said the figure.

“Certainly,” said Elias, gesturing to a table on the far side of the room, with three saddles on it. “I have a fine selection. If nothing here suits you, I have some further options in the back.”

The hooded customer bent over the saddles for a moment; then, after a surprisingly quick inspection, said to Elias, “I’d see the rest of your wares. Please.”

“Certainly. Right this way.” Elias led the way through a door in the back (completely failing to notice as the stranger, following behind him, quietly grabbed a handful of different-sized belts from a nearby rack and stowed them inside his cloak).

The backroom was surprisingly spacious, probable larger than the store itself. For Elias, it doubled as both a storeroom and a workroom; and additionally, a place where he could instruct Hendrick in the finer areas of leatherworking.

Elias walked over to a high shelf, and began pulling down a new saddle. “Tell me, friend,” he said, “what kind of seat are you looking for? There are a few different styles I can show you, with variations in comfort, durability, aesthetic… if you’d like to tell me your ideal price range —”

Crash. A sharp, cold pain, the sound of breaking glass, and Elias slipped to the floor, unconscious.

Thomas threw off his hood, the broken wine bottle closed in his fist; by now, all that really remained of it was the bottleneck, the rest having been disintegrated after he brought it down on Elias’s head. His eyes lingered over the limp, muscled body of the leatherworker, collapsed face-first on the floor.

Thomas looked around the room. Ropes, knives, rags, leather strips… He couldn’t have asked for a better spot to hide this witness.

Of course, if he really wanted to get out of Thorn Village undetected, he would just kill this man. “Poor, kind, trusting Elias,” the townsfolk would say. “A bandit came in and stole a saddle. Doubtless Elias objected, and look what that earned him. A cut throat and an early grave.”

But that’s not what Elias wanted right now. He wanted to dominate this man. He wanted him at his mercy.

It occurred to Thomas then that something about the action of dominating, forcing a foe into admission, was exciting in a way he hadn’t realized before. He recalled the times he had bound Garret, first in the field outside of town, then in the granary. What had Thomas felt then?

Good. He’d felt good. And not just the sort of good you feel when you win a battle. It was deeper than that, deeper and hotter than magma.

Without thinking, Thomas’s hand slowly slid toward his crotch as he eyed Elias’s body.

He set to work. He began with rope, tying Elias’s wrists to his broad thighs, anchoring his arms to his sides. Then he slipped off Elias’s work boots, then his socks. Thomas tied his feet together, at the ankles, and then around the soles of his feet. He even found some twine, and lashed the big man’s two big toes together. The act of being so thorough, so merciless, sent an electric thrill through Thomas’s body. His heart began to beat faster, and faster.

Then the rest of the legs; the largest ropes, Thomas used once around the shins, then the knees, then the upper and lower thighs. Then with smaller ropes, he encircled virtually all of Elias’s lower body in rope, from ankles to ass, turning him into nothing but a helpless sausage.

Then Thomas began the upper body. He tied an elaborate chest harness, inventing by instinct and cunning as he went along. The harness trapped Elias’s upper arms to his body, and created a sort of net ensnaring his firm, full pectoral muscles. Thomas couldn’t help it… he lay Elias flat on the floor, straddled his prisoner’s waist, and spent a moment fondling his captive’s chest through the ropes, rubbing and groping, running his arms along his biceps, trailing a trembling finger along his pouting lips…

He finished tying Elias’s torso with more ropes to pin the leatherworker’s lower arms to his sides. Now the greatest danger was over, and the greatest work was past. If Elias were to wake now, all he would be able to do would be flop around like a fish, and perhaps curse up a storm.

Ah, but Thomas would soon fix that, too.

As if on cue, Elias began to shift under his ropes, groaning in a half-lidded state of sleep. Quickly, Thomas hauled his catch onto a nearby bench, which was just long enough to handle all six feet and three inches on its new occupant. Then he reached into his cloak, pulled out the belts, and began fixing his captive in place.

It was convenient that Elias sold belts in all different sizes. There were plenty of varieties that came in use for, say, buckling his body to the bench at the ankles; the shins; the thighs; the waist; and above and below the chest. As Thomas pulled the final buckle tight, Elias’s eyes finally fluttered open.

“Wuh…” Elias murmured, still groggy and disoriented. “What are… Who are…”

Before the bundle on the bench could even think to cry out for help, Thomas bolted into action. He grabbed one of the socks that he’d removed from the leatherworker’s feet — hardy wool socks — balled up one of them, and pressed the mass into Elias’s mouth.

“Gmmph… HMMPH?!” That seemed to wake him up. As if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water in his face, Elias’s body suddenly went taut under the ropes and belts. He looked up with big, bewildered eyes at Thomas. And Thomas knew, Elias recognized him.

“Tmm-mff?!” Elias mumbled into the sock, as if he’d just seen a ghost. Thomas smiled. Good. He’d never come back to this town, anyway. Let the have their ghost stories of me, he thought. Let me live on in legend, the phantom who bound up the leatherworker, then vanished forever. They owe me that. That and more.

Before Elias could think to spit out the wad, Thomas bent over and crammed the second sock into his mouth as well. Elias mumbled pathetically as Thomas crammed and pushed the whole thing inside, his mouth becoming strained, his cheeks bulging and going red. With the stuffing in place, Thomas grabbed a thick rag he’d seen lying on a table nearby — really, more of a small towel than a rag — tied a hefty knot in the center, and pushed the knot into Elias’s open mouth. Elias could do nothing but mumble useless protests and squirm in his bonds as Thomas tied the gag severely at the nape of his neck, and stood back to admire his work.

By now, Elias’s face was covered with a sheen of sweat. His ample, bound chest heaved from the struggling. He looked up at Thomas with an expression that was almost childlike in its bewildered incredulity, his cheeks stuffed and his pouting lips wrapped around a large cloth ball in his mouth.

Thomas had never seen anything like this. Not really. Not in the lackluster pornography that sometimes secretly came in through out-of-town merchants passing through. Not in the few bondage moments Thomas himself had been engaged in; always, there had been something else on his mind, more pressing than sensuality.

But this was different. This was a revelation.

Thomas’s breath came to him in shudders as he draped a leg over the bench, and sat down squarely on Elias’s crotch. Elias’s eyes went wide, and he mumbled something shocked and pleading into his gag, but Thomas could hardly hear it. Elias might have been at his mercy, but Thomas was, in every literal and spiritual way, unbound. He was presumed dead, and everyone in town, as far as Thomas was concerned, had been complicit in his murder. He was on his way out of town for good. He owed no one anything, and he owed himself a new life.

Thomas decided to have some fun. The animal inside him growled in anticipation.

He began by slowly grinding his ass onto his captive’s crotch. At first, Elias didn’t seem to understand what was going on — this whole thing was, Thomas granted, a whirlwind experience — but then it seemed to click, and despite all the confusion and conflict running across the leatherworker’s face, Thomas definitely felt the member beneath him start to grow hot and firm, with every slow grind.

Thomas started kneading Elias’s upper body again. Elias’s moans stopped being attempts at articulate speech, and gradually evolved into moans of reluctant pleasure. Thomas even felt the bound body beneath him start to grind (as much as it could) against his own, the iron bar beneath him becoming hotter, harder —

Thomas jumped off of Elias’s crotch. Elias let out a wailing moan that almost sounded pained, and Thomas could see that even with his minimal capability of movement, the bound man was still trying to hump the air, his tented pants quivering.

In a sudden passion, Thomas looked around the room, and found what he was hoping to find; a horse bit. He tied a simple leather strip around it, and returned to his captive. Elias likely didn’t even realize what was happening, until after Thomas had pressed the bit gag over the already enormous stuffing and knotted cleave gag in his mouth.

Elias sputtered something desperate, almost choked-sounding as Thomas tied the bit behind the bound man’s head. Thomas twisted one of Elias’s nipples, causing his whole body to arch under his bindings, and simultaneously began hungrily kissing the space between connecting his neck and shoulders. Elias continued humping the air, whimpering, squirming…

Thomas pulled away. There was only so much he could do to this body, bound on the bench. And he was getting hungrier.

One at a time, Thomas removed the belts. But after each was removed, it was immediately retied and tightened over Elias’s body, only this time leaving him free from the bench. A few moments of re-buckling, and soon Thomas had dumped the sack-like form of Elias’s body on the floor. His eyes went immediately to his captive’s round ass, struggling against the cloth confines of his pants as he wormed about on the floor.

Thomas tore off his cloak, mussed it into a large ball, and thrust it under Elias’s hips, forcing his ass into the air.

Suddenly, there was a break in Elias’s pleading. Then it started again, this time in a very different tone. More fearful. More questioning. Danger was rising rapidly in the man on the floor.

But Thomas was deaf to everyone and everything but himself. He sat down behind Elias and began groping and fondling his ass. Just the feeling of it made him hard as a rock, and he was on the edge already, waiting to spill over —

Thomas grabbed the broken neck of his wine bottle from the floor. He leaned forward and pressed it hard into Elias’s neck, so that a single drop of blood ran down to the floor. Elias stopped struggling and moaning, and he was suddenly like a mouse with the cat’s mouth closing in around him.

“Stay very still,” said Thomas. “I won’t enjoy this unless you stay still. Nod your head.”

A moment of stillness. Elias did nothing.

“I said,” said Thomas, pressing the glass still harder into his neck, “nod.”

Another pause. Then, Elias tried to speak, his voice frail and thin, even behind the layered gag: “Plmm, dmm-dmm thmmph.”

Thomas dropped the bottle, the mood shattering inside him. He wondered if maybe he’d have to kill Elias after all. Thomas reached for the bottleneck again —

Thump. A noise from the other room, from the storefront. An opening door. Then a voice called out:

“Elias? It’s me. Are you here?”

With silent speed, Thomas rose to his feet and hurried over to the door connecting the backroom to the store. On the door was a lock, a thin metal bar that slid into the door frame. Breathlessly, Thomas reached over, silent as he could… and slid the lock into place. Without a single creek or squeak.

And not a moment too soon. Suddenly the door rattled, as someone tried to open it. Then a knocking.

“Elias?” called the voice. “Are you there? I just wanted to ask if you’d seen Garret… Hello?”

Thomas had to stifle a laugh. He recognized the voice now. Hendrick, that red-haired hanger-on always attaching himself to Garret. So this is how the search would start? This is how they would find out Garret had disappeared? Well, someone had to be the first to ask.

… But wait. Was it really wise, for Thomas to let these rumors spread so soon? Before he was even out of town? If suddenly, the news that Garret had mysteriously disappeared started spreading, that would at the very least prompt a thorough search of the town and the surrounding woods. And worst case scenario, what if someone went back up the mountain, just to see if anything strange was going on?

Hendrick had to be stopped.

Too late now — just as Thomas had reached that conclusion, Hendrick had given up. Footsteps faded away, and the thump of the distant front door being opened again told Thomas that Hendrick was gone.

All this time, Elias had been writhing on the ground, shouting for help through his gag; but he was stuck on the other side of the room, and his extreme gag was more than enough to smother his cries, making them nearly inaudible, especially through a door.

Thomas marched back over to Elias and pulled his cloak out from under his hips. He put it on, and let the broken bottleneck in his fist tumble to the floor. On a nearby workbench was a knife in a sheath, long and wickedly curved. Thomas attached the sheath to his belt and draped his cloak over it.

Luckily there was a back door in this room, so Thomas could just slip into an alleyway and disappear back into town.

He looked down at Elias, who stared up at his captor with wide, uncertain eyes.

“Well,” said Thomas. “Guess I can’t just leave you here, can I?”

Elias breathed a sigh of relief, at least best as he could, through his gag.

Five minutes later, Elias’s head had been bound into a sack, and the rest of his body had been bound again into yet another, far bigger sack, secured from ankles to shoulders with ropes, belts, and leather straps that were left sprawling around the room. Finally, his wriggling, moaning muscled body had been dumped and stuffed into an empty chest that sat in the corner of the room; Elias could just barely fit, with his legs folded and pressed up against his chest in a semi-ball shape.

Thomas whistled as he locked the chest, feeling the strain in his groin mounting from his treatment of the handsome blue-eyed leatherworker. There’d be time to deal with his sexual urges later. For now, he slid out the backdoor, the increasingly desperate muffled wails of Elias fading to nothing behind him. Thomas threw his hood up, and made his way toward Hendrick’s house.

The he stopped. Nearly slapping his forehead at his own forgetfulness, Thomas turned back toward the leather shop.

Silly! He'd forgotten his saddle.


***


Garret lost all sense of time. The darkness of the mask was absolute. Night reigned supreme for hours on end. He was trapped in a private abyss, an abyss of agonizing waiting.

During the trip up the mountain, Hendrick alternated between attempts to shout out and alert the townsfolk what had happened, and efforts to calm himself, to center himself, as he would before a fight. But he’d spent the night bound to a chair, with his mouth plugged up and ball gagged. His nerves were frayed. His mental acuteness was fading.

Then Hendrick. After Hendrick left, Garret had nothing to do but cry into his mask. It was a crushing thought, that all this time, he’d had a great friend in Hendrick, greater than he’d ever known. And Garret had taken him for granted, for years, too focused on his own progress as a fighter, too standoffish, too blind to everything outside of his training and his precious, useless privacy.

Now there was nothing to do but sit and wait. For hours all Garret could hear was his own breathing. All he could feel was the cold prickle of mist collecting on his skin. He gave up struggling. His fate was no longer his own.

The huge gag in his mouth was anguish. Halfway through the day, the aching pain of it was almost too much to endure; the huge wadding plugging up his cheeks, sealed in by a leather ball clamped between his lips. But somehow, as the nature of his helplessness truly settled over him, the pain became nothing but distant background noise, unpleasant but endurable.

Eventually the temperature changed. His body damp from the sweat of his struggling, and the mist all around him, Garret was especially sensitive to the sudden icy drop. He shivered in his seat. If only he could walk, or rub his hands and arms for warmth.

These were the thoughts running through Garret’s head when he heard the ticking sound. Not the ticking of a clock. It was more like the distant click of huge knitting needles, clattering against each other endlessly.

Garret’s body forgot his exhaustion. He became alert as a fox, all the fear he’d managed to subdue over the day flooding back into him.

The ticking came closer.

The Beast. The Beast is here.

Closer still.

Am I about to die? But how can I die? I feel so awake…

Loud now. Garret’s whole body vibrated with the terrible ticking…

There’s nothing worse than death, is there? But what if there is? What if I ought to be praying for a quick end, instead of some terrible, unknown pain at the mercy of…

The clicking stopped, mere feet in front of Garret’s chair.

The stag mask was lifted off of his head. The sudden coolness on his skin was like a splash of ice water in his face. He breathed heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring.

Garret’s eyes widened. He saw nothing. It was as dark out in the world as it had been inside the mask. Night had come, moonless, starless.

A moment of stillness. Garret watched the black space, his eyes groping helplessly in the darkness.

Two yellow dots of light. They flared up like matches in front of him. Two feet in front of him.

The eyes considered him for a moment, shedding only dim light — but they seemed bright and glaring to Garret, after hours of darkness. He whimpered involuntarily into his gag.

The eyes seemed to reach a decision. A voice echoed out into the night:

“To the temple,” it said.

A cold finger pressed itself into the middle of Garret’s forehead. His body remembered its exhaustion; the yellow eyes blurred and dimmed; and then, Garret knew no more.




To be continued.
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DeeperThanRed
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Post by DeeperThanRed »

Great to see your work again. This new update definitely worth the wait. I'll give a review later when I have time, but you did a spectacular job!
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.

You can reach my list of written work here: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=38808#p38808
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Post by MountainMan_91 »

Amazing... I'm gonna say my favourite story ever... Absolutely genius, I love Garrets tale... Really wondering what will happen next. I hope Thomas gets Hendrick.

Great characters!!
Learning new things each day...

A list of my work...
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Post by Charmides »

So glad you're enjoying it, [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention]! And I'm super sorry about the wait -- I guess time got away from me. I'll be more timely with the next installment, promise.

[mention]MountainMan_91[/mention], you're much kinder than you have to be; I'm quite honored by your comment, and I'll try not to disappoint with the next part! (Yeah, without saying too much, it could be that Thomas and Hendrick have some catching up to do...)
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Post by bondagefreak »

[mention]Charmides[/mention] Yeah, this is definitely one of the best tales I've read on here in a while.
Very intriguing plot and likeable characters (save for Thomas).

I felt so bad for Garret in the first chapter, but now I feel almost as bad for Elias, all bound up, gagged and locked in that chest! That's some serious bondage. Really exciting and greatly enhanced by the dark, heavy and nerve-racking atmosphere you're built up.
Superb!

Waiting on the edge of my seat for this inevitable encounter between Thomas and Hendrick.
Don't keep us waiting too long!
FOR A LIST OF ALL MY WRITTEN WORKS, CLICK HERE: BONDAGEFREAK'S STORIES

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Post by Charmides »

You're too kind, [mention]bondagefreak[/mention]; thanks for stopping by! You got it, I'll try to get the next installment up sometime in another week or two. (And if I don't, feel free to lock me in a basement somewhere until I'm done.)
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Post by privateandrews »

Love this story, cant wait to read more. Has become my fav. keep up the good work..
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Post by Charmides »

You honor me, [mention]privateandrews[/mention]! Super excited that you're into it. I should have the next chapter up sometime tonight. Thanks a million, and I'll try not to disappoint!
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Post by Charmides »

PART 3

Hendrick was beginning to get worried. He’d gone to Garret’s home, he’d searched the training grounds, he’d asked around the town square and the market. But his friend was nowhere to be found.

I bet I know what’s going on, thought Hendrick, as he left Elias’s leather shop and departed for home. It’s this business with Thomas, and the sacrifice… Who can say what Garret must be feeling right now, after Thomas was disposed of like that, trussed up like an animal and abandoned on the mountain. He was a bad person, sure… but I’ve never known Garret to wish misfortune on anyone, even bad people. It must be confusing for him. I'll bet he's off on his own, maybe in the woods, or wandering around the outskirts of town.

He’ll be back. In his own time, he’ll be back.

Hendrick walked the lonely road to his home. It was a nondescript two-room cottage, set in a dusky, out-of-the way limb of the town, near the edge of the woods. It was the best he could afford, and for that, he didn’t mind it.

Just as his house came into sight over a hill, Hendrick stopped. He turned. Twilight gathered around him. He stared down the road behind him.

He could have sworn that he’d seen something moving, in the corner of his eye.

The green hills were washed with gray in the dimming light. Far-off lamps from the heart of town glinted like fireflies in the distance, but everything else around him was a blurry mass in the near-dark, like ink running on paper.

Hendrick’s hand slowly crept to his belt, where a short knife was lay waiting in its scabbard. Every now and then a wolf would slip around the outskirts of Thorn Village. Normally, they kept away from people… but sometimes, rarely, they could be bold. Hendrick’s hand tightened on the hilt.

But there was nothing. No movement, no noise of any kind.

Hendrick turned back around and kept walking toward his house, his strides long and quick, his fingers still curled around his knife.

I’m not frightened, he thought to himself, as he finally arrived at his front door and turned the knob. I’ve made this walk from town to my house a countless times. I’m not frightened.

He fumbled with the handle, slipped inside, and locked the door behind him. A few harried moments later, he’d snatched a match from a nearby dresser and lit a candle. Finally, his heartbeat started to slow.

Idiot, he thought, as he dumped some spare kindling into the fireplace and lit another match. Do you think Garret is so scared by shadows? Easy does it, Hendrick, you’re a man now, and a leatherworker. Surely you can be tougher than this… And if you can’t be, at least don’t let it show.

There was still some butter and stale bread left in his pantry, plus a few strips of jerky. They would do for dinner. Hendrick settled down to eat in front of his fire, which was now fully alive and lit the room entirely.

His thoughts were on the future. A part of Hendrick was aware that he was young, and thus especially susceptible to lovelorn melancholy… But still, he couldn’t help but consider that one day, Garret would probably leave Thorn Village. He was too good a fighter to stay. Maybe he’d enlist as a soldier in the Emerald Empire, or work as a guard at one of the big cities, like Farthen, or Red Haven. He could even get a swanky job as a bodyguard for some aristocratic family.

So many possible paths. And all of them seemed to lead Garret away from Hendrick.

The next day, Hendrick resolved, he’d find Garret. He’d talk to him. Not to make a dramatic confession, of course… Nothing like that… But he wanted to be around his friend. Maybe if Hendrick could just see him, just talk to him, things would become clearer.

Hendrick sighed, chewing a crust of bread and gazing into the fire, completely unaware of the deathly white face staring at him through the window. The face vanished. Hendrick thought for a moment that he’d seen something in his peripheral… but probably not. Maybe a moth outside. Or the light of the fire, bouncing off the glass.

Hendrick didn’t even bother to change out of his clothes. Exhaustion settling inside him, he lumbered into the house's second room, the bedroom, and collapsed face down onto his bed. Instantly, darkness swallowed him.


***


The dream was sudden and vivid, like a dagger slicing into Hendrick’s mind. He stood alone in a forest, at the height of day. The forest was alive with green light, filtering down from the canopy. The trees twisted and bent as the wind began to pick up, tearing through the brush, sending up whirlwinds of dead leaves.

The ground began to break open. Hendrick’s eyes widened. Everywhere he turned, he saw roots snaking out of the earth, some as thin as twine, others as thick as his leg. They writhed around him like a swamp of snakes. Even the massive trees seemed to be leaning toward him, their branches outstretched like horrible, long-fingered claws.

Would this be Hendrick’s life? Dreaming of chaos, dreaming that he was bound by the forces of nature, unable to do anything but wait while things beyond his control swept over him like the tide? The roots licked at his feet, almost upon him —

No.

Hendrick didn’t say the word, but he seemed to feel it, as if he’d spoken it with his mind instead of his mouth. Some strange instinct told him to raise his right hand, and he did, his palm facing the incoming barge of vines and branches like a wall.

The branches stopped. As if they were suddenly frozen in place, they stopped in midair. Hendrick gasped in surprise.

Then, curious, he tried to speak with his mind again.

Recede.

The plants did so. They pulled away from him, pooling in circles around him like clouds of debris orbiting a planet in rings. The roots and vines waited there, turning and slithering uncertainly, like dogs brought to heel by their master.

You are not in control. I am.

Every tree in the forest seemed to bow before him. Not reaching toward him to hurt him, but showing deference.

Hendrick felt a lightness in his chest, and he smiled with the shocked delight of complete satisfaction. How long had it been, since Hendrick had really felt any control of anything?

Now, in this dream, he somehow felt that having power was possible.

As the natural world bowed before him, Hendrick felt the world tremble around him. A distant, rhythmic boom, like thunder. Boom. Boom. The leaves shivered with every tremor. Boom.

Footsteps.


***


Hendrick’s eyes flashed open just as the cloaked figure stepped over his bed. In the faint moonlight of his window, Hendrick could see the outline of his body, tall, broad shouldered, cloaked, and stooping over him; a wickedly curved smile was carved into the intruder’s face, and he held a long coil of rope in his hands.

Without thinking, Hendrick let out a shout of terror, and before the shadowy figure could make a move, Hendrick sent his leg flying straight up in the air.

THWACK. The foot connected to the figure’s face. Hendrick heard something crunch, and the shadow recoiled. With greater speed than Hendrick knew he possessed, he rolled out of bed, scrambled to his feet, and bolted for the door.

He crashed out of his bedroom, then out of his house, into the biting night air. He sprinted toward town — even now, so late at night, there were still a few lamps lit in the distance. If he could just outrun the demon behind him —

In spite of himself, Hendrick turned back, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The figure was hot on his heels, the cloak billowing out on either side of him like the wings of a huge raptor. His face was grim and wide-eyed, his nose smeared with black blood, like the face of a ghost, terrifyingly familiar in the dim pale light of the moon…

Hendrick’s heart nearly stopped. Thomas. It was Thomas.

Hendrick turned away from pursuer and tried to put on a burst of speed, real terror beginning to pound through his body.

Stop, thought Hendrick wildly, feeling his flailing legs starting to weaken under him.

Stop. Please. Stop.

Behind him, Thomas suddenly tripped over an old root poking out of the ground. He stumbled, slowed, then somehow regained his footing.

Thomas let out a shrill, animal cry that chilled Hendrick to the soul, and put on a sudden burst of unnatural speed. The sound of Thomas’s footsteps suddenly stopped, as if the phantom had actually grown wings and started to fly — and then wham. Thomas tackled Hendrick from behind, driving them both to the ground.

In a tangle of limbs, in a pure white-hot panic, Hendrick reached for his knife. Then there was a sharp blow to his head, and then, nothing.


***


Hendrick awoke on the floor of his living room. The fire cracked loudly beside him. He blinked the grogginess from his eyes, then remembered what had just happened. He was instantly completely alert. He tried to jump to his feet and run — but found that he couldn’t.

He struggled, but looked down to find that his legs were bound heavily with rope. His ankles, shins, above and below his knees, and his upper thighs has been tightly bound with various lengths of rope, each coil cinched in the middle. Hendrick’s shoes and socks were gone, leaving his pale feet to struggle aimlessly in the firelight.

There was a strange tightness around his crotch. To his shock, Hendrick saw that he’d been tied into a viciously tight crotch-tie. His package had been bound up by a series of ropes that squeezed his genitals, even through his pants, and left his member aching for release from the cramped pocket of cloth that it was stuffed in. A length of rope had even been pulled tightly up the seat of his pants, digging into his ass and rendering the crotch tie even tighter. In vastly different circumstances, this sort of stimulation might have aroused Hendrick, but now, the fear was like a river overflowing its banks, washing away everything else in a rush of white water.

Hendrick’s wrists been tied to his thighs, cementing his hands by his sides. Not only that, but his hands had been forced into fists, and those fists had been forced into small cloth bags, tied tightly closed with twine that dig into his skin. Even if he’d been able to each any of the knots, there was no chance of undoing them now.

The last surprise was the realization that he was shirtless. His leanly muscled frame was bathed in a cold sweat. He looked around, wondering vaguely where his shirt could have gone.

There in a chair in the corner sat Thomas. He stood up and stepped into the light. Hendrick felt like someone had dipped his heart in ice water — Thomas looked like a creature sent straight up from hell, or straight down from Mount Thorn. His head, shorn and scarred, his eyes, wild and bloodshot. He smiled a smile that was more habit than expression of joy.

“You got blood on my shirt, Hendrick,” said Thomas. “I’m borrowing yours.”

Indeed, Thomas had pulled on Hendrick’s white tunic; it was nearly too small for him, his thick chest and biceps straining against the cloth, making him look all the more imposing. Thomas stomped over to Hendrick and knelt down beside his head.

Hendrick swallowed, and finally found his voice. “What are you… How did you… You went up the mountain. I saw you.”

Thomas snickered and reached into his pocket. “Oh, this must be confusing for you, I’m sure. But Hendrick, from now on, you have nothing to say to me.”

Then Thomas lunged forward with a snarl, forcing open Hendrick’s mouth and shoving in one of Hendrick’s socks. Hendrick garbled some muffled exclamation of surprise, and tried to twist his head away, but too late — Thomas pressed on the mass violently with his fingers, stuffing it in all the way the back of Hendrick’s throat.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Hendrick,” said Thomas. “You’re looking for Garret. You’ve seen my face. You know what that means? I can’t let you out of here, my little ginger friend.” He ruffled Hendrick’s hair with his free hand, then reached into his pocket again. Hendrick just stared blankly up at his captor, not really knowing what Thomas was talking about.

“The first thing we're going to do is play a game. Call it the sock game. The game is, I stuff as many socks as I can into your mouth. You lose if your choke. You won round one, congratulations. Now, round two.”

Another sock in hand, Thomas thrust it in front of the first, kneading and prodding it between Hendrick’s pink lips. He tried to protest, to cry out, to scream for help — “Hmlmp! Wmph! HMMMPH!” — but the worn material continued plugging up his mouth. Hendrick wasn’t sure he could take it, but Thomas was able to get the whole second sock in.

Thomas nodded. “Good on you, big-mouth.”

Then he pulled off his own shoes, and peeled off one of his own socks. Hendrick stared incredulously at the damp-looking cloth in Thomas’s hand, trying again to plead for mercy, to writhe away, to do something…

“Round three,” Thomas said.


He plunged the sock into Hendrik’s gaping mouth, his choked whimpers growing all the more desperate with every spare inch of fabric that Thomas shoved inside his gob.

I can’t take it, thought Hendrick in a daze, I’m going to choke.

“Open wider,” growled Thomas.

Knowing that his option was either to obey or suffocate, Thomas obliged, and opened his mouth as wide as he could. Shockingly, this created just enough space to get the job done. Thomas finally finished packing the third sock into Hendrick’s now thoroughly gagged mouth.

Before Hendrick could even catch his breath, Thomas had pulled off his other sock.

“Round four,” he said, abruptly jamming the cloth into the mass now threatening to spill from Hendrick’s mouth.

Hendrick knew immediately that he couldn’t take it. The packing was already as compressed as it could be. The new pressure just started pushing the heavy cloth mass further back into the mouth, further and further —

The stuffing began to slide down Hendrick’s throat. He couldn’t breathe. His head bucked violently as he began to choke.

He’s going to kill me, thought Hendrick. He’s going to kill me and he doesn’t care, because it’s just a game.

Thomas watched curiously for a moment as Hendrick bucked on the floor beneath him. Then, he removed the fourth sock. Hendrick readjusted the packing as quickly as he could, getting it out of his throat, trying to spit it out — but Thomas slapped his hand over Hendrick’s lips.

“You lose,” said Thomas. Then he removed his hand just long enough to pull the fourth and final sock into a long, thin strip, and to tie it into a cleave gag around Hendrick’s near-overstuffed mouth.

Thomas stared down at Hendrick, who was left red-faced and concentrating heavily on breathing properly with the huge gag stuffing up his cheeks. With an expression of sheer, thoughtless hunger on his face, Thomas swiftly straddled Hendrick’s hips, eliciting a cry of surprise from Hendrick.

“Oh, you should see what I see, Hendrick,” said Thomas, leaning down close and whispering breathlessly into Thomas’s ear. “You, your body, tied up, gagged, all for me… If you could see yourself, you’d know.”

Thomas started fondling Hendrick’s bound package, making the bound red-head jump in surprise. Hendrick’s mind was a typhoon of thoughts and feelings, the terror omnipresent, but now a reluctant arousal sleeping in around the edges. He struggled to throw off his tormentor, but only ended up grinding his body further against Thomas’s. Hendrick gurgled behind his gag in muffled exasperation. "Bmmph... Hmmmplmmph..."

Hendrick saw something sliver gleam in front of his face, and he froze. Thomas was holding a knife directly in front of Hendrick’s face.

“If you’re useful to me,” he whispered, “you’ll live.”

Thomas dismounted his captive, and brought the knife down to Hendrick’s crotch. Hendrick tried to stay as still as stone. What was Thomas going to do?

With a small, swift flick of the knife, Thomas sliced off the button of Hendrick’s trousers. Then he cast the knife aside, and ripped the rest of the front of his pants open, without even having to untie the crotch rope. Hendrick’s member sprang out, throbbing and pulsating in the cool air. Hendrick glowed red with mortification.

Thomas stood up, and took in his captive completely, from his bound ankles to his gagged mouth. He licked his lips.

“I think,” he said, “that you’ll be useful to me. I’m taking you with me. Let’s get you ready for transport.”

Thomas went through a small nearby chest of drawers, and found some twine. He knelt down, and carefully, almost tenderly, started tying up Hendrick’s genitals, this time without the pants in the way. He bound the string around the base of Hendrick's testicles, then around his shaft, enclosing Hendrick in a net-like network of rope. Thomas gave the cock a quick, hard tug, forcing a moan of pain and reluctant pleasure from Hendrick’s gagged mouth.

“I wouldn’t want you getting soft on the trip,” said Thomas, lightly circling one finger around the head of Hendrick's penis. “I’ll stop every now and the to make sure you’re still excited.”

Thomas spent the next twenty minutes completing Hendrick’s bondage. He used yet more rope to tie Hendrick’s muscled, lean torso in a complicated, restricting harness; then he found a few spare cloths and handkerchiefs lying around, and used no less than four to add some over-the-mouth layers to Hendrick’s gag. A fifth, black cloth, he used as a blindfold. Finally, he pulled the blankets from Hendrick’s bed, and rolled up his captive’s bound body in them, like an insect in a cocoon. These blankets were then reinforced with even more lengths of rope. By the end of it, Hendrick was reduced to nothing but a trussed up sausage.

Hendrick threw the mass of blankets over his shoulder, and left the cottage, stepping out into the night.

“You know, Hendrick,” said Thomas, “I think things are finally starting to go well for me.”

Hendrick cried out helplessly in his gag, writhing and struggling, trying to calm his arousal… but his mind kept going back to one thing, as he tried to put together the pieces of what had happened to him that night.

Had Thomas escaped from the Beast? How could he have escaped?

And another piece of this mystery gnawed at him, demanding an answer:

Where was Garret?


***


Garret woke up. In a rush, he remembered everything that had happened… Thomas, the deception, the trip up the mountain, the hours spent bound in a chair, the yellow eyes… For all that, you’d think he would have woken with a pained, panicking mind.

But no. Garret awoke from the most profoundly restful sleep he’d ever had. In a dizzy state of near-sleep, he looked around, attempting to get his bearings.

He was no longer bound by ropes… but he was still unable to move his arms. In the scattered light of nearby torches, he looked down and found that he was suspended in the air, in a spread-eagle position, immobilized by something sticky. White strands of rope stuck to his limbs like glue.

The web sat in a circular plateau amongst the rocks, lined with torches. And a ways ahead of Garret, in a steep, flat cliff-face on the other side of the plateau, was an archway, leading into a dark cave. The entrance was ancient, by the looks of it, carved long ago, worn down by time and the elements.

Tick. Tick. Click-click tick.

A shape materialized in the doorway. Long black legs stepped out into the wavering firelight, and something tall slowly emerged, each leg striking the stone with the short, sharp sound of a hammer on a nail.

It was a centaur, with the body of a vast black spider, and the torso of a man. Rising from the dark arachnid abdomen was a male human torso — marble white, and impossibly beautiful. Chiseled, statuesque muscles rippled in the shadows, a lean waist, a broad, muscular chest, thick arms, and a young face that was both gentle and strong, with a razor sharp jaw line, full lips, and hair as black as death, pulled behind him in a ponytail.

He gazed at Garret with implacable yellow eyes, then advanced forward.

“Are you the Beast?” Garret asked dumbly. He felt strange, almost drugged.

“Hush,” said the creature, in a soothing, husky baritone. Now the man’s face was mere inches away from Garret’s. “Hush, my love, the sun is nearly up. To the temple.”

“Please… I’m not the one you want… I’m not —”

“Hush,” said the creature again, and he suddenly leaned forward and caught Garret’s mouth in a kiss. It was long and slow and deep, as the creature explored Garret’s mouth, with his lips, his tongue, probing deep, tasting and relishing…

This is death, thought Garret, a single tear spilling absurdly down his cheek. This creature is going to put me down like a dog, giving me pleasure to distract me, and then, when I least expect it…

The creature pulled away, leaving Garret short of breath. Before he could say anything else, the front two legs of the creature’s spider-body reached up and began spinning a web around his head. In an instant, Garret’s mouth had been sealed shut by a sticky coil of webbing pulled over his mouth.

The legs acted quickly, detaching Garret’s limbs from the web only to pin them to his body with yet more sticky strands. Finally, Garret was left in a bound cocoon, everything from the bottom of his feet to his mouth tightly wrapped in the sticky substance. The creature took Garret in his human arms, turned, and walked to the archway.

Garret tried weakly to object, to writhe away — “Hmmpmm, plmmmph…” — but the creature only held him tighter. “I’m sorry, my love,” it said, and kissed Garret’s forehead warmly.

They passed through the arches. For a while, they traveled in total darkness. Then, a brightness appeared up ahead, a pinpoint of light lancing through the darkness.

Soon they emerged. A third plateau. But no rocks surrounded this circular expanse — there was only sky and clouds on every side.

They had reached the peak of Mount Thorn.

There was no mist up here, they had left that behind long ago. The sky was just now starting to brighten, the sun stoking the clouds with pink and gold embers.

In the center of the plateau was a low stone table. Standing at the head of this stone table was a statue. A statue of a dragon, standing on its hind legs, it’s wings outstretched. It roared silently at the sky.

The spider-creature set down Garret’s body on the table and stepped away. The creature sunk to the floor in a position of deference, and stretched out his arms to the statue.

“For the Great Subjugator,” said the creature. “All spoils are yours.”

There was a moment of enormous silence. Even the wind became hushed. Garret looked up, but all he could see was the underside of the stone dragon’s jaw.

The silence went on. The spider-creature shifted, slowly stood. He looked uncertainly to the statue.

“My Lord…?”

BOOM. A bolt of lightning hammered through the sky above them. With supernatural speed, clouds began rolling in, dark and heavy. Again, a flash of light and a roll of thunder — again — and again.

The spider creature rushed forward and grabbed the petrified Garret off of the stone table, then went sprinting back into the tunnel, the long black legs slicing the air with incredible speed and precision. Just as they escaped into the darkness, Garret heard something he would need forget. A noise that was not thunder. It was low, and long, and angry. Something from the clouds that was almost a word. That was almost alive.

When they had finally gotten far enough into the tunnels so that the noise of the storm had faded behind them, the creature stopped. Garret could feel its chest heaving. The only light was the very faint glow of the creature’s yellow eyes. It looked at Garret with something between fright and awe.

“Who are you?” it asked.


***


Garret was glad to have his limbs and mouth free, for the first time in over twenty-four hours. He sat on a boulder in the strange lair of the spider-creature, drinking a cup of water and trying to will his shaking to subside.

The creature lived in a cave, deep in the tunnels, but not the kind of cave you’d expect. This cave was almost a home. A vast and cavernous space, on one side was a large web that dominated at least a third of the room; this is where the creature slept. The other side had a fireplace, carved into the wall, and a perfectly functional chimney. There were stones for sitting, a very old wooden chest with some odds and ends inside (this is where Garret’s blanket was from), and even a table, not unlike the table on the mountain’s summit. This is where Garret sat now. All in all, surprisingly domestic.

Garret’s fear of the Beast, whatever it might be, was gone. This creature, whatever it had intended to do with him on the mountaintop, was kind in its heart, like a servant forced to carry out a burdensome task. It was gentle with Garret, its voice was soothing, and never since they fled from the storm had Garret felt as if he was in danger.

The creature sat by the fire. Garret had just finished his story, telling the creature what had happened, how he had been sent up the mountain by mistake — how the real sacrifice, the one who'd been named in the choosing ceremony, had swapped places with him, and escaped.

The creature gave a long sigh. “It’s never happened this way before,” it said. “Never has a sacrifice gone so wrong. Oh, my love… It cannot stand.”

Garret put the cup back down on the table. “Thomas could be anywhere,” he said. “Anywhere at all.”

The creature turned to Garret. “Do you know what will happen, my love, if Thomas Clayborn is not brought to the summit?”

Garret shook his head.

“The Great Subjugation,” said the creature. “No one will be safe. The question is not, how do you find Thomas Clayborn. The question is, how soon can you bring him back?”

Garret stared at his empty cup. Then he stood up, his blanket falling to the ground behind him.

“I can bring him back,” said Garret. And in his gut, he knew it. There was a fire in him he’d never felt before. All his life, he had spent training the discipline of his mind and body. But he'd never truly had a quest. Never had he a real objective, a way to put his hard-won skills to use. Now it was here, and Garret seized on it. Was it justice? Was it revenge? Garret couldn’t tell.

But he would not be denied.

“Can you help me?” Garret asked.

“No, my love, I am bound to the mountain by very old magics. If I leave, I will die.”

Garret nodded. He knew he should have felt pain, and terror, and hopelessness. But he didn’t. He suddenly felt a quiet in his heart, as if stood in the eye of a storm.

The creature seemed to look at Garret with new eyes, as he stood there, the trembling finally subsiding. “You’re a fighter,” said the creature.

“Yes,” Garret said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. “How did you know?”

“I can see it clearly.” The creature stood up and walked to Garret. At his full height, standing on his enormous spider legs, the creature stood a good five feet taller than Garret. But it sunk down till its abdomen lay on the floor, and suddenly the two almost seemed to be the same height. The creature reached out, and pressed something into Garret’s hand. Garret looked into his palm; it was a smooth, translucent yellow stone, a yellow that was just as transfixing as the creature’s eyes.

“A fighter, I can teach,” said the creature. “When you sleep, hold this close to you. I can be of some help yet.”

Garret nodded. Then, two very obvious questions occurred to him at the same time.

“What’s your name?” Garret asked.

“Inyatala.”

“Why did you kiss me, Inyatala?”

Inyatala smiled. “You are young and beautiful, and I am old and lonely. I would kiss you again, if you let me.”

Garret laughed, and felt his face grow warm. “I suppose that… Well… If you really want tmmph…”

Inyatala cut him off by planting his mouth on Garret’s, placing one hand on the small of his back and the other behind his neck. The kiss was long and hungry, and who knew how long it might have gone on — until finally, Garret gently pulled away.

“I should leave,” Garret said. “If I’m going to find Thomas.”

“Don’t linger,” said Inyatala, running his hand through Garret’s hair. “Five days at the most. After five days, there’s no telling what the mountain might do.”

“Five days,” Garret said. He thought of the wide world, of all the places Thomas could be — in some distant kingdom, or lost in the wilderness, or even dead in a ditch.

Garret steeled himself. “In five days,” he said, “I will return.”


***


It was near noon by the time Garret reached Thorn Village. The mountain path was long, but Garret made all possible haste. He knew that he needed time… not only to catch Thomas, but also, to spread the truth.

The first hours of the afternoon passed in a blur. Garret ran to Mayor Barlon’s house, banged and the door, and demanded that the Mayor call a meeting, citing the Beast, a mistake on Mount Thorn, the end of the world, and so on. All of this was more than enough to put a panicky spring in Barlon’s step, and he called the meeting.

In the town meeting hall, once the people were assembled, Garret told his story. From anyone else, the town might not have believed such a tale… But they knew Garret to be of good, honest character, and besides, during the storm at the mountaintop, even some townsfolk down in Thorn Village had heard the far-off clamor of thunder.

Volunteers were quickly assembled to patrol the perimeter of the town, to search the whole village see if Thomas was still there, and Garret began assembling supplies for his journey. Since he was the best fighter in town, he would have been the one to go after Thomas anyway, even if his stake in the matter wasn’t so personal.

But there was one thing Garret needed to do before he left. He needed to find Hendrick.

Hendrick’s words to him on the mountain had been weighing heavily on Garret’s mind all the past day, and before he did anything else, he needed to thank his friend for his compassion, his steadfastness, his loyalty.

Garret was surprised to arrive at Hendrick’s house and find the front door open. Hendrick was nowhere to be found.

If anyone knows where he is, thought Garret, it would be Elias. So Garret went to the leather shop, which he’d visited many times before, both for purchasing, and to simply share an occasional word with Hendrick and Elias. Garret was just as surprised to find the shop closed as he had been to find Garret’s front door open.

He knocked on the door. “Hello? Elias?” No answer.

Garret decided to head in through the back door; maybe Elias was working in the back room, and couldn’t hear him. So Garret slipped through the alley behind the store, and knocked on the door. Again, no answer. He tried the handle — it was unlocked.

Garret poked his head inside and called out “Hello? Hendrick? Elias?”

There didn’t seem to be anything amiss. Just an empty room, with a number of leather articles in various states of completion strewn about.

A glimmer of light caught Garret’s eye. On the floor, over by the saddles. There was a scattering of broken glass on the floor.

Then, in the absolute stillness, Garret heard a faint noise.

“…Mmmph… Mmblmmph… Hmmph…”

It was coming from the chest.


***


Once Garret had gotten Elias out of his heavy bonds, and removed the horse bit and cloth gag from his mouth, he immediately ran into the street and called for the town doctor. Soon the doctor was there, tending to Elias’s rope burn and administering water in small doses.

Elias told them the story. How Thomas had appeared, tied him up, gagged him, stuffed him in a chest, and had apparently stolen one of his saddles. They were eventually able to get Elias back to his home and get him bed, to recover from his trauma.

If Garret had felt any apprehension about pursuing Thomas before; any remaining wisp of the mercy that had prompted Garret to visit Thomas at the granary in the first place; it evaporated after he had seen what Thomas had done to Elias.

And Hendrick was still nowhere to be found.

If anyone knew what had happened to him, it would be Thomas.

Then, finally, a bit of luck — at least, in a very macabre way. Before Garret left, a few townsfolk found him and told him that Thomas had stolen a horse from a stable on the western edge of town the night before. The western edge — the only road that left Thorn Village from the west led directly to Red Haven, the closest big city in the realm. That, then, would have to be where Garret started.

The stablehand, a young man around Garret’s age, had been found hogtied and gagged, his mouth stuffed with his own socks and the secured with rope. He’d been struggling there all day, trying to get someone’s attention, but Thomas had taken a pitchfork and buried the poor young man in a pile of hay. The stablehand had nearly suffocated in the night.

But the most disturbing detail: Thomas had taken something with him. In the dark, the stablehand thought it had looked like a carpet. But Garret knew better.

Thomas had kidnapped Hendrick. Why, who could say. Horrors multiplied, left in the wake of a madman like downed trees and destroyed homes in the aftermath of a hurricane. Garret’s mission before had been to bring a villain to justice. Now, it was to find his friend.

Finally Garret was ready to leave. The town had lent him a horse, and a week’s worth of supplies. Garret took his personal sword with him; a one-handed affair, a blade that sat between a cutlass and a rapier. How many times over the last two days had Garret silently wished to have his sword with him? But now it was strapped to his waist again, and the road called him. He stepped onto his horse. After all the preparing and planning, it was late afternoon; the shadows were just now starting to lengthen. Not much time before dark. Garret urged his horse forward —

“Wait! Garret!”

Garret stopped, and turned his horse in the direction of the voice. Trotting up being him on another horse was Elias. He had a bag slung over his back, his muscles bulging as he maneuvered his horse’s reigns, and the wind tousled his black salted hair. Elias pulled the reigns and his horse stopped.

“The doctor told me what happened to you,” Elias said. “And what happened to Hendrick. I’m coming with you.”

“Elias,” Garret said, “you’ve just been through an ordeal. I appreciate your support, but you really need to be in bed.”

“Garret, my friend,” said Elias, “you weren’t listening. I’m not asking for your permission. Look at me and tell me I’m weak.”

Garret took in Elias, sitting on his horse, his face unusually dark and hard-set.

“You’re not weak,” said Garret.

“Tell me I’m foolish,” said Elias.

“You’re not foolish.”

“I tend to agree with you. So, to Red Haven then?”

Garret considered for a moment. A traveling companion might slow him down.

But then, Garret wasn’t the only one with justice on his mind.

“How are you on a horse?” asked Garret.

“Been riding since I was a boy. Longer than you, my friend.”

Garret nodded. “There’s not much daylight. We should be off.”

“That, we should.”

“And Elias… I’ll be glad of your company.”

A small smile broke through Elias’s grim demeanor, and for a moment, he was his gentle old self. “And I yours, Garret.”

The sun setting ahead of them, Garret and Elias started down the road and plunged into the dimness of the forest. And far above them all, above the trees, above the village, above the mountains, something began to roar at the peak of Mount Thorn. Something vast and unspeakable not entirely mortal. Something that was hungry.




To be continued.
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MountainMan_91
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Post by MountainMan_91 »

Wow. What an amazing update. This is such a great tale, I love the setting and you do an unbelievably good job at world building! I wish you could teach me.

I have a strange suspicion there was some foreshadowing for Hendrick... I hope!

This is truly a masterpiece.
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LexMachina
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Post by LexMachina »

Just wonderful. I loved the part with Hendrick and Thomas. I can't wait to read the next chapter :)
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DeeperThanRed
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Post by DeeperThanRed »

Poor Henry. Thomas really has a wicked taste in gags.

I loved the suspense and tension filling the whole chapter, even the unusual romance between Garret and the Beast. Can't wait for the climax coming closer.
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.

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Post by Charmides »

[mention]MountainMan_91[/mention] [mention]LexMachina[/mention] [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention] You guys are the best -- thanks a million for the kind words, and I couldn't be happier that you're having a good time with this. Much love to you, and see you at the next update!
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Post by bondagefreak »

Holy fuck I can't wait to see Garret apprehend Thomas! When they do manage to capture the sod, they'll have to rope him down real tight and gag him with the same zeal he used when gagging Elias and Hendrick.

On a sidenote, I kinda like Thomas.
He's a clever guy, and that sockgagging games totally sounds like something I would do 8-)

Masterfully written, as always.
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Post by Charmides »

I should have known you'd take a liking to Thomas, [mention]bondagefreak[/mention] -- come to think of it, I'd love to put you two in a room together with a coil of rope, and see who comes out on top. (Place your bets, everyone.) Thanks as always for the kind words, my friend!
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Post by Tsuhaya »

Incredible history! I really like how you put tug and fantasy into one story, just wonderful!

And I think it best to stay away from this Thomas, this game of sockgag made me worried :lol:
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