Caverns & Captives (M/M) - *08.01.25 part 8 THE TRUE FINALE!*

[Straitjacketed]

Everyone knows I enjoy collaborative stories - tales co-created with another writer, where we take turns in advancing the narrative - but, previously, those have been for the pleasure of myself and my collaborator rather than for posting here.

Y'all have responded so well, however, to the two Tales from the Richardverse stories - Stuart meeting Kaiden and Mateo meeting Julian - that, now those are both approaching natural pauses in the narrative, I'm encouraged to post other tales, including those that don't share the same universe.

Think of them as the bondage equivalent of stand-alone short stories. One-off oddities. Christmas stocking fillers.

Both of these newer stories are experimental, inspired by different pulp genres from the early 20th century. The other was loosely prompted by me thinking about those anecdotal forms of Edwardian ghost/horror fiction where the wretched protagonist explains how he ended up in the dire straits in which the reader meets him. This one, however, was prompted by my regular co-writer @DeeperThanRed and I discussing how we liked the 'Conan' fantasies of Robert E Howard (despite the man himself being deeply problematic at best) and thought it would be a lot of fun to try creating something in his lurid, overripe prose style.

As ever, please do comment. Feedback is our lifeblood, a primary reason those of us who post our creations here keep posting.

My parts of the narrative are in default font, @DeeperThanRed's are in red


Caverns & Captives

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

As final battles go, this one, decided Nimrod of the Nine, had gone rather smoothly.

Which was not to say the quest had been without its trials. Sacrifices, even. The conclusion of an extended campaign to locate and capture at least one of the barbarous pillagers of the Outer Fens, his party had tracked their quarry through thick forest and treacherous marshland to an abandoned network of caverns that turned out to be… not wholly abandoned.

The first of them – the bard – had fallen in a surprise ambush at the entrance to the cave system. As they progressed through the dimly glowing tunnels, the rest of his fellows had succumbed to a variety of traps and snares; one by one, they had become incapacitated and… well, Nimrod told himself, he had had little option but to abandon them to their fates.

The spellcaster’s display of regret was tempered by the awareness that, now the ultimate prize was secured, he alone would claim the bounty – if he could transport it back to the city.

Nimrod was not without resource. Unusually solidly proportioned for one of his kind, the mage was tall and bearish, broad of chest with eyes the clear blue of morning and a beard of foam-flecked flame. Through gaps and folds in his hooded, many-pocketed robes (garments of a midnight-dark silk-linen treated with a mix of Eastern oils that repelled not merely cold and rain but, at times, light itself), his russet-dusted alabaster limbs seemed to crawl with a thousand ebon runes, an arcane spell book etched into his very skin…

… and, high upon the thigh, just below his leather loincloth, a slash of crimson, a distractingly vivid smear of his own blood, seeping from what looked like an axe cut, shallow but long. He had taken a hit.

“Faugh and fie!”

He glanced at the imp but, if it registered the coppery scent of his life essence, the creature did not pause in its duties: it continued to sift through the barbarian’s scattered belongings as Nimrod had instructed, dividing coin, jewellery, weapons, armour, and other shiny plunder into neat piles on the uneven rock floor. A sturdy leathern sack lay ready to take the sorted spoils.

The imp was a very recent acquisition, a lucky find in another such treasure trove looted mere hours earlier, a miniature being seemingly trapped in an oversized flagon of murky green glass. Lesser wizards would have baulked at breaking the vessel’s seal; Nimrod the Nonchalant, however, recognised the contents as one of the larger, more robust varieties of bottle-imp, capable of surviving outside its receptacle and of being indentured to carry out its saviour’s bidding.

He knew the arcane magics that bound such homunculi: asking the imp a direct question would free it from its servitude but thus far the creature had proved helpful – supernaturally strong and possessed of abilities as yet undiscovered – so the mage was careful not to voice any query in its direction.

Working quickly, Nimrod closed the wound, the fingers of one hand pinching the sides together while the other made small, well-practised gestures of mending. Muttered cantrips tumbled from his lips – the most basic of magics – and, within moments, the skin was closed and joined.

Healing and at least somewhat rested, Nimrod padded around in his tall but silent leather boots, taking stock of his surroundings. This space was, like the others through which they had passed, softly lit by luminous lichen. Part reconfigured into makeshift living and storage quarters, it appeared a natural terminus of the cavern system.

Footsteps would have to be retraced to the entrance, passing stricken comrades. Potentially awkward...

The imp (evidently able, like an ant, to transport items fantastically heavier and bulkier than itself) had amassed a varied collection including what looked like pieces of the armour the barbarian had, fortuitously, not been wearing on the mage’s stealthy arrival.

Protective equipment and weaponry larger than a dagger would be useless to the spellcaster himself - in order to weave his enchantments, he needed to remain as unencumbered as possible (Nimrod the Nifty, by preference) - but if of sufficiently impressive craftsmanship, individual items could be sold on. It all added to the overall reward.

A grunt warned him the main prize was returning to full consciousness and Nimrod looked across with a smirk, pleased at having met his objective with not a little guile, persuasion, strategy and, of course, mastery of the unnatural arts.

The wizard's caerulean gaze roamed over the form before him, drinking in every detail.


When he opened his eyes, the dull glow coming from the cavern’s walls assaulted Ferdiad’s senses.

He groaned, trying to find his bearings. He was lying on top of a cloth-covered hard surface, likely one of the crates where they stored the delicate goods. Attempting to lift himself by his arms, he discovered how he was unable to move a limb. He was strictly bound hand and foot - quite literally, left on the ground near piles of twice-stolen jewels and equipment as if he were a part of a merchant’s goods.

Closing his eyes in hopes that it’d dull his headache for a bit, Ferdiad recalled how he found himself in this position…

People of the Outer Fens were accustomed to adventurers going inside their territory.

As a part of earning their livelihood from raiding villages and robbing silk and spice convoys, the folk who were called barbarians by the outsiders developed a hideout so cleverly hidden and constructed that it could lead even the most experienced group of explorers astray.

Ferdiad himself had been doubtful of this arrangement. Even among warriors who charged to the battleground with more arms than armour, he was known to be a brash fighter preferring direct conflict. Hence, why he volunteered to guard the treasures his squad had gathered painstakingly, not trusting any number of traps or disguises more than his own two battle-hardened hands.

He’d been alerted about the invaders when the entrance guard caught them off-guard. He pondered whether he should go assist his brethren, but he decided against leaving his guard post in case this was a ruse of those cunning city folk. He kept his trusty battle axe - heavy and unornamented but trusty in its well-honed double edges - ready at both hands, hoping he’d cut an imposing figure.

Although some of his fellow berserkers joked about the young man’s comely face that never seemed to be able to grow a beard thicker than a stubble, Ferdiad wasn’t boyish. His body was tall, with a lean figure containing toned muscles and strong thighs. His dark hair was shorn at the sides, leaving a short, yet wild top. His amber-brown eyes usually glared under a scowl, just like they were at the moment.

His usual armour was light, yet rare: Greaves and gauntlets of supple brown leather, coupled with a harness, belt and pauldrons that left a large portion of his smooth, golden body and loincloth bare - taken from a passing caravan of mercenaries. Ferdiad and his comrades had left said mercenaries tied to a couple of horses, stripped bare and with their small clothes stuffed inside their mouths to muffle their complaints. Good times.

But he had had but a moment to reminisce about old times. Suddenly, someone had breached their defences to arrive at the raiders' treasury: a man of fair complexion and fiery beard, dressed in dark robes, had been standing at the doorway.

Ferdiad had not waited for the stranger to bargain or plead, knowing that outsiders cannot be trusted - especially those of the magekin, as the unintelligible script glowing on the man’s skin quickly revealed him to be.

The young barbarian charged, swinging his axe and putting his entire bodyweight behind it. The large man sidestepped with an agility unexpected to him, only suffering a minor injury on the side of his leg. Retaliation had come quickly, in the form of a strong enchanted blast that Ferdiad was able to block at the last second with the dull side of his axe.

The barbarian’s mind had worked quickly, studying his opponent. Despite their close heights, the foreigner’s eyes had been looking at him with not a small amount of disdain, as if he already won their brawl. After all, Ferdiad seemed surprised by his arrival and his armature, which although typical for him, made him look like he hastily put on his armour over his uncovered body.

Ferdiad could have kept fighting but he had no idea about the tricks this mage kept under his inky sleeves. At that moment, he had decided to downplay his abilities. He would play the role of an inexperienced soldier bewildered by this potent opponent.

His plan seemed to have worked, Ferdiad thought as he made note of his current situation - at least he wasn’t killed after a stray hex knocked him out, obviously deemed not dangerous enough to be killed by his foe.

However, now he had another subject to worry about. His bonds were done by an expert. If he wasn’t a hostage, the mage intended to sell him as a manual slave… or perhaps a pleasure one, if his state of undress was any indication.

Lying on his back, what little protective gear Ferdiad had on before he lost his consciousness was mostly intact except for his belt and shoulder pads. His boot-clad ankles and bare thighs were wrapped tightly with strong, coarse rope and then tied to each other, keeping his legs locked in a mockery of a crouch. His arms were bent over his head, similarly restrained in unyielding rope cuffs. The young barbarian felt a tug on his snug chest harness, noting that his wrists were attached to it as well to each other, preventing him from bringing his arms down.

At the moment, he couldn’t see any obvious way to cut himself free, especially since his gauntlets reduced the movement range of his hands. Though with his strength, he was confident that he could somehow force the knots open.

“Hnnnggg…” Ferdiad let out a muffled protest. The more annoying part about how he was restrained was the gag in his mouth. Something soft and foul-tasting filled every inch of his mouth. A thick knot of cloth forced between his full lips and tied behind his head kept it securely inside. He tried pushing it out but that only led drool to collect under the gag.

“Mmmmnngg pphhhgggrrr.” The young barbarian had no intention of begging for his freedom, but it was humiliating to be not even granted the opportunity. As if he were nothing more than a savage who couldn’t form a civil discussion. Worse, nothing but a bounty to be stared at.

And staring his assailant did. Looking up, he met with the mage’s pleased gaze. Ferdiad’s smooth, golden body was exposed other than a loincloth. Said black fabric was thin and tightly wrapped around his loins. With his thighs stretched wide, both the pouch containing his manhood and the coiled cloth going between his firm buttocks were strained. With every struggling movement of his body, the barbarian inadvertently flexed his torso and limbs.

Ferdiad noted that despite his shock of pale eyes, the adventurer was quite a looker. He’d thought all spellcasters were bookish folk with no regard for their bodies, but this man had a sturdy frame with strong limbs. His face was of a man more experienced than him, which could be an advantage if he maintained the greenhorn facade.

While he was no actor, Ferdiad knew that men were inclined to see what they wanted to see.

At the corner of his eye, he saw a small critter sifting through his clan’s earnings. Grunting, he made another attempt to straighten himself. He knew about shamans’ familiars, but this creature was alien to him. “Mmmmnnnn?” It was almost cute - he wondered whether it would hinder or help him if he were to defeat its master.

But that was of no concern to him at the moment. He merely glared at the sorcerer defiantly and waited for an opportunity to liberate himself.


“The sleeping wolf awakes.”

Retrieving his slender blackwood walking staff from where it lay, Nimrod used the stick to trace the smooth curves of muscle that clothed Ferdiad more than his almost filmy covering, silver-chased tip hesitating only fractionally over the younger man’s loins before moving upward to the angle of the beardless jaw.

“More of a wolf cub. Difficult to believe one so youthful could be the Scourging Terror of the Fens. Are you sure you’re not the caretaker, boy?”

He enjoyed his captive's squirming resistance, his amber glare.

“Man or boy, you damn near unmanned me.”

The mage parted stygian fabrics to show his milk-skinned thigh, rune-traced and dusted with the fine red furring of his kin, the people of the North. The axe-wound was now visible only as a fine silvery line, half a handspan below the shining black of his own undergarment (stitched from the underbelly hide of some exotic reptile, finely tanned, and imbued with a faint iridescence).

Nimrod watched the muscles on the youth’s brawny arms tense as he fought the rope shackling his wrists.

“Save your energy, boy. That rope is sturdy and the knotting good and tight. I employed a spell of binding, ‘tis true, but a binding is only as strong as he who binds - and I assure you I am no weakling.”

The spellcaster paused to extract a pinch of bitter-smelling powder from an inner pocket, tossed it in the direction of his captive and made a small sinuous hand movement. On the edge of hearing, the mage whispered a word that sounded like every language and none and a writhing glyph on the left side of his neck began to glow, dully.

The barbarian’s bindings tightened incrementally, rope slithering, serpent-like, over and around his gauntleted wrists and hemp-harnessed feet, stealing back the slight amount of loosening his struggles had generated.

One coil snaked slyly around his elbows tugging the limbs further together and securing itself in a Gordian knot.

The gag, too, embraced Ferdiad more tightly, pushing through his lips and between his teeth with a gentle insistence that was almost loving in its motion, coarse fabric invading every crevice of his mouth and anchoring itself at the nape of his neck.

“Do you speak the common tongue, caretaker? Do your rough people even have a language?”

The mage shrugged.

“I know not and care less. Your fellows are dead or fled but, even so, I will not risk you raising alarm as we leave this place.”

He lifted his staff again, this time with more force, to turn the captive’s furious amber gaze in his direction.

“Caretaker or no, I have been charged with delivering proof of your folks’ defeat to the city guard and deliver that proof I will - alive. The journey will not be a comfortable one, but you will not be harmed. On the contrary, you are a thing of worth to me; as such, I will ensure your safety and security throughout.”

The winged creature cocked its slightly over-large horn-crowned head, momentarily lost in thought. Perhaps two feet in height and humanoid in shape, it was darkest-red in hue, with taloned hands and feet, large yellowish eyes and a scaly tail ending in a vicious-looking barb.

As yet, the imp had not spoken. Nimrod was not sure it could.

He began to ask why it had paused in its labours but stopped and caught himself, mid-sentence. An unconventional bottle-imp it may be but bottle-imp it clearly was, and the mage knew the terms of that being’s bond: it would remain in his service until he asked it a direct question - at which point, it would be free. Naturally, it was in the nature of bottle-imps to try to provoke questions from their masters.

It was in the nature of Nimrod the Nimble to outwit those around him.

“Why have… heh, load up the spoils, imp. Sort the coin and jewels into pouches then load everything into the Bag of Holding, ready for travel.”

The crates contained a sizeable bounty of coin, furs, and jewellery, plus an array of arms and armour, mostly of high quality in the Western and Northern traditions of quilted, studded leather, ring and plate, including some heavy visored war-helms.

Several of the trunks and boxes were locked or chained but Nimrod’s mastery extended to releasing as well as forming bonds, his whispered charms proving key to all padlocks. Some of the unlocking cantrips were so simple that the mage needed not to speak, merely focusing on the relevant ink-sigil then the locking mechanism for that mechanism to yield to his magical endearments.

“This must all be rather bewildering for you, boybarian. You are from simple stock, I wager. Comely, the Gods themselves would agree, but… simple.”

The wizard selected one weapon from the hoard: short and curved - more dirk than dagger - lodged within a scabbard of tooled black leather edged with polished silver in which amethysts glimmered. The blade itself was midnight steel, with a wicked edge.

Grunting in satisfaction, Nimrod buckled the scabbarded knife around his now fully healed thigh. His preference was for subtlety - nuance over knivesmanship - but, he conceded, some occasions warranted a cruder cut.

Bagged and sorted, the remaining plunder was fed into the mouth of the leathern sack, the innocuous receptacle swallowing everything while seeming to change its size and shape not at all.

“You might wonder,” Nimrod addressed his captive, “why I do not have the imp load you into this sack of wonders. I certainly could - it could house several such as you with space left over - but the uncanny dimension within would not hold sufficient air for you to last more than minutes. And I would not have you choke. Nimrod the Nefarious I am not.”

When, finally, the entirety of the cavern's treasure-trove filled the sack, the mage helped his imp fasten it, knapsack-style, across its little shoulders. Whether a miracle of imp or sack, the burden seemed no burden at all.

“Imp, carry the quarry.”

With thin arms possessed of wiry strength, the creature grasped Ferdiad as if he were little more than a confection of silk and feathers, hoisting his bound mass aloft. Blood-coloured batwings unfolded and beat the air to hover at chest-height, a floating baggage-carrier.

“Very good,” murmured Nimrod, approvingly, “now let us proceed.”

Staff in hand, he began to lead this queerest of trios through the darkened tunnel mouth, back to the rest of the cave complex.

To be continued...

[blackbound]

I'm wondering if the imp will end up getting the better of both Ferdiad and Nimrod the Nrathertoofullofhimself.

Also, if you haven't read H. P. Lovecraft's Imprisoned with the Pharaohs/Under the Pyramids, you should. Ghostwritten for Harry Houdini!

[gag1195]

I'm loving the genre and dynamic already! Looking forward to more between this captor/captive pair!

And of course, I am looking forward to chekhov's imp down the line! Nimrod is too full of himself for his own good!

[Straitjacketed]

Also, if you haven't read H. P. Lovecraft's Imprisoned with the Pharaohs/Under the Pyramids, you should. Ghostwritten for Harry Houdini!

Oh, very much so! It was one of those well-thumbed paperbacks that, in my teens, just fell open at certain pages...

[Straitjacketed]

And of course, I am looking forward to chekhov's imp down the line!

Hahahah, thank you for reminding me of that phenomenon! I was talking with someone about the new Almodóvar film (which I really didn't like) and trying to explain that it was full of fake Chekhov guns that never fired...

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I'm glad people like the genre. I was deliberating the wisdom of flooding the place with too many collaborative stories at once but it occurred to me that the various genres were similar to the mish-mash of films we sit down and watch at Christmas: an Edwardian ghost/horror story, a sword & sorcery Indiana Jones type fantasy adventure and a couple of dubious romcoms.

[Croup]

Ferdiad and his comrades had left said mercenaries tied to a couple of horses, stripped bare and with their small clothes stuffed inside their mouths to muffle their complaints. Good times.

I live for sentences like these. :>

Very well done on a first chapter! I read way too many stories like this as a kid. With a hot barbarian AND a hot wizard (and who knows how many other hot characters ready to turn up?) I am very ready to see ropes and control change hands a few times.

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Thanks to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Croup for commenting - feedback is always dear to our hearts!


Caverns & Captives - part 2

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Ferdiad growled behind his gag at being called a cub. How dare this trickster treat him like a mere lad playing soldier? He was a proud warrior of the Fern, and he didn’t need hair on his chest to prove it!

Still, the mage seemed to have a bit more respect, or wariness if nothing else, after the axe cut on that bulky thigh of his. He even called Ferdiad a wolf, recognising the power animal that chose the young barbarian at his coming of age. Ferdiad felt a bizarre glimmer in his chest resembling pride, which shifted into something less recognizable when Nimrod bared his small clothes.

Face flushing, the warrior wondered what was so different about this man that his near nudity appealed to him when his own people rarely covered their bodies in battle… perhaps his unfamiliar colouring or bodily characteristics…

Ferdiad tried to pave over his feelings with a flash of defiance, wanting to prove his worthiness. This outburst was quickly rewarded with another magic cast his way. As Ferdiad watched Nimrod’s unprecedented hocus pocus weaving with a mixture of awe and fear, he wondered whether the runes covering the older man were the source of his power – and whether, as his enemy, it was possible to render them ineffective.

But before he could theorise, his body was gripped tightly by ropes once more. “Ggggmmmpphh!” Was the strength of these coils truly a measure of Nimrod’s own brawn? Then the barbarian felt regret at not being able to test the prowess of their bodies in a fair duel. His limbs were pulled so far back that he felt akin to a sack knotted at one point for carrying ease.

The fabric twisting its way between his lips, too, gave him a sensation almost… luscious. Ferdiad resisted the temptation to suck on the warm and wet stuffing in his mouth.

He did, however, complain roughly at the accusation that his folk were not able to talk and only barked and snarled like animals – a defence not aided by his reinforced mouth gag.

“Phhhggnnn hhmmmnn!” Drool began dripping onto his sharp chin.

For all the mage’s infuriating hubris (what in tarnation was a “boybarian”?), at least his abductor had no plans to get rid of Ferdiad – a meagre consolatory blessing. However, a small voice at the back of his mind felt queerly brassed off at having only as much value as a document confirming a job well done.

At least, the spellcaster seeing him as a simple savage, he made no attempt to hide his new blade from Ferdiad, who made careful note of where it was placed - as well as how Nimrod’s loincloth struggled to wrap around his robust backside…

With Nimrod picking his special prize, the rest of the Fern folk’s treasure was quickly loaded into an enchanted sack. Ferdiad scowled and grunted when the possibility of also being stuffed inside that thing was mentioned but he stopped resisting when the horned familiar wrapped wiry arms around the barbarian’s firm torso and hoisted him off the ground. Struggling and sending himself toppling down on the rock surface face down would hardly do Ferdiad’s escape plans any good.

The creature’s touch was gentler than he would have supposed, barring its claws pricking his abs.

“Mmmmmnggg?” With mortification, the barbarian realized that his new position was making him slowly drip spittle to the ground with the gag holding his lips apart like a horse’s bit. “Nnnnnggg…”

Ferdiad tried to distance his mind from the dull ache that was slowly creeping onto his ruthlessly roped limbs and focused on where they were going. Judging by Nimrod’s easeful steps, he was retracing the path back to the surface, meaning that he had already faced the snares along the way.

What he may not have known, Ferdiad thought, was that most of the clan’s artifices were designed to catch more than one hapless intruder off-guard. If he could nudge Nimrod into checking out one of them, there was a chance the sorcerer could get caught by a trap he thought he had neutralised!

A few minutes after leaving the treasury behind, the unlikely trio arrived at a larger chamber mostly empty other than some large chests and sarcophagi scattered around the dusty floor. Ferdiad recalled this place as a dummy treasure trove, bait meant to look like the real loot.

Some of the wooden boxes contained small trinkets or nothing but cobwebs while a select few had cursed artefacts that the clan chief traded from some tomb raiders hailing from the arid deserts of the South. When not handled with utmost care, these could render even the mightiest warrior helpless in the blink of an eye.

From the looks of it, one of Nimrod’s companions had already found out about this – the hard way.

A large mummiform propped up against a wall shuddered. Inside the open sarcophagus, a similarly impressively proportioned man was standing. His athletic body was wrapped in what appeared to be miles of dusty ketene bandages stretched thin against his muscles but holding like steel chains. His legs were plastered together, and his arms were strapped firmly around himself, with more bands keeping his body set squarely against the back of the coffin.

Even from where he stood, Ferdiad could tell that the man was painfully hard and fully naked inside his skin-tight cocoon.

Precious few parts of the man were left uncovered by the devilish cloth strips: a swarthy, plumply-muscled breast on which an ominously glowing amulet rested - no doubt the origin of the trap – a strong nose and short, black hair. Still, judging by the scattered armour pieces, one could assume that the man was probably some kind of knight or guard.

Although Nimrod’s companion was obviously excited about the prospect of being rescued, little could be made out beyond the faintest of distressed moans and wriggles.

Ferdiad thanked the spirits that his own bondage was nowhere near this merciless. He looked up at the mage in anticipation. Of course, now that the last remaining barbarian was no longer a threat, he would want to rescue his comrade, right?

And when he attempted to do just that, the amulet would snatch the red-bearded sorcerer, silencing that smug mouth of his before he could mutter any magics and wrap his body to match his fallen friend, a matching pair of mummified strong men pressed together in that tight stone box. And then Ferdiad would have all the time in the world to free himself and get revenge on the spellcaster before presenting him to his tribe mates.

Just the thought alone made the young man’s loincloth grow tighter.


“Ahh, Sebastian!”

The wizard’s features twisted into a moue - half-sympathy, half-distaste – at the plight of the paladin but he made no move toward his stricken friend; instead, Nimrod’s azure gaze flickered around the false treasury, alert for signs of danger.

In truth, he recalled little of this chamber, save for the fact that his last remaining companion had fallen foul of… something: a flurry of ligatures, bands of enchanted fabric stripping the holy knight then engulfing him. The mage had been lucky in that his fellow adventurer’s frenzied attempts to defend himself had resulted in the capsizing of several crates, revealing the hidden doorway through which the mage and his imp had bolted – a doorway that led, via a twisting tunnel, to the space in which he had stumbled upon and overpowered the barbarian.

Nimrod had, in truth, given Sir Sebastian the Pious nary a thought since and felt a jolt of surprise at seeing the paladin alive – albeit powerless of speech or movement.

Satisfied that the cavern was empty of additional combatants, the spellcaster paused, made a series of fluid, expressive movements with his hands and deepened his tone to murmur a wordless incantation that seemed to hang in the air beyond its vocalising.

An ink-sigil on his right forearm pulsed and seemed to crawl.

Wielding his staff once more, Nimrod used its silver-chased length to gesture widely, describing a broad cone that encompassed the entirety of the space around him.

Slowly, a soft blue radiance – faint, unearthly light that appeared to flow and coalesce almost like a liquid – began to manifest around the chamber, within the sweep of the staff - not uniformly but concentrated in discrete areas: one of the closed sarcophagi, a brace of brass-bound chests… and the breast of the mummified paladin. Specifically, the liquid light thickened around the amulet nestled between the man’s meaty pectorals, cobalt luminescence mingling with the glow of the jewel itself.

Bidding his imp (and its burden) pause, Nimrod picked his way toward the fabric-wrapped form, taking care to avoid those items where the blue radiance was strongest. He halted over an arm’s-length from the stone case itself and raised his eyes to meet those of the trapped man.

“My poor Sebastian,” exclaimed the mage, his voice redolent with concern, “deeply do I regret that I cannot free you from the fabric surcingles that bind you so cruelly; were I to attempt such, I fear the amulet upon your chest would trap me as tightly and completely as it does your good self, and we would both be without rescuers.”

The bound man struggled to respond, mouth and jaw as impossibly constricted as the rest of him. He tried to shake his head but was held erect where he stood, neck movements sorely constrained. Between stripes of bandage, Sir Sebastian's black brows lowered, and eyes narrowed in a semblance of… pleading? Fury? Questioning? Nimrod followed his gaze to where the imp hovered, carrying Ferdiad in his arms.

“Yes!” the wizard continued, “in the last chamber – beyond this one – was our quarry. I alone subdued the Scourging Terror of the Fens. There was, alas, no plunder to be found but the barbarian himself is treasure enough: I will convey him to the city guard with due haste and the moment he is safely in their hands I will – with utmost alacrity! – lead a group back here to free you and the rest of our fellows.”

Clearly not liking these words, the holy knight’s struggles intensified but his companion ignored his evident displeasure, speaking soothingly.

“Advantage is a better soldier than rashness, you must agree."

With care, Nimrod retrieved elements of his fellow's armour – mail shirt, helm, greaves, gauntlets, chestplate – evidently fallen from him in the prior conflict. The knight’s surcoat – pristine white with the arboriform emblem of his faith picked out in green – was folded and added to the pile.

"Have courage, Sebastian. Your armour is safe, and I will return forthwith!”

(With the red-bearded mage focused on the swaddled paladin, the imp suddenly moved to shift its grasp upon the captive barbarian. The youth found himself gripped more closely but felt rather than glimpsed one of the blood-hued creature’s razor-claws now exerting a subtle but insistent pressure on the bowstring-tight roping that confined Ferdiad’s upper limbs.)

The dark-eyed man strained in his cocoon and grunted, urgently, into his dusty bindings – but, with a final shrug of apology, Nimrod stepped back toward imp and barbarian.

“Onward,” he muttered, thrusting Sebastian's possessions into the Bag of Holding, “onward and away.”

To be continued...

[Straitjacketed]

Ferdiad and his comrades had left said mercenaries tied to a couple of horses, stripped bare and with their small clothes stuffed inside their mouths to muffle their complaints. Good times.

I live for sentences like these. :>

I know, right?! That particular sentence came from @DeeperThanRed, just a little throwaway detail, but I totally want to hear that story!

[Croup]

Another outstanding chapter! Sebastian's bondage was so diabolical, as fits the dungeon's theme. Love a proud paladin separated from his armor and have it be replaced with ropes. I was sad when he was left behind!

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I was sad when he was left behind!

He mayyyyyy not be gone for good...

[Guardianbound]

I'm loving the setting of this!

[Straitjacketed]

Thanks to @blackbound, @gag1195, @Croup and @Guardianbound for commenting - that's what keeps us going!


Caverns & Captives - part 3

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Ferdiad could not believe the recreancy of the mage who subdued him. Stern as his people may have been, it was unthinkable to leave one’s brother in arms behind, like this, to save one’s own skin. He bit on his gag, growling at Nimrod - not just because his plan was spoiled but also because he had underestimated the shrewdness of the older man.

“Ggrrrrmmm!”

It didn’t escape his notice that Nimrod left out the part about stashing the Fern people’s loot in his discreet magic bag, likely intending to keep it a secret and all to himself. Sebastian getting stuck here was a convenient benefit that would help him sell the items before the paladin would be rescued. If he would be rescued, that is.

Nimrod picking up the armour pieces he was stripped of for “keeping it safe until Sebastian’s release” wasn’t an encouraging sign.

The young barbarian felt bad for the struggling man they left behind despite not even knowing him. The traps in these caverns were never meant to keep adventurers indefinitely, just until they were found and kicked out. He could only hope that those bandages holding the knight wouldn’t go any further than keeping Sebastian detained.

Nevertheless, Ferdiad felt a pang of pride in his chest at the impromptu nickname he was given, even if it was merely a ruse to paint him as a valuable capture. After all, he was competent enough to land a hit on the magician despite having no way of countering his spells - that had to be counted as something!

At the moment of contemplation, the barbarian felt a shift in the claws holding him in the air, along with a strain on the ropes that bound his arms. Not enough to distress him but when he struggled to look up to the winged demon, it somehow felt as if it was looking at its master.

Curious, Ferdiad thought. Did the creature react to something Nimrod said? All he did was to claim he would return, most likely a falsehood. Dusty gears began to spin inside the young man’s head. Was it possible that the familiar wanted to make sure that the mage would actually return to Sebastian’s reprieve? Maybe it was just a coincidence but…

Their arrival at the next chamber interrupted Ferdiad’s theorising.

As he predicted, Nimrod’s group had also activated the trap in this section of the cavern. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was not one but two of them to be caught by the mechanisms laid inside the walls!

The first man was standing right in front of the rough-hewn stairs they climbed - or well, it would have been better to say he was kneeling. He was not as physically impressive as Sebastian, but he was still a sight to behold, with sun-kissed skin and tousled hair the colour of hay. It was easy to appreciate these attributes as he was nearly bare as the day he was born - only tattered tights that were ripped around his thighs. Even from a quick glance, Ferdiad could tell that the man was built for agility, possibly an archer or master of light arms.

The trap that rendered him immobile was a cage, although far from a bulky, rectangular one that could allow its prisoners to freely pace inside and use their arms to pick the lock.

No, this cage was cast from an unknown alloy that shone like silver and wasn’t much wider than the adventurer’s body. The man was on all fours, with his back, shins, and forearms parallel with the stone floor and the cage wrapped around him like a fisherman’s net frozen in place, not giving him any room to move.

Heavy manacles held his wrists and ankles flat against the surface he was kept on and his neck was similarly collared, chained to a small ring on the floor. A light but cruel gag was placed upon him: a metal ring that was tied around his head and kept his mouth open. Ferdiad flinched at the irony of not being able to close your lips but also having your words taken away from you. Surely his brethren would not leave a prisoner in this position for long… would they?

Garbled complaints left the man’s mouth as he saw Nimrod. There was no sign on his face of the despair that haunted the paladin in the previous room; instead, he looked rightfully incensed at being left behind. He kept pointing to his right with his head, as much as his collar allowed, in the direction of the other captive. If Ferdiad had to hazard a guess, he’d say the man found himself in this trap while trying to rescue his friend – and seeing the other hero’s plight, he couldn’t blame him for worrying…


“Chiron!” exclaimed Nimrod, “Hardeen!”

As before, the mage called out to his imprisoned fellows but did not rush to them; again, he remained at a wary distance, making air-traceries with his fingers, and uttering a lower-pitched wordless ululation, a subtly different sweep of his staff, the flexing of an ink-sigil on the other alabaster forearm.

This time, the radiance was a greenish blue, the colour of peacock feathers. To Nimrod’s surprise, it coalesced not around the entrapped men but at smaller points around the chamber. The red-bearded man used avoidance of these light-nodes to guide his steps as he weaved toward the hay-haired archer in his silvery fetters and enmeshment.

“Apologies, Chiron, for our, ah, hasty departure back there. Sebastian is… wrapped up but, as you can see, I secured our prize – the Terror will scourge no more! Now, let us get you out of there.”

The wizard made an impressive-looking gesture and focused his gaze upon the cage in which his companion was trapped.

Nimrod’s lips moved in the barest of whispers but, if a tattoo-glyph was glowing or pulsing, Ferdiad could not see it.

Nothing happened. The mage repeated the actions.

“Gods be damned, old friend, my spell has failed. The magicks that entrap you are too strong.”

(Held in the imp’s iron grasp, the young barbarian could swear that, again, that grasp had shifted… or, not shifted, tightened. The tiny talon had increased its pressure not on Ferdiad’s skin but on the rope that bound him; the youth felt some give, the sensation of fibres parting...)

The tanned man seemed unimpressed by Nimrod’s magical exhortations, narrowing his eyes, and snorting through the length of his fine, aquiline nose.

“I’m sorry, Chiron. You are bound in mithril that bears an enchantment I cannot break. I needs must return with reinforcements.”

The archer’s response was distorted by the ring gag behind his teeth, but the sentiment was clear.

“Mayhap it is within my power to help Hardeen?”

The bearish spellcaster turned to look at the second bound man.


Compared to his companion, the other man (Hardeen, according to the mage) was not bound to the floor but instead, to the ceiling of the cavern – in rather an unorthodox fashion. That was to say that he was hanging upside down, swaying back and forth, slowly, by his feet.

Ferdiad had trouble predicting this man’s role in an adventurer’s party. His clothes were all black like those of a rogue’s but uniquely flashy, with a suit of quilted black leather armour, jerkin and studded breeches. Matching his dark hair and pale skin, they appeared to be picked for their looks rather than functionality.

Not only did the outfit accentuate Hardeen’s athletic and toned body nicely, but the breeches were like tar over his bare loins, drawing attention to a round pair of globes and a sizeable bulge rather than hiding it. Even the inadvertent wriggles the man produced made the material creak loudly. Ferdiad wondered how this man could even walk freely in such attire. Between the noise his ensemble made and the lack of mobility, no wonder he was caught in the trap.

Ferdiad knew said trap intimately. On the surface, it appeared to be nothing more than a black spider-shaped ornament near the top of the chamber. But when triggered with a sound loud enough, it shot a silk string made from the secretion of giant desert arachnids. The material was thin and soft but hardened with frightening speed.

And when Hardeen was bound, he was pulled upward, where he couldn’t reach anything and could do nothing but stare at the hard ground a few feet below him. Ferdiad predicted that the knife lying below him was his only tool - it didn’t look like his clothes would allow for much storage room.

Hardeen’s arms were crossed behind his back, his shoulders pressed to his body in an intricate design of silk ropes in the shape of intersecting diamonds. A patch of web stuck to his mouth, coating the lower half of his face in a sticky substance, and possibly filling his gob. One of his legs was stretched upward to the source of the webs by a single, thick rope, while his left leg was bent, connecting to the main tether with a few shorter cords.

Looking closely, Ferdiad noticed that Hardeen’s booted foot was tied closely to a string harness surrounding his crotch. Trying to move his left leg would cause the harness to squeeze the manhood trapped inside the tight leather breeches. Maybe it was accidental that he was hard but… something in the man’s expression told the barbarian that he might be enjoying his predicament.

Ferdiad decided not to think too much about how he felt about being restrained himself - of course he hated it! He hoped that Nimrod’s attention was still on his party members and tried to force the ropes holding his strong arms once more. It actually felt like the ropes were growing weaker! Maybe if he kept trying to pull his wrists apart, he could create enough slack to pick the knot.

Now, he only needed the mage not to observe him too carefully…

As far as Ferdiad know, there were no additional snares around Hardeen. Nimrod could save him with ease. But the question was: would he choose to do so?

To be continued...

[blackbound]

Ooh, the imp definitely seems to have his own agenda - and who can blame him?

Truly unfortunate that all of Nimrod's companions seem to be held in these unbreakable traps!

[gag1195]

I'm loving the very interesting and intricate traps the rest of the party finds themselves in!

It is an interesting question, though. Will he try to save Hardeen to keep up appearances? Or partially free him but keep him mostly restrained and gagged? It seems the good bard might not mind remaining Nimrod's captive as they continue to retrace their steps out of this kinky dungeon!

[Straitjacketed]

Thanks, as ever, to faithful commenters @blackbound, @gag1195, @Croup and @Guardianbound.

Caverns & Captives - part 4

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Nimrod’s cinnamon brows knitted and, for a moment, he peered intensely at the inverted man as if in deep thought.

Then, with the abruptness of a flash flood, his composure broke and, shockingly, the mage laughed. Not a mere smirk or smile; he guffawed long and, in the stillness of the cavern, jarringly loud.

“Begging pardon,” he said, finally wiping mirth from his bearded visage, “but I can pretend this antic disposition no more; Hardeen, your absurdity has broken my farce.”

Mindful of the lingering aquamarine warning glow, the wizard maintained a careful distance from untriggered traps but extended his staff to snag and pull the fallen knife within reach.

“First, my dear rogue, you choose the most ridiculous of armours – that straitened and creaking suit is the very antithesis of stealth – then you lumber directly into the most obvious of traps, a trap that, by the evidence of all eyes, frustrates release on every level.”

By way of illustration, Nimrod reached up with the length of blackwood, teasing the tip of his walking-staff along hide-wrapped muscles (muscles trying, without success, to flex and squirm away) to prod at the swollen groin with a knob of silver. The suspended man grimaced and flushed scarlet behind his mouth-stopper of webbing; from his throat, he emitted a groan of exasperation, yanking at harnessed arms and straining gloved fingers upwards and around, twisting against sticky, clinging cords of spider-silk that fixed wrists fast to leathered waist.

(As if in sympathy, Ferdiad’s own fists clenched and his forearms pulled apart, testing the bonds that secured them. The imp's gaze did not shift from its master, but its talon moved fractionally closer – a keen edge against which the barbarian’s subtle agitating of the rope fibres made swift progress. Breaking the elbow binding would now, the youth surmised, take little more than a determined shrug. To Ferdiad’s surprise, the imp shifted position anew, one claw coming to rest upon the wrist ligature, one the ankles.)

The rogue, however, was both hapless and helpless. His most dedicated escapist efforts had precipitated little more than spin and oscillation; he swung like an erratic leather-clad pendulum. As he moved, both his web-connected boot and the head of Nimrod's staff continued to place pressure on the bulge of his breeches. The hide-clad man screwed his eyes shut, exhaling a nasal grunt, and shaking his head: no.

“Hardeen and his hardon,” smirked the mage, finally lifting blackwood away from black hide, “both trapped... but suffering? Truly? The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Indeed, good sir, were I to cut you down with but a stroke of this knife…"

He held aloft the rogue’s dropped possession, his most ready route to freedom. Hardeen now watched; he and Chiron followed the blade with hungry eyes.

“… I fear I would merit the name Nimrod the Negligent, or at least Naïve. To terminate what is clearly a circumstance of prolonged ecstasy, to deprive you of such a source of bodily pleasure… why, that would be heartless of me.”

Deliberately, the wizard released his grip and let the knife fall to the rock floor.

“Enjoy!”

Two throats gurgled gag-muffled despair. Robes aswirl, the mage hurried his entourage to the next chamber.


As Nimrod gloated and taunted his former friends, Ferdiad discreetly flexed his fingers, full of pins and needles from tight ropework and over-clenching. While the mage had been leisurely walking from one room to the next, not even spending any energy to help the trapped men they encountered along the way, the young barbarian had been struggling against the bonds holding him. His muscular, nearly nude body was covered in a thin layer of perspiration and his mouth felt sore from all the drooling and the thick gag stuffed inside.

He could feel that thanks to the imp and its unknown help, he was close to breaking away the knots tying his arms. Although he couldn’t see, he could feel that small claws were working on his thighs. Soon, he would be able to use his muscle strength to free himself!

Ferdiad knew he had to be careful lest he wanted to get caught again - the older man may not be so lax with tying him the next time - but he couldn’t wait to take revenge against the wizard who humiliated him so thoroughly.

At last Nimrod - who was both naive and negligent towards the warrior he was making his familiar carry - arrived at a large portion of the cave system that looked a lot less like a proper room than the previous chambers. It was a large opening covered in stalactites, stalagmites and signs of a scuffle.

There were a few bodies scattered around. Most of them looked like Ferdiad’s brethren and he hoped at least some were merely unconscious but one appeared to be a stranger: a boy as young as himself, with chestnut curls and a slight body dressed in light clothing. As the barbarian noted with an angry grunt, the only weapon he was carrying was a broken lute.

Unable to imagine his tribe killing a minstrel, Ferdiad wondered whether this lad was another victim of Nimrod picking meat shields for himself… but that was of little importance at the moment. He had to make his escape before they were out of the cavern and the rusty-bearded man able to devote his full attention to making sure Ferdiad stayed restrained until the city.

In an example of perfect timing, he felt the imp’s claws on the rope holding his legs and the barbarian took his chance. Pulling his arms to his chest with all his might, he let out a muffled roar. “HHHHNNNGGGGG!” The weary material snapped and the binding grasp around his torso disappeared.

Ferdiad landed on the floor in a practiced roll and picked up a bronze sword dropped by one of the fallen warriors. He cut the bonds around his legs swiftly, made easier by the imp’s help.

Not even bothering to take off his gag, the barbarian rushed to the mage and swung his weapon in a fit of fury. “NNNNNGGGGRRMMM!”


On entering the larger cavern, Nimrod made a beeline for where the brown-haired youth lay. He did not attempt to cast a spell of detection but simply knelt, his countenance sorrowful.

“Poor Roland. Dwindled into a ghost...”

He placed the halves of sundered lute together, on the bard’s breast.

“’Yet half’,” the spellcaster intoned, sonorously, “’you seemed to recognise some trick of mischief happened to you, Gods know when – in a bad dream perhaps, here ended then’… oh Roland, I would not have had you fall in this place. This was not your time to die…”

The mage smoothed the young bard’s curls, his ginger-bearded features solemn. A short silence followed.

“… but it does mean I alone collect bounty on the boybarian.”

“HHHHNNNGGGGG!”

The wizard’s head snapped up just in time to see Ferdiad burst the bonds around his chest and reach for a sword.

Nimrod cast the imp a furious glare. “Is this your doing?!” he snarled.

Too late, the mage realised his error.

A not-quite-audible POP and the sense of a small but definite shift in the aether. For the first time, the imp grinned, displaying a disconcertingly wide array of teeth. The mage’s unthinking question had released it, instantly, from its bond of servitude.

“Not as such,” the creature answered, its voice unearthly, somehow both flint-edged and surprisingly melodic, “the barbarian freed himself.”

Indeed, Ferdiad was fast releasing his feet. With haste, Nimrod began a ritual of shielding.

In quicksilver insectile movements, the imp shrugged straps from its narrow shoulders and the Bag of Holding slipped to the floor. The creature remained hovering for the merest heartbeat then flew, like an arrow, not in attack nor out of the entrance but back into the cave complex, to the chamber the party had just left.

“NNNNNGGGGRRMMM!”

Nimrod’s lips moved near-soundlessly as the fingers of his right hand dextrously wove a circle of barely visible golden-tinged light. A glyph on the back of his wrist pulsated, the circle expanded to a hemisphere and, with a fist thrust toward the barbarian, the mage was able to block the oncoming charge.

The impact jarred him.

“Caretaker,” he gasped, “you may have slipped my ropes… let’s see how you fare with a nice set of mind-forg’d manacles…”

Perspiring with the pressure of maintaining one magic while initiating another, the wizard let his staff fall and reached with his now-free hand into a pocket of his garment, producing what appeared a tiny pair of interlinked iron circlets, a two-link chain. He cast the chain in Ferdiad’s path, opened his robe to expose a large, twisted sigil on his chest and started murmuring in a strange tongue. The sigil began to move.

Around the barbarian’s wrists, a purplish-black incandescence appeared - almost anti-light, darkness made matter - around ankles too, and circling his neck. Insubstantial at first, the shadowy fetters became more corporeal by the second.

Ferdiad paused in his onslaught. The sword dropped from his hands.

Nimrod’s incantation intensified and lines of the same weird dark-fluorescence started to form between the bands of light, connecting the young fighter’s hands, feet, and neck.

The spellcaster’s face was rubicund with effort. Veins stood out on his temples.

From the next cavern came the sudden sounds of boots connecting with rock, of mithril manacles falling away.

The mage glanced at the connecting tunnel, his concentration broken.

Ferdiad's purple-black shackles blinked out of existence and the golden lightshield faltered, flickered, and failed.

The wizard took a step back then another, momentarily depleted. Lacking time and energy to prepare another spell, he found himself, for the first time in a very long while, in the unfamiliar position of having to fall back upon non-magical defences.

Shaken, he looked to his rear - an impenetrable wall-like speleothem - then cast around for his staff. It lay where he had discarded it; he would not have time to dart forward and retrieve it before the barbarian was upon him.

All he had to fall back on was the knife he had taken from Ferdiad's spoils. Reluctant to take his eyes off the approaching fighter, the bearish man approximated a defensive stance, fumbling among the folds of his robe to pull blade from scabbard.

To be continued...

[Croup]

Loving every new chapter. The adventure setting and danger around every corner. Nimrod's past party members and all the predicaments they fell into. And now very inclined to see Nimrod pay some comeuppances for turning his back on them!

[blackbound]

Well, looks like Nimrod the Nimrod messed up in exactly the way I thought he would. And it sounds like his erstwhile slave is freeing his other captives? Hmm...

[Straitjacketed]

Well, looks like Nimrod the Nimrod messed up in exactly the way I thought he would.

Hahah, I'm glad someone picked up on the "urban dictionary" meaning of "nimrod".

[blackbound]

Well, looks like Nimrod the Nimrod messed up in exactly the way I thought he would.

Hahah, I'm glad someone picked up on the "urban dictionary" meaning of "nimrod".

I've been waiting to drop this one all along! I don't remember where I picked it up but it sure wasn't UD.

[Straitjacketed]

Well, looks like Nimrod the Nimrod messed up in exactly the way I thought he would.

Hahah, I'm glad someone picked up on the "urban dictionary" meaning of "nimrod".

I've been waiting to drop this one all along! I don't remember where I picked it up but it sure wasn't UD.

Oh, I know it's been general slang forever, not just UD. I did think it was mainly a UK thing, but clearly not.

[gag1195]

And now the question, when the party arrives, will they capture both Nimrod and Ferdiad? Or will it be an "enemy of my enemy" situation...

[Straitjacketed]

And now the question, when the party arrives, will they capture both Nimrod and Ferdiad? Or will it be an "enemy of my enemy" situation...

You won't have long to wait to find out! This story should be complete by the end of the year...

[Straitjacketed]

Loving every new chapter. The adventure setting and danger around every corner. Nimrod's past party members and all the predicaments they fell into. And now very inclined to see Nimrod pay some comeuppances for turning his back on them!

Pleased you're liking this one. It was a lot of fun and one of those stories that seems just to flow: I think we co-wrote it within two weeks.

In the same spirit, I'm choosing to post it quickly, every couple of days or thereabouts, to keep the action nice and pacy.

[Straitjacketed]

Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to comment: @blackbound, @gag1195, @Croup and @Guardianbound.

Caverns & Captives - part 5

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

As the loincloth-clad barbarian charged at Nimrod, he barely noticed the imp dashing off inside the caves. Good for it, he thought - after all the help he got from the creature, it deserved getting away from its lousy master.

But the youth’s mind was mostly occupied with beating his captor to a bloody pulp or dying trying. He had had his fill of being a prisoner.

Ferdiad swung his sword in a wide arc, only for it to bounce off soundlessly from a shimmering, transparent barrier that the spellcaster erected at the last second. The youth swore through his gag. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he anticipated but one part of him welcomed the thrill of an unpredictable fight. His muscles were crying for a good scuffle.

He took a couple of steps back, raring for another attack but his plan was interrupted when Nimrod pulled out a small piece of chain and began chanting. Slightly distracted by the older man’s suddenly exposed chest, Ferdiad was caught off guard with his hands and legs being pulled by spectral chains wrapping around them.

“Pppphhhhggggg nnnnmmmmhh!” The barbarian pulled at the magical bonds with all his strength. He wasn’t about to get captured so quickly right after he was freed!

Still, he was helpless to do anything when his limbs were constricted, causing him to drop his weapon. His breath hitched when a collar materialised itself around his neck.

Was this it? Was he fated to become an exotic, tied and muzzled toy for this haughty stranger?

Just when Ferdiad was about to lose hope, the hexed bondage disappeared as quickly as it was cast. The young warrior, as dumbfounded as he was, wasn’t about to let this opportunity go to waste. He clenched his fist and rushed towards Nimrod.

The older mage was not ready for hand-to-hand combat as the reluctance in his stance showed. He pulled out the ornate dirk he stole from the treasury.

Ferdiad slowed his run but kept moving. Even with a short weapon, his opponent had the range advantage, especially being bigger than him. If his approach was too reckless, he could easily get stabbed somewhere vital, possibly giving him a disadvantage he couldn’t overcome.

However, caution was not in the hotblooded barbarian’s nature. Rather than stepping back and looking for a weapon, Ferdiad trusted in his foe’s lack of experience. Nimrod was arrogant, sure, but he also had an aversion to putting himself in harm’s way. He would try to keep his distance and wear down the barbarian instead of thrusting his knife at the half-naked man coming at him.

In seconds, Ferdiad decided to gamble and lowered his centre of gravity for a short crouching dash. Nimrod’s blade swung right over his head, taking a few strands of hair.

The mage realised his mistake too late, bringing his dirk down to protect himself but, this time, Ferdiad was one step ahead.

He felt the sharp edge of the knife cutting through his shoulder smoothly, leaving a deep gash but he didn’t care. Instead, he rose from his squat to throw a gauntlet-powered uppercut right at Nimrod’s bearded jaw.

For a second, the sorcerer’s feet left the ground. The next, he fell face up on the rock floor, knocked out.

Ferdiad exhaled, finally putting a hand on the wound he suffered through their short duel. His shoulder was burning but he didn’t stop to think. One part of him was still wary that this was some trick and Nimrod would somehow get up, laugh in his face, and reveal a trap that would snare the youth for good.

And then, he heard footsteps coming his way.


Sir Sebastian the Pious appeared first. The paladin stood tall and mighty of thew, unbound but marked by the crushing embrace of the bandages, some scraps of surcingle still depending from his swarthy limbs and, mercifully, shielding his modesty.

On seeing the barbarian over Nimrod’s crumpled form, his eyes widened, and he began to move forward but Chiron the archer, close behind, held him back.

“Wait, Sebastian. All here is not as it might seem. The mage is but stunned – see, his chest rises and falls.”

The holy knight saw that Nimrod was not dead but unconscious. The blow that had felled him was a stout one, and the mage would not be rising any time soon.

“Then what…?”

He glared at Ferdiad and glanced around the cavern floor, his sword-hungry fingers questing for a weapon.

“The youth – that barbarian – may not be our foe,” continued the light-haired archer, “at least, he is not the most heinous villain.”

The sound of creaking leather heralded the appearance of the last of the newly emancipated trio. Hardeen was flushed, his dark hair dishevelled, but he too placed a gloved hand on Sir Sebastian in gentle restraint.

“Damn right, that shitstain of a mage was going to stiff us all.”

A sudden blur of blood-red, and the imp had alighted by the Bag of Holding. It upended the leathern sack, and an impossible array of items began to spill from its depths.

The paladin’s confusion was rapidly clearing but some trace of uncertainty remained.

“Barbarian,” he called to Ferdiad, “do you speak the common tongue? Tell us your story. What took place herein?”

He glanced at the unconscious wizard and his brow darkened. “And what are we to do with him?”


Ferdiad, visibly relaxed that the adventurers didn’t seem to be hostile, finally reached behind his nape and undid the knot holding the sizeable gag between his lips. The cloth gag plopped out of his mouth, leaving a strand of saliva in its wake.

Flexing his sore jaw, the barbarian spoke: “I speak your tongue enough.” He pointed at the sorcerer. “He took all our treasure. Wanted to left you behind and make me his prisoner for bounty.”

Ferdiad was not good with words even in his own language and didn’t like speaking much but his curt explanation got the meaning across. He suspected that Nimrod’s party doubted the sincerity of the mage's excuses as much as he did.

The bag’s contents were enough proof that the older ginger wasn’t planning on returning the valuables stolen by the Fern People.

Although he knew these men came here to rob his tribe, Ferdiad wanted to do this together. After all, they could all agree that the mage needed a harsh lesson after everything he did to them.

And as for what to do with said mage…

Ferdiad crouched and picked up a heavy-looking leather helmet tumbled from the Bag of Holding. “We should make sure he don’t cast his magicks.”

The barbarian turned at the three men watching him intensely. “How you say… let’s gag him.”

To be continued...