Ive never commented and haven't been on this website in months, but I love this series so much I had to check and just happened to look 2 days after an update.
This series is consistently suprising and so much fun! That chapter ending was so well done, seriously! You're giving this very specific type of story a level of effort and depth I've never really seen anything like before and I really appreciate.
[mention]privateandrews[/mention] My friend, it's very cosmic that you commented when you did; I've been working on the latest chapter for the past few days, and I should be ready to post it sometime tonight.
I think I remember writing somewhere on this site that I was hoping to have a "productive summer," which, um... (sigh). I have to apologize, not only because I haven't updated this story in a while, but because I'm sure I've been missing out on a lot of excellent stories that have been uploaded by some of this site's fantastic M/M authors over the past few weeks. I'm really looking forward to making up for lost time, and diving into some impeccable rope-centric literature.
Also, as always, I wanted to give a huge thank-you to you folks who've been kind enough to keep reading this monster, and even drop a few comments; [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention], [mention]Mummyboi[/mention], [mention]Viperbound7[/mention], [mention]dahanband[/mention], [mention]MountainMan_91[/mention], [mention]sharpliketoday[/mention], [mention]Volobond[/mention] -- love you guys. And [mention]WaffleSquidge[/mention], I couldn't be more flattered that you decided to jump onto our little band wagon! Eternal thanks for your kindness.
Really hope you enjoy what's coming next, friends; I'll see you on the other side of the next update...
[mention]Charmides[/mention], so nice to see you again. This summer has been rough for people all around the world and it's more important for you to be safe and sound rather than productive. With that being said, I do look forward to reading more of your work.
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
[mention]Charmides[/mention] So glad to hear you'll be continuing this epic, my friend!
Can't tell you how happy I am. I think this news'll be brightening up a LOT of people's week
[mention]Opal[/mention]
Welcome onboard, mate!
We're always glad to have a new reviewer join us!
Hope you stick around. This is a great place to be.
The sight of Garret in the street had brought a clarity to Thomas’s mind as sharp and sudden as a crack of lightning. It was impossible for him to be alive. Impossible. There was only one conceivable reason why Garret still walked the land of the living.
So that Thomas could take him.
Before Garret was even out of sight, walking in the direction of the old warehouse, Thomas swiftly and silently wheeled his cart of coffins down a series of abandoned back alleys. As soon as he found a desolate corner he was sure no one would come across, he threw a nearby rotting sheet over the stack of boxes, and dashed back the way he came, black cloak snapping at his ankles.
He peered around the corner, back into the main dusty road. There was Garret. He had almost reached the warehouse. Thomas followed.
At a safe distance, Thomas crept along, his eyes fixed on Garret’s broad back, his mind resonating with one idea: It could be now. I could take him, right now.
If it had been anyone else, that was what Thomas would have done. He would have exploded out of the shadows like a demonic aberration out of hell, overwhelmed his prey with force and rope, and then retreated back to his lair, his prey twitching pathetically in his claws, feeble and conquered.
But Thomas had a vision of Garret, back in Thorn Village. The village tournament. The wrestling match, which seemed an eternity ago. How Garret had won.
It could be now, Thomas thought, as the sun sank, and he watched from a block away as Garret exited the warehouse, coming back down the street toward him. But I’m better than that. I’m better than him. Smarter. I won’t challenge him out in the open.
He has to sleep sometime.
Thomas smiled like a wolf, and followed Garret back into the fire-lit noise of the populous parts of the city, holding back, waiting.
Soon they were quite near the city gates, and Garret did the thing that Thomas was most hoping for. Garret walked through the doors of an inn.
I’ll scale the wall, thought Thomas giddily, pacing the street two blocks away from the door Garret had vanished into. I’ll scale the wall and crawl through a window, like a creature out of legend, a vampire. Invite me in, or reject me — I will have you either way.
Then Garret walked out of the inn. Thomas’s pace faltered, wondering if Garret might have been visiting someone, or if he would return to the inn later that night…
A distant noise, getting closer. Thomas heard the harsh clapping of hooves, shouts and shrieks a few streets away. This interested everyone else in the street, their heads turning toward the ruckus. But not Thomas. His eyes stayed solemnly bound to his target.
Garret started moving toward the noise. Thomas followed.
Soon Garret stood at the mouth of an alley, watching and listening as the chaotic sounds came closer. Thomas found a dark spot in another alley directly across the street, and stared at Garret over the lamplit road separating them. Garret’s face was hypnotic. Thomas imagined what he would do, when Garret was in his clutches.
He could keep him, or kill him. Both options had their bizarre, beautiful eroticism…
A horse with two riders sped by in a blur, but all Thomas could see was Garret’s face, as it suddenly lit up, and he opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, to shout — when suddenly the dark figures standing behind Garret became starkly visible. They inched forward, and like vipers, hands shot out and grasped their prey. Garret’s mouth vanished beneath a pair of hands, his lips abruptly crushed beneath the pressure of the palms. More hands curled around his wrists, arms, legs. One of the four figures behind Garret raised a club, brought it down on the back of his head, and his body went limp.
Thomas blinked rapidly, mouth agape as he recovered from the shock. His prize. His prize was being stolen.
He had to get closer. Not seen, but closer. He ran across the thoroughfare, barely paying heed to the heavy winds rushing through the street, nearly knocking him off balance. He rushed into an empty alley, turned a corner, and found himself behind Garret and his attackers, watching as they subdued their captive.
Ropes were quickly bound around Garret’s wrists individually, which were then anchored tightly to his upper thighs. To Thomas’s surprise, the kidnappers began to weave ropes over and around the hefty pouch of Garret’s package, drawing the ropes tight, yanking them up, and fixing them around his waist. At first Thomas thought this was needlessly sensual, but, there was some logic to it; if struggling brought unnecessary pain and tightness to the crotch, then the victim was certain to do a little less struggling. This, Thomas would remember.
More coils of rope were quickly looped over Garret’s torso, from just below his belly button to directly underneath his chest, his muscles straining over the tightness of the ropes. The same coiling was applied to his ankles, his shins, and his thighs. The figures fit two small leather bags over Garret’s dangling hands, pulling their drawstrings tight at the wrists rendering his fingers useless.
The man who’d been holding Garret upright till now, as the others finished their work with impressive speed, reached into his pocket and pulled out a black shape. In the dim light Thomas could make out a wide, dark leather panel dangling from two buckles, and on one side, a large soft-looking sack of some sort had been sewn, like a fist-sized black pillow. Thomas suspected he knew its purpose.
And his suspicions were immediately confirmed as the kidnapper forced Garret’s jaws open and crammed the ball into his mouth, the panel fighting tightly over his lower face as the buckles in the back were tightened, one notch at a time, Garret’s cheeks bulging over the top of the leather more and more as pressure was applied.
Finally it seemed that kidnappers deemed the gag tight enough. They buckled it and whipped out a long brown bag, which they immediately threw over Garret’s head, and began to feed his body into. Once it was completely inside, the kidnappers hoisted the heavy parcel off the ground, tied off the end of the bag with a small length of rope, and used yet more rope to tie a few final coils around the bag, trapping the unconscious body inside completely.
Next came something Thomas hadn’t expected. One of the figures ducked over to a nearby pool of shadows, and emerged with a cart, covered with straw. He brushed away some straw, and there beneath it, there were three more bound and bagged bodies, lying there silent and still. The kidnappers wasted no time; they dumped Garret quickly beside his fellow captives, brushed the straw once again over the heavily roped bags, and then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, casually made their way out into the open street. No one paid them any mind. The wind had subsided, and the city guard was busy rushing toward the gates, preoccupied with whatever madness had just transpired.
The kidnappers made their way deeper into the city, their cart of hay bouncing harmlessly over the cobblestones as they went. Thomas’s lip curled, his brain swimming in jealousy and contempt. He drew his hood as low over his face as it would go, and followed.
***
Ritzak paced the drawing room of Lord Castero’s lavish residence. White tiled floor, tasteful art on the walls, servants, vases of exotic ferns. Ritzak grimaced at the opulence.
Castero himself sat on a nearby sofa, his newest acquisition seated beside him. Mendu had been allowed out of his white servant’s uniform… although, granted, he hadn’t been given anything to replace it with. The muscular dark-skinned young man had been stripped by Castero down to a pair of tight, thin white briefs, through which Castero absently fondled his balls while looking up with curiosity a Ritzak.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down?” asked Castero, gesturing with his pale, graceful fingers toward a nearby armchair. “We’d welcome the company.”
Ritzak glanced at Castero, and his new toy. Mendu’s entire body had been bound expertly in white rope, an intricate and ornate style that spoke more of artistry than brute security. But, the ropes seemed to accomplish their task. The young man sat with his arms bound behind his back, his torso harnessed, and his legs trussed tightly together. He was still gagged as he had been before by Castero, with two large, soft sponges stuffing up his mouth, held in by a huge white ball gag that secured the stuffing and completely plugged up the servant’s distended lips. Most superfluous of all were the two small clips, like tiny wooden clothespins, that Castero had fastened to the servant’s nipples, clips which swayed as his broad chest heaved. Mendu continued to moan, softly and rhythmically, as Castero massaged his package. His eyelids sporadically fluttered, and it was clear he had a massive erection underneath that thin, straining cloth.
Ritzak sighed. These very rich buyers of ours… I don’t begrudge them our business, but you’d think they would at least keep some of their pleasure in private.
“No, thank you, my Lord,” said Ritzak. “I prefer to keep the body moving… helps me to think.”
Castero chuckled, and turned his attention fully to Mendu. “While this one, on the other hand, seems to prefer not to move, as it likely helps him not to think… Is that right?”
Castero turned Mendu’s face towards his, and looked directly into his eyes, as he began to more and more forcefully squeeze Mendu’s package.
“Hlmbmpmmmph…” A long moan, and a long stare from his half-lidded, glistening eyes, and Mendu gave a small nod.
Castero smiled, eyes lighting up. “Well, what do you know, Ritzak! I’ve actually found a plaything that likes to play exactly the way I do… I shall give Borhim a bonus, next time I see him.”
Ritzak’s pacing slowed for a moment… then he continued on as before. A single question circled him, a bird with one cold cry: Where is Borhim?
Castero’s stout little black-clad butler entered the room with a well-practiced bow.
“My Lord,” he said, “some visitors at the back door. With a delivery.”
“Ah!” Castero gave Mendu’s shaft a final squeeze, leaned over and gave him a long, hungry kiss on the neck — then stood up. “Come, Ritzak, let’s see if we can’t put you at ease.”
Leaving the sweat-slicked bound body of Mendu behind, panting heavily into his gag and grinding his hips gently into the air, Castero led Ritzak through a small maze of well-furnished, dustless rooms, to a small back door, which opened out to a scarcely frequented street, which now stood nearly deserted in the cooling night air.
Four men stood outside the door, next to a cart of hay. As soon as Castero and Ritzak appeared, they removed the top layer of hay, revealing the bagged bodies of their victims.
“As I told you,” said Castero with a smile, nudging Ritzak with an amiable elbow, “my personal employees are thorough and discrete. Gentlemen, bring them inside.”
Within a few minutes, each of the four kidnappers had carried one of the bags in over their shoulders, laid them down and the floor, and left, dispersing like bats into the night.
The butler carefully began cutting holes near the top of the bags, where the heads would be, peeling back the fabric to reveal the unconscious faces of the young men bound inside. Within moments the butler stepped back, each face visible — save for the tight black panel gag that each of them wore.
“I can assure you,” said Castero, “that these are the men in this district of Red Haven who best matched the description you gave to me. If we must cast our net wider, so be it — but here, we have a start.”
Ritzak bent over the four sleeping bodies, scanning each of them, the bodies, the faces… Each matched the description he’d given to Castero and his employees. About twenty; slightly above average height; a muscled fighter’s build; short brown hair. Even when Ritzak had given that description to Castero, he knew that it was hardly a list of unusual traits, and they would be very lucky to meet with any success. Ritzak made his way down the line…
Then, stopped, at the body furthest to his right. It was difficult to tell at first, because he looked so different like this, so helplessly packaged and gagged… But there was no mistake. Ritzak reached down and opened one of the unconscious man’s eyelids. Yes. The same pale green eyes.
“No need for further searching,” said Ritzak. “This is him.”
Castero smiled. “What luck! I’m so glad we could be of assistance. Rettsfield?” Castero called to the butler. “Send one of my servants down to Officer Kent. Tell him we have three young men in urgent need of disappearing. He can come by at dawn tomorrow.”
As the butler scuttled away, Ritzak nodded in understanding. In the flesh-peddling business, you don’t leave a trail of witnesses if you can help it. It seemed that Kent’s cells would have three fewer vacancies for a considerably long while.
Ritzak knelt over the form of the young man who’d bound him in the alley. He gave his face a few soft pats.
“Wake up, little brat,” he said, in a low, sing-song voice. “We have some talking to do… Where is Master Borhim? Hello? Wakey wakey…”
CRACK. Ritzak sent a hard slap across the young man’s face. But he didn’t stir.
“Come on, you maggot, it’s time for answers…” He lifted his hand again —
“Ritzak,” siad Castero. “As fun as this is, it’s getting late. I have meetings with the city council tomorrow. This young catch of yours isn’t going anywhere. And you’re beginning to look haggard.”
Ritzak looked up at Castero, whose eyes had lost some of their mischievous gleam, and had taken on a sheen of inscrutable coldness. Suddenly Ritzak caught a whiff of Castero's cologne, and he realized that, yes, he was tired, and he was almost too tired to pretend deference toward this condescending ponce.
“No, my Lord. I’ll get the information I came for and leave tonight. I wouldn’t want to impose on your hospitality.”
“Nonsense, the guest room’s already made up. Come, I have many places to stash your friend here overnight…”
Ritzak sighed, squeezing his eyes very tightly, wishing that this bound and gagged brat would wake up so that he could wring the truth from him. But barring that…
“You’re very kind, Lord Castero,” said Ritzak, summoning up a sufficiently humble smile.
With that, Castero led him to an upstairs bedroom, assuring Ritzak that he would see to the overnight storage of their four new guests, personally.
***
Garret opened his eyes. The mist of Mount Thorn stretched above him, as blank and merciless as a black night sky.
He tried to remember what had happened, how he’d gotten here… What was the last thing he remembered? The warehouse, the blood, the inn… the wind in the street…
Hendrick and Elias, on horseback, racing toward the city gates.
“Hmmph!” Garret tried to say Hendrick’s name, but something was wrong. He looked down at himself.
He floated in the air, upright in the center of the stony plateau, his body heavily bound; wrists to thighs, arms to torso, ankles, shins, and thighs constricted with rope. His hands, trapped in small pouches; his mouth, packed with a soft cloth ball, compressed by a leather panel wrapped tightly over his lower face.
What is this? Garret thought, beginning to writhe in his restraints. A test? Inyatala, where are you?
“Grmmph…” Garret moaned as he squirmed in the air, suspended as if underwater. But there was no give, no knot to be reached…
He glanced up. The sky was changing. The placid gray mist was swirling, darkening. The gray slowly began to turn to a roiling, blotchy purple, expanding above him, as if the sky was bleeding.
With a start, Garret saw Inyatala stood across the plateau, staring at him, examining his body and his bindings. He stood there, in his human form, the marble skin, the ink-black hair drawn into a ponytail, the strange yellow eyes. Inyatala stepped forward with consummate grace, running his fingers lightly across Garret’s gagged cheek.
“Oh, my love,” he murmured, pain stark on his face. “What has happened to you… If I could help you, I would…"
Garret whimpered into his gag, at the touch of Inyatala’s cool fingers.
“Five days,” he said. “Five days since your night on the mountain. That’s how long the mountain will wait before the Great Subjugation. The third day has ended. Tomorrow is the fourth. To travel from where you are, and return to the mountain… It will take time. Tomorrow, my love. You must find your quarry. Tomorrow it must be.”
He ran his fingers down Garret’s chest, down the ropes. Garret shivered.
Inyatala smiled sadly. “The mountain gave us a name, and that name was Thomas Clayborn. Oh, how I’m glad the mountain didn’t desire you… Garret… So that you might live, happily. I wish that for you.”
Water began to gather in Inyatala’s eyes. Garret discovered that he was strangely moved, even alarmed; if he were able to move his limbs, he immediately would have embraced this strange creature, this spirit of another world.
“I wish I wasn’t the way I am.”
Inyatala withdrew his hands, and gazed directly into Garret’s questioning eyes.
“I’m sorry, Garret, that this task is forced on you. I’m sorry you are so beset by peril. I’m sorry that I pretended… I’m sorry I thought I could be human. That we could… Well. There will love for you yet, Garret. I promise it.”
A distant roll of thunder, from the deep purple mist. From the top of the mountain. Inyatala began stepping back, his eyes never leaving Garret’s.
“I wish I had more time to teach you, but you have what you need. Be as brave as you are, as strong as you are, as kind as you are, and you will bring Thomas Clayborn back to the mountain. I am waiting for you, Garret. Things are moving so fast —”
A roaring gale of wind. The bleeding mist flooded the plateau. In an instant, there was only darkness, and to Garret’s terror, it seemed like he had been brought back to his night on the mountain, that night of smothering darkness, where every moment was a question of Will I live? that received no clear answer, and the awful, powerful wind grew stronger and stronger, mixing with the distant howl of a nameless terrible thing, mad with hunger, sick with fury, and vast as the sea.
***
Garret awoke.
He sharply inhaled through his nose, remembering what had happened, the blow to his head, the hands from the darkness. His eyes flitted around the room; a bare, small space, hardly more than a closet. In front of him, holding a lantern in front of a closed door; the only light in the room, casting terrible wavering shadows on the blank walls; was a familiar figure. Dressed in black and sandy yellow robes, with a body of rope-like muscle, dark skin, and probing bright eyes, now narrowed in Garret’s direction. The slaver. The slaver he’d left in the alley.
Garret tried to turn his head from side to side, to take in more of the room, but found he couldn’t. He was seated on an armless chair, which seemed to have been built into the floor. He was bound, much like he had been in his dream, but slightly modified to accommodate his position sitting upright. Ropes still held his arms to his torso, but his hands (still stuck in small bags) had been fitted into manacles attached to the sides of the seat of the chair, keeping Garret’s arms pinned in a vertical position. His ankles had also been further bound together with a tight metal band, attached to a chain. This chain pulled Garret’s legs upward, toward the bottom of the chair, rendering him a sort of sitting hogtie.
More bands of gray metal looped around Garret’s thighs, waist, and above and below his chest, fixing him completely to the back of the chair, his posture forced into perfect straightness. Even his head had been secured to a headrest, with a final two bands encircling his head; one around his forehead, and the other, clamping down on his already gagged mouth. Yes, Garret noticed with a terrible deflation, he was still very well gagged, with a soft ball expanding inside his mouth and sealed in with the absurdly tight leather panel. He could feel the way the blood rushed to his face, the way his cheeks bulged over the gag, reinforced with the merciless metal band.
Never taking his eyes off the Venesthian, and with a drop of sweat slowly crawling down his temple, Garret cautiously gave his bindings a few trial tugs. He immediately realized the uselessness of struggle. Even minor squirming was enough to convince him that, if he had somehow been able to undue a few knots, the metal bindings were still completely inescapable.
As Garret’s breathing quickened, he felt the rope and metal bite into his chest as it contracted and expanded. The Venesthian eyed Garret up and down. He smirked.
“Well, boy,” he said. “I know you’re good with ropes. I still have the burns on my wrists to prove it. But I highly doubt you’re skilled enough to escape from this, are you?”
“Bmmph…” Garret gave an involuntary grunt as he flexed his fingers, trying to see if he could break his hands free from the bags. But there was no give. No give at all.
The slaver set his lantern on the floor. The strange position of the light cast ghostly shadows over his face as he approached Garret, bending over and staring him in the eye, mere inches away.
He pulled a dagger out of his belt. A hand-and-a-half long, wickedly curved. He brought it up to Garret’s face with awful slowness; Garret could feel his heart pounding ever faster, his nostrils flaring with every breath; and the slaver placed the tip just below Garret’s eye.
Garret didn’t dare move a muscle. The icy coldness of the blade sent a shiver ripping through his body. The slaver held it there for some time. Finally, he cocked his head at Garret.
“You’re going to tell everything. How you knew about Master Borhim and the circus. Who you are, how you got here. And what you did to my master.”
The pressure of the dagger’s point increased — in a moment, it would draw blood.
“Hmblmm!” Garret whimpered, in a state of complete, helpless fear, the dagger less than an inch from his eye —
A knock at the door.
The Venesthian’s face fell. He pulled the dagger back, stuck it into his belt, and turned toward the door. As he opened it, Garret’s body relaxed visibly… at least, as much as it could, given his circumstances.
The slaver opened the door. A small man in black servant’s attire stood there.
“Sir,” he said, “I hate to interrupt. There’s a man here to see you, he says he’s an… associate of yours? And that he has news about your employer.”
The Venesthian paused. His obvious impatience at being interrupted drained away instantly as he heard the news. He turned back to Garret, whipped a black rag out of his pocket, and strode back over to the bound young man.
“Your reprieve is very temporary, brat. I will return.”
“Mlm? Hmmph!” All Garret could do was attempt a muffled protest as the slaver wrapped the rag tightly over his eyes, securing it behind the headrest with furious tightness, anchoring Garret even more thoroughly to the seat. Everything was blackness, and all Garret could hear was the shuffle of footsteps, and the closing of the door. He was left it complete silence.
His mind returned to Hendrick and Elias, riding through the street, toward the city gates.
They escaped. They must have. My friends, I will see you again. But there’s something I still must do. Thomas. He’s here. I will find him.
And then there was Amadi, and his friend, Makaio — who could say what had become of them by now? Garret did his best to put them out of mind. He would find them, too. But Thomas first.
But how?
Realizing the unlikelihood of escape, the tightness of the bonds, and the fact that he had no idea where he was — Am I even still in Red Haven? Garret wondered — the only thing he could do was struggle. A pitiful act, one he knew would almost certainly result in failure. But it was all that was left to him. The small room filled with the noises of a bound body, shifting in its ropes, hardly able to writhe half an inch in any direction, and grunting and moaning softly from the desperate effort of fighting an impossible battle.
***
Thomas stood at the door, waiting for that pompous little butler to return.
The previous night, he’d followed the four kidnappers to the back of this rather refined looking house, and he’d watched as the bodies had been loaded in through the back door. And through that door, Thomas had seen the slaver, one of Borhim’s underlings. Thomas had been idly wondering what had happened to him, and now, he had his answer. For whatever reason, he had taken up with one Borhim’s old customers, whom Thomas also recognized through the doorway. (After stopping a couple people on the street that night, it hadn’t been tough to learn the name Castero.)
At the sight of the slaver’s face, Thomas felt a familiar heat of contempt in his blood. Just when he’d though that he’d put Borhim and his circus behind him, a remnant appeared, butting into his business and snatching away his prize. But as Thomas had strode over the dark streets the previous night, wondering how to infiltrate the house, a much better plan occurred to him. He would wait until morning. Then, he and his old associate would talk.
It was just before dawn. Thomas had nearly waited for sunup, but was far too impatient to set events in motion. As he waited, he tried to remember the slaver’s name. Ratzuk? Zikrat? Ah, well, he’d never cared about his name before. Besides, Thomas had just finished with a rather long night, moving all the items in his beautiful collection to a new hideout…
The door reopened. The butler stepped back. The slaver stepped forward, lantern held high.
His bright eyes narrowed at Thomas. “You. Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story, my friend,” said Thomas, trying his best to feign a bit of urgency. “Please, I have a message from Master Borhim. I can explain everything.”
The slaver eyed him up and down. Finally he nodded, and stepped aside. Thomas walked through the door. The butler closed it behind him.
“This way,” said the slaver, leading Thomas to a drawing room, where candles had been lit. Castero was there, in a long dark purple bathrobe, pouring out tea on a small table.
“Ah, yes,” said Castero, glancing up at Thomas. “How clever of you to find us, my boy! You see, Ritzak, Borhim had a good nose for new hires.”
Right. Ritzak, Ritzak. Thomas tried to imprint the name on his brain as he and Ritzak sat down across from each other, the small table between them.
“Well,” said Ritzak, coldly dropping a lump of sugar into his cup, “you have a message. Go on.”
Thomas took a strategically nervous sip of tea and began. “We would have waited for you. But it all happened so fast… We received word that another group of slave-traders in the city planned on making a move against us.”
Ritzk’s eyebrows rose in alarm. “Other traders? Who?”
“I don’t know, Borhim didn’t say… He wouldn’t tell me, at least. I’ve tried to be trustworthy, reliable, but I know I’ve only been in his service a few days. Maybe trust will come in time… Anyway. Borhim was concerned that one of these competitors might try to steal his merchandise.”
Ritzak gave a dry, joyless chuckle. “Lamar Mockle. I’d bet you anything it was his little group. He’s a traveling seller of exotic fruits, who sells more than just fruits. He complains constantly that he wishes for more beautiful wares.”
Thomas made a show of lighting up his eyes, putting down his tea hurriedly. “Mockle, Lamar Mockle! I remember the name, I overheard Borhim mentioning him to the other two… Yes, I’m certain that was him.”
Castero sat down a little ways away, blowing on his tea and leveling his eyes at Thomas. He sipped with care as Thomas continued.
“Just before nightfall, Borhim discovered that someone had infiltrated the warehouse. Someone working for Mockle. Apparently, he’d been sent to steal some of our wares. Luckily Borhim discovered him before he could escape, and… dispatched him.”
Ritzak nodded, staring with great intensity at his cup of tea. Thomas repressed a smile. Good; that little detail would explain any blood Ritzak might have seen in the warehouse.
“So,” said Ritzak. “One little spy, one intruder, and Master Borhim runs for the hills?” Ritzak stirred his tea. “Odd. Very odd.”
Before the silence could expand for too long, Thomas gently pressed forward, “Not just the one intruder, Ritzak. Before Master Borhim… took care of him… he said that more were coming. More, to help assist with transporting our merchandise. Borhim decided to leave, in case the man wasn’t bluffing.”
Ritzak let his teacup clatter onto his saucer, stood up, and began to pace around the room, biting his lower lip.
“I knew it,” he said, almost to himself. “I knew something like this had happened, as soon as I saw that I’d been left behind. Master Borhim wouldn’t have forgotten me…”
“Of course not,” said Thomas, kindly. “That’s why he asked me to stay behind. To give you a message.”
Ritzak faced Thomas again. “Yes, the message. What is it?”
“Master Borhim says, we should meet him up north, in Karn.”
Ritzak blinked. “Karn? What’s in Karn, except for glaciers and pine trees?”
“Well, Borhim and the others, I should expect.” Thomas stood and walked over to Ritzak. “I’m sorry, I know that this is sudden, and strange. We’ll leave together for Karn today. Is there anything you need?”
Ritzak shook his head. “No… But there is another problem. A problem of a prisoner.”
Thomas swallowed, feeling saliva begin to pool in his mouth. “A prisoner?”
Ritzak briefly told Thomas the story of his past day; how a mysterious young man had led him into an alley on the pretense of buying merchandise from Borhim, how he’d gotten the better of Ritzak and left him bound in an alley, and finally how Ritzak had found the warehouse empty, come to Castero’s for help, and with his help had tracked down and captured the boy who’d jumped him.
As Thomas listened, he noticed the butler creep back in. He quietly walked up behind Castero and whispered something in his ear. Castero nodded. “Please, send him in,” he murmured, and the butler retreated again.
Ritzak finished his tale, and Thomas tried to look as if he cared. “I can’t imagine what that was ike, Ritzak, spending the night that way. Well, at least you tracked him down.”
“Yes… But, I was convinced he had something to do with Borhim’s disappearance.” A light dawned in Ritzak’s eyes. “Ah. I’d imagine he was another employee of Mockle. How else could Mockle and his men have found out where we were storing our boys? This brat must have gone scampering back to his master, and that’s what led the intruder straight to our warehouse yesterday.”
Thomas slowly nodded. He would have to play this very carefully. “That may well be true. But I don’t think it matters. We know where Master Borhim is waiting for us. Our priority should be reuniting with him.”
Ritzak opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the rattle of armor. A tall man was led into the room by the butler, with very short brown hair, grim eyes, and the sigil of Red Haven emblazoned on his armor, a white ship on a red background.
Castero stood with a smile. “Officer Kent. Thank you for coming. Have a good night’s sleep?”
Kent grunted, though Thomas got the impression he’d hardly slept at all the previous night. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he quietly ground his teeth as he forced a polite smile.
“I’m glad to be of help, my Lord,” said Kent. “Who do you need picked up?”
“Ah, they’re in storage. You and your men can meet me at the back door, we’ll give you our three deliveries — oh, no, four. Our friend Ritzak was in the middle of an interrogation. Ritzak, have you finished?”
Ritzak gazed at Castero for a moment, then gave him a sharp nod. “Yes. If I never see the brat again, it will be too soon. Officer Kent, I leave him in your capable hands.”
Kent followed Castero deeper into the house, and Thomas glared at them as they disappeared. He would have to act fast.
“This prisoner,” he said. “This employee of Mockle’s. May I see him?”
“Right this way,” said Ritzak. “You can help me load him out for pickup.”
Moments later, Ritzak opened the door to the small closet. A secret door, that otherwise was completely indistinguishable from the rest of the wall. It swung open. Ritzak handed Thomas his lantern. Thomas stepped inside, and laid his eyes on Garret.
Even underneath all those bindings, it was unmistakably him. Even with his face nearly completely covered, Thomas flushed hot and cold with hunger at the recognition. This was his old neighbor, Garret. The one who had given him such a look, such a look of suspicion and loathing, when he’d seen Thomas kick a dog to death out by the creek. The neighbor who had bested him in the village wrestling tournament. The one who always looked down on Thomas. So superior. So infuriating.
But just fucking look at him now. Thomas licked his lips as Garret’s body went taught at the sound of the door opening, and the sound of footsteps. Something about the way he sat there, arms and legs pinned and trussed with rope and metal bands, blindfolded and gagged, reminded Thomas of a fish caught in a net. A reduced, helpless object, brought low by forces greater than itself.
Thomas decided then and there that Garret would be for keeping, not killing. At least, not yet.
Ritzak stuck his head inside. “Bad news, brat,” he said. “Looks like you’re not as valuable to me as I thought. Time to get you ready for transport. Your new home awaits.”
Castero appeared behind Ritzak, and handed him a dark bottle of liquid, and a cloth pad.
“For your convenience,” said Castero with a sly smile, and left.
As Ritzak uncorked the bottle and dampened the rag with the liquid inside, Thomas walked up to Ritzak, dropping his voice to a whisper. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he didn’t want Garret to recognize his voice. When Garret realized his ultimate fate, it would be a special moment, and it had to be completely on Thomas’s terms.
“My friend,” whispered Thomas, “I’d like this one for myself. For my own collection.”
Ritzak furrowed his brow. “Kent is taking them all away. It’s been decided.”
“You may remember, Borhim allowed me to —”
“Master Borhim.”
Thomas felt like Ritzak had punched him in the stomach. “Excuse me?” he said.
“You’ve dropped the honorific more than once. You’re very new to our operation. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your place already?”
Thomas stared at Ritzak, abruptly wondering whether he could take him in a fight. There was no more drugged wine to help him, and he’d left his bulky crossbow behind at his new hideaway. It was a terrible temptation to fight him anyway, to leap at him, slam him against the wall and choke him until he was unconscious. And when he woke up, he would be just another parcel, another pet, to be used and admired, and never to speak again.
Instead, Thomas made a silent vow to himself. This is the last moment in my life I shall be subservient. Never again.
Thomas bowed his head low. “Of course not, Ritzak,” he murmured. “I haven’t forgotten my place.”
He kept his head bowed, waiting for a sign, a signal, a decision. Finally, Ritzak said:
“He’s yours.”
Thomas looked up again and smiled. “You’re too kind. May I?”
Thomas gestured to the soaked pad of cloth, already having an idea as to what it was for. Ritzak handed it to him. With a smile still on his lips, Thomas sauntered over to Garret, who had began to squirm again, whimpering into his stuffed mouth and doing his best to find some give in his restraints. Thomas stood behind him.
He was tempted to say something. But instead, he very slowly brought the soaked pad in front of Garret’s bound, fixed head, and with glacial surety, pressed the pad over his exposed nose.
“Hlmph?! Hmp-GMMPH!” The writhing increased, and Thomas’s smile blossomed into a full-toothed grin. Yes. Try to get away. Try and fail. Try and fail…
After a few moments, the frantic muffled mumbles started to fade. The struggling become less forceful, coming is ever weakening stops and starts. Finally, Garret hung there limply, helpless and unconscious.
“I will return tonight,” said Thomas to Ritzak, “and we’ll prepare for our journey to Karn.”
And so Thomas, with the help of Castero’s supplies, packaged Garret for transport and left with his prize safely secured, and with no intention of ever seeing Ritzak again.
***
Venarin Castero watched from a dim corner as Thomas left, his new possession bagged and slung over his shoulder. The door closed, and Castero drummed his fingers on the wall, thinking.
Lamar Mockle was a name Castero knew well. He kept track of all the major slavers who came in and out of Red Haven. And so, Castero knew for a certainty that Lamar was not in Red Haven at that moment, but was busy gathering new merchandise somewhere south of the Mirror Islands.
Castero clucked his tongue, staring intently at nothing. He did not deal with amateurs. Only professionals. And who was the professional he had meant to deal with for his goods? Borhim. Tried and true, subtle and charismatic. Castero was a regular customer of his, and they had been on friendly terms for years.
There was something in the air that wasn’t quite right. Some intrigue. Maybe even betrayal. Castero was used to navigating the thorns and nettles of Red Haven politics. He could smell from a mile off when something was being hidden.
Kent entered the drawing room, pale and wiping his brow with a handkerchief. Castero stepped out of the shadows, and Kent turned to him.
“Well, Officer,” said Castero, “is everything in order?”
“Yes, my Lord,” said Kent with a smile. To Castero’s discerning eye, that smile seemed to ever-so-slightly shake. “The three witnesses won’t bother you anymore.”
“Excellent.” Castero stepped forward, looking up at the tall man and pressing a pouch of gold pieces into his hand. “You go above and beyond the call of duty, as always.”
“You do me great honor, Lord Castero.”
“My friend, are you ill?”
Kent shook his head, pointedly keeping his eyes fixed on Castero. “No, sir. Simply a long night. Many issues require my attention.”
“Of course. Well, do sleep soundly tonight, Officer Kent. Work hard, but not too hard.”
Kent pocketed the money, and gave Castero a stiff nod. “My Lord.” He turned and strode out, Rettsfield escorting him to the front door.
Castero lounged on a sofa and stared at the empty doorway where Kent had disappeared. Kent, too, had always been reliable. But Castero had never seen him as shaken as he had been this morning.
Something wasn’t right.
And Ritzak… Ritzak was unpredictable. Castero couldn’t shake the image of him slapping that young man last night. It was rash and impatient. It was something Borhim would never have done. And if Borhim was gone…
Castero reached to a nearby table and rang a silver bell. Rettsfield appeared instantly.
“My Lord?”
“How is our new guest, Mendu?”
“In the basement, my Lord. He was grateful for breakfast this morning.”
“And did you re-gag him?”
“No, my Lord.”
“Hmm.” Castero smiled, his heart fluttering. He could certainly use a healthy distraction for a few hours. “Then it seems I’ll have to attend to that myself…”
***
Kent stepped into the street. The night had been long. He and his men had been searching outside the city walls all night for Elias and the young man he’d escaped with. With every moment that they remained free, the tighter the knot which Kent felt tying itself in the pit of his stomach. The escapees both knew far, far too much. Up till now, anyone who had learned about Kent’s penchant for accepting bribes was quickly found and muzzled, both metaphorically and literally. But these two had escaped. Two powder kegs, vanished out from under his nose, and ready to explode at a moment’s notice.
Kent pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Perhaps they’d fled the city permanently. Perhaps they’d never return. But it was the not-knowing that cost Kent his peace of mind.
He looked up. The sun had just started to rise as Kent’s men loaded Castero’s three rejects out the back door. The sky was brightening. But something about it was strange. Something was…
Kent rubbed his eyes, blinking in stupefied wonder, not entirely sure what he was seeing. All around him, townspeople were beginning to wake up, stick their heads out of their doors and windows and trickle into the streets, staring into the sky with the same unbelieving confusion.
The sky was purple. A twisting, roiling sky of angry purple, like ink cast into an ocean. Was it a strange series of storm clouds? Had the sky itself changed? Were these clouds at all, or something else?
Crows cackled in the distance. High in the sky, clouds of birds flew westward en masse, as if they were desperate to get out from under this strange new sky. But there was no escaping. Like smoke from a far-off fire, the purple towered over all.
***
Elias and Hendrick woke underneath the dark new sky. Terror rippled through them both.
“I don’t understand,” said Hendrick. “Is this… Elias, what is this?”
Elias stared grimly at the sky for a long while. “My friend,” he finally said, “I think it’s high time we caught each other up to speed. It’s been an eventful few days. Sit with me. Let’s pool our knowledge.”
And so Hendrick sat with Elias around the dead gray dust of last night’s meager campfire, and they explained to each other what their lives had been like since Thomas had abducted Hendrick out of Thorn Village. Hendrick’s time as Thomas’s trophy; his odd dreams; his escape; his visit to the temple, and Brother Cecil; and how he’d managed to find Elias in Kent’s dungeons.
And Elias told Hendrick about how he had left Thorn Village with Garret to find Thomas, and rescue Hendrick. He spared Hendrick some of the more graphic details of how he had been bound and gagged with such extreme thoroughness by Thomas back in the village, and then by Kent in the maze under the city barracks, but he got across the gist of his various predicaments.
But what struck Hendrick most of all was everything Elias had to say about Mount Thorn. Garret had told Elias everything that he’d seen — Inyatala, the otherworldly drider. The altar, and the angry storm that followed Garret’s near-sacrifice. And the warning from the drider, to bring Thomas back, or risk the Great Subjugation.
“But what does that mean?” asked Hendrick. “All my life, I heard stories about a beast living in the cracks of the mountain… Is it the drider? Or… something else?”
Elias gazed uneasily up at the sky. “I don’t know, Hendrick. I’m a leatherworker. I’m no mage or theologian. But you… you seem to have something I don’t. What do you feel? What does the world tell you?”
Hendrick sucked in a shuddering breath. “All I know is, I woke up this morning, and things felt… wrong. Not just the sky. It’s as if I hear footsteps behind me, but I don’t know what’s making them, or how long it will be until…”
Hendrick stopped himself, looking vaguely at their corpse of a campfire. Elias shifted close to him, and gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.
Not even the wind stirred. The silence was oppressive, like a humid heat, bearing down…
Hendrick stood.
“I have to go back. I have to find Garret.”
“If anyone’s going back into that city,” said Elias, “I’m afraid it’s going to be me. You’ve been through so much already —”
“So have you.”
Elias sighed and stood up. Hendrick was extremely conscious of how much taller Elias was. He gave Hendrick a sympathetic smile. “I can take care of myself. You just stay here and wait. Garret is certainly waiting for us at the inn. I’ll return with him in no time —”
“I’m stronger than you think I am.”
The voice Hendrick heard didn’t sound entirely like his own. It wasn’t timid, or questioning, but neither was it combative or arrogant. It was sure and certain — the voice of certainty.
Elias must have heard it, too. He paused. “These past few days have brought changes in you. I understand. But I still don’t think I’m comfortable —”
“I can get to the inn quietly. No one will see me. Besides, Kent and the other guards know your face. At least, they know you better than they know me. I can still pass for a stranger. Elias, you’re a little hard to miss.”
Elias, who stood at least six feet three inches tall and was generously wrapped with muscle, silently considered this, then gave a reluctant nod.
Hendrick placed a gentle hand on Elias’s forearm. “I’ll get in, and I’ll get out. And then we can all find Thomas together, and go home. And then I’ll…”
Hendrick dropped his hand, and his eyes fell to the ground.
“And then,” he finished, “we’ll have Garret back.”
Hendrick hardly dared to look up. Elias had been his mentor for so long. So much of his life had been shaped inside his leather shop, learning the trade and wondering what his future would hold. Elias saw so much of Hendrick. Maybe more than Hendrick realized… and that idea was very frightening.
Elias placed a finger under Hendrick’s chin, and lifted his face toward his. The smile Elias wore was still concerned, but resigned.
“I would be a fool,” said Elias, “to argue with a druid.”
***
Kent needed a way to vent his anger. Fortunately, the three prisoners he’d collected from Castero gave him a perfect outlet.
Kent himself personally saw to the binding of the three men, near the doors to the barracks, built into the city wall. On a nearby small stone platform, which was often used for political speeches or other such public gatherings, Kent prepared the young men for their foreseeable future of restraint.
They all three had very similar looks; tall, muscular, short brown hair. From what Castero had told him that morning, all three had been mistaken for someone else, and plucked off the street by mistake. Poor souls. What a sudden end to their freedom.
With the help of his guards, Kent hauled the three men onto the platform. Each was only very basically tied; manacles holding their wrists behind them, and leather bit gags forcing their lips apart. Their shirts had been stripped away, leaving them only in the ragged tight trousers that the city of Red Haven was so generous as to gift to all citizens who passed through its prisons.
His cape sweeping about him as he approached the three men, Kent snapped his fingers. The half dozen guards waiting behind him streamed forward past him, coils of rope in hand, and Kent watched them conduct their work.
A little beggar girl appeared at Kent’s side, and tugged on his cape. “Excuse me, mister,” she said, absentmindedly wiping a streak of dirt off of her cheek, “what are those guards doing?”
“Why, they’re enacting the justice of the city.”
“That doesn’t look very comfortable.”
“No, no it doesn’t.”
“Why are they using so much rope? Are those men they're tying magicians?”
“They may very well be, little one, and we’d be foolish to take the chance.”
By now, despite their garbled protests, the guards had succeeded in binding the boys at their ankles, shins, and upper and lower thighs, and had replaced the iron manacles with much tighter rope cuffs. As much as the victims continued to thrash, sweat beginning to glisten on their bare skins, they were powerless to stop the continuing onslaught of rope.
“And what’s that called, in their mouths?”
“Those are gags, little one. They keep people from speaking.”
“Do they taste good?”
“A ridiculous question. It doesn’t matter how they taste, as long as they perform their function.”
The little girl frowned. “It’s a good question. Would you rather wear a gag that tastes like broccoli, or licorice?”
“First of all, I do not wear gags. And furthermore, I don’t like licorice.”
“Well, I don’t like broccoli.”
Kent blinked rapidly, realizing that he was engaged in a squabble with an eight-year-old. He took a few long strides forward, to block the girl from his peripheral vision, and watched in silence as the guards continued their work.
By now the chest harnesses were complete, and the guards were just finishing binding up the victim’s fingers in an elaborate network of strings, reducing them to flippers, hardly able to grasp anything, let alone untie a knot. The guards prepared to strengthen the young men’s gags. All three were forced into an upright sitting position on the stone platform, and one by one their bit gags were removed.
“Wait!” cried out one of them, as soon as his mouth was free. “You can’t do this us! We did nothing wrong! This is dlmmph!”
The guard holding the mouthy young man who'd started to speak had been searching for a gag in his pockets, but finally gave up and clamped his hand over the man’s still-ranting mouth. “Anyone got a gag?” asked the guard to his colleagues.
“HPHMPP!” the mouthy prisoner mumbled with a scowl, squirming in his ropes and muttering in a vaguely threatening tone. The other two men had had their gags removed as well, and were being silenced with hand gags while the guards searched among their persons for further materials.
“Um,” said one of the guards, “I don’t have any.”
“Me neither,” said another.
Kent cleared his throat. “Gentleman. Is there a problem.”
A short silence. One of the guards piped up, “I think Barry was supposed to bring the gags.”
All eyes turned toward the guard Barry, who flushed with shame. “Ap-pologies, Officer Kent,” the guard stammered with a half bow. “I’ll fetch them now —”
With a volcanic and impatient sigh, Kent strode onto the platform. “No need,” he said, and pulled a dagger out of his belt.
The mouthy captive’s eyes widened as Kent knelt down in front of him, his unintelligible monologue only increasing in intensity , his red cheeks spilling over the tope of the guard’s hand as the guard tightened the hand gag.
“No more out of you,” the guard threatened. “You just let us do our work.”
With no other excess of fabric nearby, Kent resorted to the material most readily available — the prisoners’ trousers. One by one, he made his way down the line, cutting the fabric into strips and pulling it out from underneath the tight loops of rope already biting into the prisoners’ thickly muscled legs. Considering that he would need as much material as possible, Kent cut their pant legs high enough on the thigh so that it was less than an inch below each of their crotches. The end result was that the three prisoners each looked as if they had been stripped down to a pair of skin-tight briefs, humiliatingly left to struggle nearly nude in full public view.
Kent rapidly accumulated a pile of strips of cloths, some shorter, longer, or wider than others. At his signal, the guard hand-gagging the mouthy prisoner removed his hand. True to his nature, the prisoner looked ready to protest (especially considering the dawning fear in his eyes), but Kent moved with a soldier’s mechanical efficiency, and began plunging the strips into his mouth, packing them each in one by one. Once the prisoner’s cheeks were sufficiently full to bursting, a thinner strip of cloth was used to trap the stuffing in with a cleave gag, and another much wider one fit over the entire apparatus, tightly sealing the lips and compressing the entire lower face.
Quickly, each of the three prisoners was gagged this way. The two quieter ones each were able to hold three strips of cloth in their mouths. But for the one who had insisted on making a ruckus, Kent allowed himself a small revenge, and took no small pleasure in plugging up his mouth with five of those strips of cloth. And stunningly, he continued to attempt to plead, all throughout the process.
“Hmphlphh! Grmmbmn-plmmmph!” he whimpered with desperate eyes as Kent used his thumb to jamb the last of the cloth past his quivering lips.
“I promise you,” said Kent as he reached for the cleave gag, “after enough time spent with your mouth stuffed and your body trussed, even you will learn the virtues of quiet.”
Once the gags had been administered, the guards resumed their duties without further interruption, and the bondage was swiftly completed. Ropes were dropped down from the top of the city wall. The boys were forced onto their feet, and each had a dangling rope tied to their backs, anchored in the harnesses restricting their torsos. Hoods were pulled over their faces, drawstrings tightened securely, but not dangerously, at the neck. But instead of being lifted separately into the air, the guards produced a large fishing net. The boys were forced to stand directly next to each other, and the fine net was wrapped around all of them. Though their muscular chests heaved under the rope as they squirmed, they were powerless to prevent the guards from wrapping them up into a single secure package. Without ceremony, the three were hoisted into the air, five, ten, twenty feet high, and were left to dangle there, mumbling into their enormous gags and writhing in futility.
Kent smirked to himself, looking up at the struggling mass of rope. “Catch of the day,” he murmured, relieved that at this distance, it was all the harder to hear any gagged protests.
He waved over one of the other guards.
“Any further information,” said Kent, dropping his voice, “about the escapees?”
“No, Officer Kent,” said the guard. “Though, if I may say so… we all saw them ride out of the city. They would be fools to return.”
“And we would be fools to count on them staying away,” said Kent, watching as another guard put up a wooden sign underneath the swinging, twitching net, reading: “THIEVES, BEWARE.”
“You forget,” Kent continued, “that not all the officers of the city guard see the world as I do. They may see may as… unscrupulous. My position is tenuous. So is yours, and every guard here today whom I asked for help with these prisoners. The loyal few. But if word of my… if word of our exploits got to the city council, there would be consequences. Dire consequences.”
The guard nodded. “And these escapees…”
“Loose ends, my friend. And what must happen to loose ends?”
The guard flashed a gap-toothed smile. “Why, they must be tied, of course.”
Kent returned a small grin. “That’s exactly right.”
Gazing at the swinging bound bodies, Kent realized that everything was not lost. He may have been teetering on the edge of disaster for a moment, but as of now, he was winning the fight to stay standing. Kent was still in control.
“Double our patrol, and give a copper piece to that beggar girl,” said Kent, walking back to the barracks. “I’m feeling generous.”
The guard fished around in his purse for a coin, and looked around for the little girl whom he’d seen speaking with Kent earlier. But she was gone.
***
Castero smiled. “Anything else, my sweet?”
“That’s what I heard,” said the little beggar girl softly, standing at Venarin Castro’s back door. “The escapees, the three men getting tied up… oh, and the guards had some trouble finding gags.”
Castero clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Amateurs,” he muttered with a smirk. He reached into the folds of his blue robe, and flipped a shiny gold coin toward the little girl. Her face lit up as she snatched it out of the air, and she immediately disappeared down the street.
Castero closed the door and stood as still as stone for a long time. His worst fears, confirmed.
If Castero was going to do business with Kent, then Kent needed to keep his secrets. If Castero was going to buy merchandise from Master Borhim’s Venesthian Circus, he needed to know he was working with a reliable trader. But Borhim was gone. Ritzak was an untested partner. And Kent was unable to keep his secrets.
Castero sighed. Ah, well, he thought. There are other sellers. There are other friends to be made.
In this situation, there was only one thing to do about uncertain friends. Make a clean break.
And Castero knew just how to do that.
***
Hendrick slipped through the window of the inn, as quietly as he could. His hood was drawn lower his face, and the hem of his grey cloak nearly caught on the windowpane. He looked around — no one was there, only a deserted hallway. He could hear the dull clinking of glasses and plates through a nearby wall; presumably customers having breakfast at the bar. Hendrick closed the window behind him, and, trying his best to act as if he had nothing to hide, made his way to the staircase.
The iron key in his pocket sat right alongside Hendrick’s acorn, and he clutched them both now for comfort as he made his way to the upper floor. Elias had given him the key, the location of the inn, and instructions on how to get to the room.
Miraculously, there had been no trouble getting into the city. A vegetable seller with a cart full of cabbages had gone through the city gates that morning, and when Hendrick dared to enter right behind the cart, like swimming in the wake of a whale, the two guards standing at both sides of the gate had been too bored to notice.
He found the room. The key fit perfectly; the door opened.
Hendrick took a tentative step forward, and with a small, tremulous voice, called out: “… Garret?”
He stepped in further. A bed, a closet, an open window. A pile of Elias and Garret’s things. Hendrick searched it all; nothing.
But one thing struck Hendrick as very plain. Garret’s sword was nowhere to be found. If his sword wasn’t here, then neither was Garret.
In spite of himself, Hendrick felt his lower lip begin to tremble. The size of the city never weighed so greatly on his mind as it did at that moment.
What if there was an accident? But he couldn’t be… But what if he’s…
Casting his eyes around the empty room, Hendrick suddenly felt a heavy, nauseating wave of loneliness. There was no stopping it — he buried his face in his hands, and began to quietly sob.
He felt just as he had that morning, in the field outside the village, when he had broken down in front of Garret. And Garret had been there to comfort him. But he was gone now. He may be gone forever.
And the sky. Handrick felt a chill as the tears ran down his fingers. It’s evil. The sky is evil. Evil things are happening, and the person I trust most in the world is —
After a few painful moments, Hendrick was finally able to lift his face out of his hands, and look around the room one more time.
A butterfly sat on the windowsill.
Hendrick stared. The butterfly’s wings opened and closed very slowly; beautiful, iridescent wings, each with a dozen colors, maybe more, as arresting as light dancing underwater, or the sun drenching a stain-glass window.
The butterfly fluttered into the air, and descended into the streets below. Hardly daring to believe, hardly daring to hope, Hendrick wiped his eyes, staring after the butterfly. And then, with a burst of inspiration, he tore out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door, no longer caring if anyone inside the inn saw him. Once outside, he looked around, past the pedestrians and the horses and apple carts — and saw the butterfly, just down the street. Hovering there. Waiting.
The butterfly weaved its way through the streets of Red Haven, and Hendrick followed.
You've really made this update worth the wait. So much things happened in one chapter. I'll try to comment on the ones I've liked/interested in the most.
First of all, I really liked how Thomas changed the course of actions in his favor. He's still an unhinged person acting on obsession and desperation but I have to (begrudgingly) appreciate his talent at manipulation.
Kent and Castero also proved themselves to be much smarter than I initially presumed, while still being as dangerous as ever. The bondage scenes they initiated were some of the most thrilling ones in the entire story, like Mandu's or the three unfortunate men's predicament. Excellent use of gags and rope. Ritzak going from a scorned henchman to a threat on his own was unexpected but welcome.
Bad guys aside, Garrett's dream was an effective way to utilize him, along with his intense struggles, when he spent most of the chapter in very creative bondage. Bothe bagging and the chair scenes were amazing. I love how Elias and Hendrick took time to talk with and assure each other. You can see that both of them needed this.
The changing color of the sky was a grim reminder of the fantastical side of the setting and nailed the "a storm is coming" feeling. Something dark awaits just behind the corner and Hendrick seems to be the only one who can do something about it.
TLDR, I loved this update. The complex net of characters with their own motives is paying off terrificly and makes narrative engaging from every perspective. I can hardly wait to learn what comes next. Kudos.
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
Incredible addition! Your descriotions of bondage are, as always, fantastic, and the quality of the story continues to be stellar. I'm so glad to see the return of this story!
I really have no words to describe how amazing this story is, the characters, the setting, the descriptions, everything is so well written. But I can't help commenting on the bondage scenes, the scene where Elias is caught by Kent makes me want to be in his place, it's a shame that Kent was unable to have fun with the young blacksmith. All the parts where Thomas appears abusing Handrick are incredible, when Handrick ran away I will not lie that I was a little sad
Yes, it's me in the picture. What are you waiting for to tie me up and gag me?
Wow, that was one huge chapter! Absolutely worth the wait. With the various plots converging, dreams of warning, and sky changing colours, there's the feel of approaching end. Ohh, and glad we got more of Lord Castero and Mendu, with a promise of maybe yet more to come. Thank you for writing more!
I love this story. My favorite character is Elias...so strong, so loving, so trusting. The way he is bound and gagged is ingenious. I hope he finds love at the end. Perhaps he can rescue the guard whom Thomas and the Slavers captured in the forest. That guard seemed like a good man, unlike Officer Kent. May I suggest that he and Elias live happily ever after? He could be the bondage model for Elias' leatherwork.
the way you continue to write this epic story is like a tapestry of words , each strand entwines to keep showing a bigger picture... the way you have managed to make me have a interest in all the characters is a true sign of a well formed and executed story. The bondage is so exciting and ,well what can i say about the fantastic use of things for gagging the helpless men.. the mix of elements in this tale have my mind racing to work out what will happen next , Thank you so much for the time you put in to writing this story.... I wait with much anticipation for the next exciting and revealing chapter.. 10 out of 10.
Friends, you really have made this board a fantastic place to share work. Can't thank you all enough for your kindness.
I don't want to sound too grandiose or anything, but I just wanted to take a moment to post a bulletin regarding this story's future. So... I began Shadow last year without knowing exactly how the events of the story would turn out. I figured the whole thing would be maybe four, five installments. But then after the first few chapters, I sat down to do some plotting, and realized that this thing could well become more sprawling than I initially intended... and here we are, ten installments later, and rapidly creeping up on 80,000 words. I've absolutely adored all the witty, generous, often-horny feedback, and this story has introduced me to a lot of folks on this site who are now my friends.
That said, I feel it's my obligation to give you all a heads-up that this story is moving very quickly toward its conclusion. There will be two more installments of Shadow of the Mountain. I'm going to do my absolute best to make sure that this time, there aren't any unexplained three-month-gaps between updates. I look forward to dragging this thing kicking and screaming (or rather, hogtied and gagged with an old tube sock and a roll-and-a-half of duct tape) over the finish line, and I would never have gotten this far without your support. Really. Thank you.
(BUT, I totally reserve the right to return to these characters to write spinoffs and prequels, as long as you guys don't think it's too self-indulgent of me.)
(BUT, I totally reserve the right to return to these characters to write spinoffs and prequels, as long as you guys don't think it's too self-indulgent of me.)
Not on your life! Thank you for this wonderful tale!
All good stories must come to an end!
But now we can look forward to spin-offs with favorite characters (Elias...Please!! )
I can't help commenting again on how much I love this story, it is certainly in my top 3 in the ranking of stories here on the forum. I look forward to the continuation of this, no matter how long it takes, I'll be here waiting.
Yes, it's me in the picture. What are you waiting for to tie me up and gag me?
Greatly enjoying this story! Came for the bondage and stayed for the world building and plot. I was so pleased to discover this story that I just had to sign up to let you know. Hope the next instalment is on the way!
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