In (non-)celebration of the continued Great Recession: 8 free prison love stories

I've made some price changes on my e-books, mainly in the downward direction. Among other things, most of the e-book versions of the side stories in The Eternal Dungeon and Life Prison are now free at my store at Gumroad, and at other bookstores where possible. If you download the e-book from Gumroad, voluntary donations can be made before or after downloading. Whether or not you donate, reviews (pro or con) are always welcome.
 

The Eternal Dungeon free stories are as follows. Click on the titles for longer blurbs and download links.

Never (m/f romance within an m/m series). She was attending the ball at the palace to dance. That was all. Which made it annoying to face a proposal of marriage from a guard who was distinctly not the sort of man she would ever consider marrying. Certainly not.

Hunger (friendship fiction within an m/m series). Some hungers can only be satisfied by reaching out. As a prisoner struggles to find the right path, a foul-mouthed guard and an uncommon torturer will open a door . . . but stepping through a doorway with blackness beyond requires courage.

Wax / Broken (m/m). "All in all, he held a satisfactory position, one where his talents were properly appreciated. But the Record-keeper, rubbing his bleary eyes as he began his shift, could not help but wish that the High Seeker had chosen a love-mate who was less loud."

Green Ruin (m/m, m/f, and friendship fiction). Three guards and a mysterious substance provide a temptation too great to be missed . . . especially when two torturers add their skills to the mix. Soon three very different men – a married man who is committed to respect and honor, a bachelor harboring secret desires, and a soldier with an unfulfilled ambition – will find themselves caught in a trap. Their rescue will come from an unexpected quarter.
 

The Life Prison free stories are as follows. Click on the titles for longer blurbs and download links.

Torture (m/m subplot; crossover with the Eternal Dungeon series). When the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon visits a foreign prison, he discovers that his dark reputation has preceded him. So has the dark reputation of his dungeon. The host is eager to show him that matters are run very differently in Mercy Life Prison. The High Seeker has his own suspicions about what he will find in that prison, but even so, he is not prepared for what the prison has to teach him about man's nature . . . and his own nature.

In the Silence (friendship fiction within an m/m series). He can't speak. He can barely see. He experiences only fear and the faint whispers of something he had once known. But an intruder into his secure retreat from danger will pull him into awareness of what stands before him. What stands there is renewed danger . . . and the hope of something more.

Cell-mates (m/m and friendship fiction, with a bisexual protagonist). Sentenced to life in prison, Tyrrell didn't have many opportunities for bed-play. . . unless he could count what the guards did to him as "play." So his future seemed brighter when he was paired with a cell-mate he'd been eyeing for a long time with affection and lust. If only Tyrrell could keep from becoming his cell-mate's latest murder victim . . .

Cell-mates (Life Prison)

"They had to settle the issue of sex first."

Sentenced to life in prison, Tyrrell didn't have many opportunities for bed-play . . . unless he could count what the guards did to him as "play." So his future seemed brighter when he was paired with a cell-mate he'd been eyeing for a long time with affection and lust.

If only Tyrrell could keep from becoming his cell-mate's latest murder victim . . .

This short story can be read on its own or as a side story in the Life Prison series. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is inspired by prison life at the end of the nineteenth century.

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Excerpt

They had to settle the issue of sex first.

"No," said Merrick flatly as he shoved his only belonging – a toothbrush given to him by his previous guard – under the stone bed-ledge on the other side of the cell.

Well, that was a direct enough answer. Or would have been, if Tyrrell had been the type to accept 'no' for an answer.

If he had been the type to accept 'no,' he wouldn't have spent two years persuading Merrick to become his cell-mate.

"Is it because . . ." He paused, wondering how to put this delicately. Because the Magisterial Republic of Mip had originally been colonized by the two warring nations of Yclau and Vovim, cultural clashes among Mippite citizens were inevitable. It was said that even Cecelia – the great Cecelia – had been rejected by a suitor's family, which was clearly a sign of lunacy in that family. Some of the Yclau-descended folk had strange notions about maintaining the purity of their families. Anyone ethnic or foreign or darker than a pasty shade of white was considered off-limits. That would make Tyrrell extremely off-limits. "It isn't because I was born in southern Vovim, is it?"

Merrick looked annoyed. "What, do you think I have something against players?"

Tyrrell straightened his spine. Like most emigrants from Vovim, he had acted in plays from time to time. Street plays, with no props other than broken objects dug out of the local garbage heap, but they were plays just the same. "Do you?" he responded in a challenging voice.

Merrick's mouth twisted. He was busy tightening the blankets on the bed-ledge with what seemed to Tyrrell to be unnecessary thoroughness, given that they were both about to go to bed. Unless – Tyrrell brightened at the thought – Merrick intended that they use only one bed-ledge.

After a moment, Merrick said, "The Bijou. The City Opera. The Frederick.. . ."

It turned out to be a very long recital. Tyrrell was impressed. "You've been to all the theaters in this city?"

"All the theaters in the whole of eastern Mip." Merrick mumbled the words.

"Gods preserve us – that many?"

Merrick glared at his blanket. "Does it matter? I've spent plenty of time with players. Let's move on to more important subjects."

Tyrrell hated to think what Merrick's idea was of an important subject. Probably how to strangle all the guards at Mercy Life Prison. He asked, "Is it because I'm short?"

Merrick sighed as he turned toward Tyrrell. "Look," he said, "you could be six feet tall, with dashing dark eyes, and skin a delicious shade of sepia—"

Tyrrell began to tick off in his mind which men in the prison fit this description.

"—and I still wouldn't fuck you. I'm just not interested in doing that. Not with you. Not with anyone here."

"Married?" Tyrrell asked sympathetically. So many men in the prison were, or had left behind love-mates, male or female, when they were convicted of their crimes and sent to spend the rest of their lives in Mercy Prison.

Merrick's gaze turned toward the flagstoned floor. "Hell."

"You don't have to swear at me," said Tyrrell reproachfully.

"I'm not swearing. I'm praying to Hell to rise up and kidnap you to his domain so that I won't have to continue this conversation. Look—"

And suddenly his voice was low, as low as it had been when he had finally made the amazing declaration that he would submit a formal request to his guard that he be transferred to Tyrrell's cell. So Tyrrell held his breath, because he knew that Merrick was never low-voiced – never, never, never – unless he was saying something that cost him a great deal to say.
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Cell-mates.

In the Silence (Life Prison)

"Images came, like flickers of a candle: Dark stones. Dark metal. Faint fire. A spoon in his hand, as someone urged him to eat. A stinking pit that he knew he was duty-bound to fill. A loom nearby that he vaguely remembered he had once known how to work, but which now stood as silent as the rest of his world."

He can't speak. He can barely see. He experiences only fear and the faint whispers of something he had once known.

But an intruder into his secure retreat from danger will pull him into awareness of what stands before him. What stands there is renewed danger. . . and the hope of something more.

This short story can be read on its own or as a side story in the Life Prison series. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is inspired by prison life at the end of the nineteenth century.

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Excerpt

Some of the prisoners began to retreat to the back of their cells, made uneasy by this breaking of the silence. He ought to as well. A prisoner was speaking. A prisoner was shouting. No good could come of this. Nothing could come of this but pain and fear and screaming.

Tears were running down his face now. He gripped the bars hard, trying to figure out what to do. He had emerged from a dream, only to find himself trapped in a nightmare. How could he make it stop?

The solid door opened suddenly. The guard named Sedgewick stood there, breathing heavily. His hair was dishevelled; his jacket was torn; his neck was turning purple. "Get chains," he snapped at Milton.

"Chains?" Turning, Milton gaped at him.

"Chains. From the showers. The manacles on chains that we use when we give the prisoners the cold-water punishment."

"The chains are bolted to the shower walls," Milton protested. "They're attached high up on the walls, above the prisoners' heads."

"Pliers. Stepladder. Be quick about it."

"Sedgewick, it sounds as though you're killing your prisoner. If you kill him, our Keeper will be angry—"

"Go." As the shouts inside the cell reached a new high pitch, Sedgewick slammed the door shut.

Milton looked around the level uncertainly. But in all the cells he glanced at, none of the prisoners were moving. Swallowing hard, Milton retreated to the stairwell.

The shouts from the battle-torn cell were so loud now that he covered his ears. He could still hear the bellow of the prisoner, who sounded like a bull let loose in a ring. "I am going to maul you so badly that you'll never be reborn!" the prisoner was shouting. "Just watch me!"

There was a loud crack. Identifying the sound, he flinched back, as though the whip had landed on him. The only response from the prisoner was another bellow, this time of profanity.

He bit his lip. He had no doubt as to the outcome of this struggle. The prisoner could not hold out against two guards armed with whips and daggers. It was a miracle he had done so already. How long would this last?

How long had it lasted? He glanced briefly over his shoulder at his cell, but it looked just the same as it had the last time he had seen it – had truly seen it.

Only the loom was gone. How had they taken the loom away without waking him from his dream? And how long ago had they done this?

He felt the bars under his hands. Bars. There had been no bars when he last saw this cell – only a solid door. The solid door was still there, but it was an inner door now, open. There were two doors to his cell now, one solid, one barred. The barred one must have been added.

How could they have added a barred door without him noticing it?

Sweat was trickling down his back now. He tried to read the time passed from the amount of ashes next to the fire. But for all he knew, the ashes might have been scooped out a dozen times or more. A whole month might have passed. Or two months?

He put his hand upon his cheek, trying to wipe away the tears that continued to stream there—

And froze. Were those wrinkles he felt next to his eyes?

He was twenty-one years old. How could he have wrinkles?
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): In the Silence.

"Green Ruin," free story in the award-winning series The Eternal Dungeon

You can read Green Ruin (The Eternal Dungeon) as part of the free PDF zine Wanderlust: A Travel Anthology, edited by T. Spoon for The Slash Pile. Green Ruin has both heterosexual and gay content. The e-book editions of Green Ruin (HTML, PDF, and Kindle) remain available for $2.99.

The omnibus edition of the Eternal Dungeon series was winner of the Best Gay Fantasy category of the Rainbow Awards 2011.

The blurb:

"During the dawn hours at the Eternal Dungeon, as the day shift yawned itself awake and the night shift yawned itself to bed, the talk turned, as it always did, to the injustices of being a guard."

Three guards and a mysterious substance provide a temptation too great to be missed . . . especially when two torturers add their skills to the mix. Soon three very different men – a married man who is committed to respect and honor, a bachelor harboring secret desires, and a soldier with an unfulfilled ambition – will find themselves caught in a trap. Their rescue will come from an unexpected quarter.

This darkly humorous short story of friendship and romance can be read on its own or as a side story in The Eternal Dungeon, a historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

Excerpt

Mr. Sobel said cautiously, "One needs to be careful when imbibing strong liquor. I've heard tales—"

"Oh, tales." Mr. Boyd dismissed this with one wave of the hand.

Mr. Urman, still enjoying the task of imparting the worst news, read: "'The partial insensibility caused by the absinthe is attended with the ideal existence of long intervals of time, in which the events of a whole life are arrayed and appreciated, to be succeeded by terrific hallucinations and intellectual weakness, ending in unconscious struggling as if for life. In time, if the use of the absinthe be continued, these phenomena become permanently established and the result is inevitably fatal.'"

"Fatal memories!" Turning a page, Mr. Boyd snorted again. "Does the author really expect us to believe that?"

"You never know." Mr. Urman set aside the book, as though he had read enough.

"'A Vovimian physician tells us that after the first dose of absinthe, you are carried in imagination away from earth into a lofty and boundless realm without horizon,'" Mr. Sobel murmured as he read from his book. "'You imagine yourself travelling into the infinite spirals of rebirth. . . .'"

"'Hallucinations of various kinds, of naked women' – there's one for you, Mr. Sobel," teased Mr. Boyd.

"Mr. Boyd, please." Mr. Sobel had turned scarlet.

Unable to resist this opportunity to make mock at the dungeon's senior-most guard, Mr. Urman returned to his reading. "'He now carried his excesses still further, and added absinthe to his list of excitants. Then this youth, so chaste and reserved in his intervals of sobriety, lost his modesty with a very remarkable facility, not only when under the influence of liquor, but when simply dominated by a desire to drink. For a drink he would give himself to the first comer. . . .'"

"Sounds like an aphrodisiac," observed Mr. Boyd. "That could be handy in certain situations." He nudged Mr. Sobel, the married man.

Mr. Sobel, though, had renewed his composure. "It's a dangerous drug," he stated flatly. "Listen to what is said here: 'In the case of excessive drinkers there is first the feeling of exaltation peculiar to a state of intoxication. The increasing dose necessary to produce this state quickly deranges the digestive organs, and destroys the appetite. An unappeasable thirst takes possession of the victim, with giddiness, tingling in the ears, and hallucinations of sight and hearing, followed by a constant mental oppression and anxiety, loss of brain power, and, eventually, idiocy.'"

"Excessive drinkers," Mr. Boyd emphasized, unwilling to let go of a point. "Do you mind if I borrow a glassful of this, Mr. Sobel? It would be interesting to see what the drink tastes like. . . ."

Curious (Life Prison)

"It wasn't the first time that Ulick had met a man who received enjoyment at the thought of killing. This time, however, the killer was not a convict."

His job is to guard the prisoners. But against what?

Hired to work at a prison that has recently undergone a purge, Ulick finds himself caught in the midst of a vicious battle. The prison's Keeper wants peace. The Assistant Keeper wants blood. Each of the other guards has his own motive, and his own method, for keeping the prisoners under control.

Backbiting, threats, violent encounters, forbidden desires played out at night and in stark daylight . . . all this Ulick must face in his new job. At the center of the maelstrom lies Merrick, a foul-mouthed prisoner with a notorious reputation. But behind Merrick stands another man, hidden in the shadows, and Ulick's future depends on what that man wants of him.

This novella (short novel) can be read on its own or as the fifth and final story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is inspired by prison life at the end of the nineteenth century.

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Excerpt

"We've had trouble with the prisoners," said Mercy's Keeper.

"Sir?" Ulick could think of no other reply to make to this bland remark, which might have been spoken by any Keeper at any prison at any moment of the day.

"Seditious activities. Attempts to manipulate the guards. That sort of thing."

"Oh." Understanding reached him. "Yes, I'd read that in the newspapers."

Mercy's Keeper – who was not gracious enough to offer his name, much less offer Ulick a chair – winced, as though in distaste at the foreign orange he was munching on throughout the conversation. "Too much publicity. Pressmen should all be shot. Good thing the death sentence is back."

Ulick decided not to ask how serious the Keeper was in his statement. Instead, he took the opportunity to glance around the Keeper's office, which also served as the man's living quarters. Opulent walnut chests, imported Vovimian carpets, a wall full of books, and a kitchen's worth of food. And the food was only for his lunch. If Mercy's Keeper was suffering from the presence of his seditious prisoners, there was no sign of it.

"Blasted Boundaries," said Mercy's Keeper, as though summing up matters.

"Sir?"

"They should be shot. Every one of them. Will, if I find out who they are."

Ulick wondered whether his expression held the proper amount of bewilderment. It must have, for in the next moment, from the corner of the room, came a quiet voice. "If I may, sir. . . . I believe that your new guard may need to be briefed on our situation."

"Eh?" Mercy's Keeper twisted round in his chair to stare at the speaker. "Oh, rather. If you say so. You explain, and I'll get on with . . ." He waved his hand expansively over his desk, embracing both paperwork and food.

"Thank you, sir." The speaker, who was standing in the shadows, raised his eyes to Ulick. Looking into them, Ulick had the momentary feeling of falling down a deep well. He considered himself moderately good at reading expressions; it was one of the skills that had led him to take up guard-work. But nothing lay behind those eyes to tell him what the other man was thinking.

"In brief," said the guard quietly, holding Ulick's gaze with apparently effortless ease, "one of the prisoners here, a kin-murderer by the name of Merrick, developed a very clever plan some years ago to gain power over the guards. He executed this plan with the help of a cunning strategist, a cut-throat named Tyrrell. Their plan was to put forward something that purported to be a code of ethics for prison conduct, and to persuade the guards here to adhere to it. Many guards were fooled into doing so."

Ulick, who had been trying unsuccessfully to move his eyes away from the speaker, heard himself say, "Many guards?"

A smile entered the other man's eyes. "Including myself. I will admit that I was a victim of Merrick's plan. A guard whom I respected had chosen to adopt the Boundaries of Behavior that Merrick advocated, and . . . Well, I will not recount for you the tedious story. Suffice it to say that, for too many years afterwards, I treated my prisoners in a sickeningly soft manner. I allowed them to get away with disrespectful behavior, with attempts to control me and all the other guards, and in the end I even went so far as to ally myself with these prisoners. I tried to bring to court a suit that, if it had been won, would have resulted in the complete loss of any power that the guards possess to curb the prisoners' destructive behavior."

"Ah." Ulick cleared his throat. "Yes, I thought your face looked familiar, Mr. . . ."

"Staunton. Please, call me Sedgewick. We are not formal here at Mercy Life Prison."
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Curious.

Isolation (Life Prison)

"Now I was at the last prison of all, the one I'd be at till they buried my body in quicklime."

Being locked in a prison cell can cause a man to re-examine his priorities. Especially when the door never opens.

Gavin is young, but his time may be short as he enters a prison not known for treating its prisoners gently.

Even so, he is shocked to discover what his fate will be. Faced with living conditions even worse than he was raised in, he must call upon the lessons his immigrant parents taught him for how to survive in a slum.

But his life takes an unexpected turn when a secret correspondent suggests that Gavin may be able to play a role in changing conditions at Mercy Life Prison. To do will mean risking what remains of his life, as well as turning away from the only life he has known. What reward can he hope to receive in exchange for such a sacrifice?

This short story can be read on its own or as the fourth story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is inspired by prison life at the end of the nineteenth century.

Excerpt

I couldn't go and read the words of the guard's newsie, but I could be seeing the pictures, and they gave tale themselves. The news from the Queendom of Yclau, in the bottom-right corner of the newsie, wasn't the best. Mip's southern neighbor, which claimed to be the seed of all civilization in the world, had chosen to celebrate the Autumn Commoners' Festival by sending soldiers to beat up the Yclau branch of the Commoners' Guild. In the photo, there was a kiddie lying bleeding on the ground, her head bashed in by a passing soldier.

"Poor little lass," I muttered. "She should have someone to protect her."

The guard flicked another glance at me – this one a grimmer one, like as he suspected I was muttering curses against him – and then he gave back his attention to the newsie. I felt my chest tighten, having mind of all those poor commoners being beat over the head by the nightsticks of the soldiers. Then I came to have knowing that my chest was tightening for another reason. I was near on having another of my attacks.

I looked round, wild-like. Back in my last holding prison, one of the guards had gifted me with a cup to cough into. There was an empty cup next to the brandy bottle, within reach. I grabbed it and coughed up what was in my throat: a greenish-grey mess, with spots of red in it. The red spots had been worrying me for some days now.

I'd put from mind the sawbones. Right away, with a cry, he yanked the cup from me. I was figuring he didn't much care for having his cups messed up. He stared down at the cup and gave another cry of dismay. Dismally, I wondered if I'd gotten myself in trouble already.

The guard had put down his paper; he spoke something to the sawbones in Mippite. The sawbones turned and chattered away. I couldn't figure out any of the words he spoke, 'cept for one he gave tale to again over and over: Tibby. I wondered if that was the name of his girl. Drunks get soppy with having mind of love some days.

The guard got off his seat with great care. He walked over to where the sawbones stood and stared down at the cup. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

I didn't care for that smile. It was a cold smile, and I didn't have mind that the guard was the sort of man to smile 'cept at another man's bad luck.
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Isolation.

Searching (The Eternal Dungeon)

"Vito was beginning to wonder whether this dungeon's prisoners were questioned in pitch darkness. That was a matter of some personal concern to him."

Walking into a trap may be the only way to create one.

Danger runs high for Vito when he arrives at the Eternal Dungeon, escorted by guards. In this royal dungeon, prisoners are "searched" for their crimes, by torture and by more subtle means.

Vito knows that he will be searched. But he has his own searching to accomplish, and to do so he must undergo the scrutiny of the queendom's most accomplished torturer.

This novelette (miniature novel) can be read on its own or as the second story in the "Sweet Blood" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.
 

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Excerpt

For a prison, it was abnormally quiet.

Vito had lived in prisons for a long while now – over a dozen years, from the time he came of age. He had sampled all three of the city prisons, like a connoisseur sampling wines to test which was the finest. He had even spent time in the provincial prisons outside the queendom's capital.

Never before, though, had he encountered a prison where everyone spoke in whispers, and where business was conducted in the dark.

He looked around, straining to see. The great entry hall of the Eternal Dungeon – impressive both in size and in the fact that most of its walls were made of cave-rock – was virtually night-black. There were lamps scattered upon tables around the edge of the room, but these were all shuttered like lanterns. Guards stood by the tables, exchanging an occasional whisper. The only other sound came from the desk-seated Record-keeper, who studiously scratched away at a piece of paper with his pen, as though working in midnight black suited him.

And it was only four o'clock in the afternoon.

Vito was beginning to wonder whether this dungeon's prisoners were also questioned in pitch darkness. That was a matter of some personal concern to him. But then a stirring shuddered through the room, like wind over a field of corn.

Sounds came from the top of the steps that led to the palace above: a gate being drawn back with a screech, then heavy footsteps upon the cave-rock steps. Ignoring the vigilant escort of the dungeon guards who had brought him this far, Vito sidled his way toward the center of the hall in order to see better the stairway. Everyone else stood motionless. Even the Record-keeper had paused in his work and was now standing behind his desk.

Five men arrived: four were guards, dressed in royal scarlet, with ceremonial swords at their sides. Not the Eternal Dungeon's guards, then – those guards wore grey uniforms, utterly ungaudy. The Queen's guards, making their slow way down the steps, were struggling to hold level a stretcher.

The fifth man, who walked behind the stretcher could not be said to be gaudy either, but his appearance was most striking. He wore no vest and no jacket, and he bore no weapons. His shirt and trousers were raven-black, and covering his head and face was a black hood.

Instinctively, Vito drew to the edge of the room, near the door that led further into the dungeon. The guards who flanked that door flicked a glance at him, then ignored him. His escorts remained oblivious to the fact he had strayed. The procession was coming closer.

All around the entry hall now, guards were bowing their heads and rubbing invisible circles upon their own foreheads with their thumbs. Vito, so newly arrived that he remained dressed for the outdoors, pulled his cap off and bowed his head. The procession had come close enough to him now that he had recognized what lay upon the stretcher: a motionless body, covered from head to foot with grey cloth.

The funeral procession neared the door to the inner dungeon. Vito raised his eyes just in time to catch closer sight of the fifth man in the procession. That man also had his head bowed, and his eyes – barely visible through the eyeholes of his hood – were hardly more than hollow pits in the dim light.

Yet something – perhaps it was merely the combination of straight spine and lowered head – caused Vito to catch his breath.

The door next to him was open now, held back by the younger guard who had been flanking it. The older guard was peering carefully round the entry hall, obviously checking to see that nobody unauthorized was given the chance to slip through the doorway. The procession left the entry hall, the Queen's guards struggling to make their way through the relatively narrow entrance. The hooded man following them did not look up.

Vito had a sudden, wild desire to follow. Instead, as the door slammed shut, he stepped forward and tugged at the sleeve of the older guard, like an impatient child. "Who was that, please? The man behind the funeral procession?"

The guard replied, with careful precision, "That was one of our junior Seekers, Mr. Taylor. Please step away from the door, sir."

Vito did so hastily. He had already seen the younger guard draw his dagger; his escorts had likewise noticed his absence and had pulled their coiled whips from their belts. Vito – who was cursed with a sense of humor that helped him not the least in his work – had the impulse to pull out his hidden revolver and offer to trade with the guards.

But he was saved from acting on this disastrous impulse by the sound of a cough. Looking back toward where he had been standing before, Vito saw the Record-keeper silently gesturing. Further down the wall along which the Record-keeper's desk was placed, a man had appeared in an open doorway. His face was hidden by a black hood, and he stood quite far away in the hall, but Vito somehow knew, without having to see them, that the man's eyes were ice-cold.

Vito drew in a long breath. His mind had travelled beyond the dagger-and-whip-wielding guards nearby. They were unimportant. The true danger in this dungeon stood before him now.

He walked slowly forward for his employment interview with the High Seeker.
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Searching.

Now available in multiformat: Debt Price (Master/Other)

"He kept his gaze cast below the belt. In the chill cell, sweat was beginning to form now on his neck, running down his back and between his bound wrists. 'Lord,' he said softly, 'I would be glad to pay to you my debt in any way I can.'"

No one would pay his debt price to gain him release from prison. So he sought to pay it himself by offering the only thing he could, his body. But one man would require more.

Convicted of helping to wage a campaign of terror against the lords who oppressed the commoners, the prisoner comes to realize the full implications of what he has done. All of his attempts to mend what he has broken will fail until he meets a young lord whose own struggles have just begun.

Set in an imaginary world based on Renaissance Europe, "Debt Price" takes the reader from the gritty punishments of prison life to the delicately balanced world of a farming estate, showing the slow healing of a prisoner who knows both what it means to be abused, and what it means to be the abuser.

This historical fantasy novella (short novel) can be read on its own or as part of Master/Other, a speculative fiction series exploring the dangers and sweet bonds of power.

This is a reissue of an older story.  

Excerpt

To the right of him, sitting in a chair with his back to the youth, was a man. Slowly, like a shy beast creeping forward into danger, the youth walked toward the man. His heart was pounding so hard now that it was difficult to breathe. He could not see the man's face, but he could see the man's hand lying upon the arm of the wooden chair, and on that hand was a crystal ring.

He reached the chair finally, hesitated for a moment, then swiftly made his way round to the front and knelt before the man. After a moment he dared to look up.

The lord with the light hand was as he had been a fortnight ago: young and stern of face. He had over his lap a writing board and paper, and his left hand held a lead stylus. He was silent, looking down upon the youth.

"Lord master," the youth said softly, "I will do my best to repay to you my debt in any way I can." He placed his hand softly upon the inner part of the lord's thigh.

The lord recoiled as though a dung-beetle had run across his privates. He stood up, causing the chair to scream across the marble; the stylus broke in his hand and fell to the ground. His hand upon the writing board had turned white.

The youth, unaware that he was pressing his wrists together as though this might help, resisted the impulse to flee. Staring down at the ground, he whispered, "I thank you for paying my debt, lord master."

"Give your thanks to Hilder." The lord's voice was harsh. "He was the one who found the money for you."

The youth dared to raise his eyes to the crystal chain rising and falling upon the lord's heaving chest. The lord had moved several paces backwards, in the direction of the short flight of stone steps leading to the main door of the estate house. Still gripping his writing board, the lord said, "Hilder will take care of you."

And then he was gone, leaving the youth staring at where he had been, wondering who his new master was who would "take care of" him.  

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Debt Price.

Balladeer (The Eternal Dungeon)

"Yeslin stood irresolute. Tangling with torturers seemed the ultimate in danger."

Sometimes it takes an outsider to point out the obvious.

Once an abandoned street-lad, Yeslin Bainbridge has become a young man with a mission: to lead the commoner laborers in a fight against the elite men who exploit them. He knows exactly where to start his mission.

The Eternal Dungeon. Here elite torturers and guards force commoners to offer confessions to crimes they may or may not have committed. Here laborers aid the torturers and guards, unaware that they are being manipulated. Here, if anywhere, Yeslin can make his initial mark on the queendom.

But he faces many challenges: Officials who seek to hide the dungeon's secrets from outsiders. Dungeon traditions that foil efforts by outsiders to learn the truth. Most of all, Yeslin faces his own conscience, for he knows that, if he is to fulfill his mission, he must lie to the person he loves most.

This novelette can be read on its own or as the fifth and final story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

Excerpt

He said quickly, "I'm no gossip." No gossip indeed. He was something more important than that, but it would take time to explain himself to the stokers.

"Aye?" Wade's eyes were narrowed. "Who are you, then? You ask a lot of questions. You don't answer none."

So he told them. No names, but he told them about his family, and about his new family after that, and how all that had ended. By the time he was through, the men were all relaxed again.

"Aye, well." Leo scratched his head. Being an indoor worker, he was capless, wearing the rough denim uniform issued to all the dungeon's stokers. From what little Yeslin had seen, the dungeon's elite didn't dress much better. "The fates will do that to a man: take him up to the heights, then drop him again. 'Least you're not all sour about it."

"Nay," Yeslin replied, scooping up more coal with his shovel. "These things happen. 'Tis probably for the best. I wouldn't want to be one of them."

He expected emphatic nods, even if some of those nods came from hypocrites who would gladly have embraced the wealth of the world if chance wandered their way. What he received instead was indifferent shrugs.

This was going to be more difficult than he'd anticipated.

He tried again. "So the torturers— The Seekers. They treat us well?"

There were uneasy looks then, among the stokers. Leo said quickly, "Well enough."

"Oh, come now, Leo," said Jerry, a married man who was inclined to talk at length about his six young ones. "Be honest. You're as worried as the rest of us."

"Worried?" Yeslin raised his eyebrows.

"'Bout our jobs," said Curt. "There's talk of 'lectrifying the whole dungeon – of doing away with the coal furnaces. Doing away with our jobs."

"It's all rumor," said Leo with a growl.

"What are you going to do if it's true?" asked Yeslin.

Wade shrugged. "Look for other stoking jobs, in the lighted world. What else can we do?"

"Well . . ." said Yeslin slowly.

But Leo cut him off. "Listen!"

Everyone stood still. Away down toward the end of the corridor came a sound, indefinable at first, then growing louder, like the rustling of a thousand pieces of paper in a clerk's office.

"Work's done for the night." Leo tossed his shovel aside. "The day shift will be coming 'long in an hour or two. Let's go eat."

He had not learned what he needed to know. To steal time, he pretended that his boot had come untied. Kneeling down, he said, "Boss Man gives decent hours. Only eight hours of work."

Wade snorted. "In the summer. Come winter, it's fourteen hours."

"We follow the sun," Curt explained, bringing out a face-cloth from his trousers pocket to wipe the coal dust from his face. "Those were bats you heard, returning at dawn to the cave this dungeon lies in. In the summer, they come home soon. In the winter, they seem to stay forever in the lighted world."

"Seekers and guards, they follow the same hours." Leo frowned down at Yeslin, who was continuing to fiddle with his bootstring.

"Aye?" said Yeslin, taking care not to raise his eyes. "Well, that sort of schedule must be easier for the young Seekers than the old Seekers. Or do they have young Seekers?"

"Oh, aye," said Curt, walking blithely into the lure. "Youngest one is twenty-three. That's Mr. Taylor."

His fingers tightened on the bootstring, to the point where he almost cut himself. "Aye? Don't think I've seen him. Does he live in the dungeon?"

That prompted more laughter from the stokers. "All the Seekers live in the dungeon," said Jerry, his voice kindly. "None of them leave here. Least of all Mr. Taylor. He's the High Seeker's love-mate—"

"That's enough!" Leo's voice turned sharp. "The High Seeker, he won't stand for gossip, and neither do we. That's our pride, or have all you forgotten that?"

There was a murmur of acknowledgment from the other stokers. They looked shame-faced now, especially Jerry. Leo turned his attention back to Yeslin. "You're the worst man at boot-tying that I've ever seen in my life. You need a hand there?"

"I've broken the string." This was true enough; Jerry's remark had caused Yeslin to suddenly jerk his hand. "No worries; I got an extra string in my pocket. You go ahead. I'll catch up."

"Don't linger," Leo warned. "Boss Man don't like us staying in the inner dungeon after our work is through. Okay, lads—" He slammed closed the door to Yeslin's furnace and turned to the others. "Let's get our meal pails open, and see what we've got, and then steal from Jerry's pail."

Jerry yelped. Laughing, Ward said, "Well, if you will marry the best cook in the Alleyway district . . ."

They all closed their furnace doors and retreated toward the north end of the corridor, disappearing from view as they turned the corner. Yeslin waited until they were all gone before replacing the string, as swiftly as he could. Then he stood up. His heart was still beating hard.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Balladeer.

Death Watch (The Eternal Dungeon)

"Sometimes Layle wondered why, in the names of all the minor deities, he had chosen a love-mate who kept him continually off-balance, rather than the helpless, compliant victim he had so often dreamed about."

Death lurks everywhere in the Eternal Dungeon . . . even in a torturer's bedroom.

Trained as a young man to execute prisoners by entering their bodies, Layle Smith remains a danger to others, even after he moves to a more civilized dungeon, with strict rules on the treatment of prisoners.

Unfortunately, he's unable to convince a former prisoner of that fact. Faced with an adoring, oblivious love-mate, Layle Smith must decide whether he can hold back his dark desire, or whether he should give in to that desire . . . for his love-mate's sake.

This novelette can be read on its own or as the fourth story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

Elsdon entered the High Seeker's living cell by way of the key that Layle had given him, shedding clothes the moment he closed the door. He had kicked off his boots within three steps of his arrival, had his shirt knots untied within six, and by the time he reached where Layle sat in his armchair, he was busy sweeping off his hood to reveal the golden-brown hair underneath.

Layle felt a swelling at the groin, which he ignored. "What are you doing?" he asked in the calm, cool voice that invariably made dungeon dwellers nervous.

Elsdon merely smiled. "Getting ready for bed."

The Seeker-in-Training had just come from bed, but Layle did not ask the obvious. Instead he said in that same cool voice, "Your presumption is remarkable."

Elsdon's hands paused on his belt-knot; his eyes searched Layle's face. Layle kept his expression unrevealing. He remained motionless in his seat, the position of a High Seeker interviewing a wayward student.

"Is something wrong?" Elsdon asked finally.

"If you must ask, then that is a sign that something is indeed very wrong. When did I give you permission to move into this cell?"

Elsdon's hands dropped from his belt. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, "I thought—"

"You thought. Yes. Who gave you permission to refer to me as your love-mate?"

"But you said—" Elsdon halted himself this time. Layle waited patiently for him to retrace his way to the non-existent moment when the High Seeker had spoken that word. Layle had been very careful not to speak the word; he had been allowing all initiative to come from Elsdon's side.

Now he would turn that initiative into a weapon against the Seeker-in-Training.

"You didn't use the word," Elsdon said carefully, "but every conversation we held yesterday rested on the assumption—"

"So you announced to the entire dungeon that I was your love-mate. Who gave you permission to gossip about us like an old woman?"

That blow was unmistakable. The blood rushed into Elsdon's face. Layle felt another swelling at the groin, accompanied by a faint sickness in his stomach. He ignored both sensations.

"If you had thought the matter through clearly," Layle continued, not holding back the blows now that he was started, "it might have occurred to you that I had my doubts about you. It might have occurred to you that you're too young, too inexperienced – or rather, experienced in the wrong way."

A blow straight between the legs. This time Elsdon turned white. The swelling at Layle's groin could no longer be ignored, and he began to cross his legs to hide it. Then he changed his mind. Let Elsdon see the effects of this conversation on the High Seeker. That would bring the conversation to an end all the quicker.

"I have no need for a gossip," Layle declared. "A presumptuous, arrogant gossip who assumes that, because he has received the privilege of one night with me, he may bond himself to me. Had it occurred to you that I might be testing you?"

He hoped it did not occur to Elsdon that every sentence he had spoken was either a hypothetical statement or a question. The Code of Seeking required that no direct lie be told to a prisoner, but Seekers could indirectly mislead prisoners by asking them questions and making hypothetical statements that the prisoners would read in the wrong way. Layle indeed had no need for a presumptuous, arrogant gossip. With any luck, Elsdon would draw the wrong conclusion and never realize how desperately Layle needed him.

Elsdon's face remained as white as ashes. Layle hoped that the color arose from rage. He had no desire to inflict permanent damage on Elsdon – or rather, he had the desire but would not allow himself to indulge it. All that he wanted here was to raise Elsdon's anger to the point where the young Seeker stormed out of the cell, breaking off their bond of his own will. Better that, than a protracted argument between them.

Elsdon's gaze shifted over Layle's face; Layle kept it impassive, though he was beginning to wish that he had kept the face-cloth of his hood down. That was the purpose of the hood: to hide a Seeker's emotions from the prisoner. This prisoner was far too skilled at reading expressions for Layle's peace of mind.

Suddenly Elsdon knelt at Layle's feet. Layle's hardness jumped against his belly; his mouth went dry.

"You're scared," Elsdon said quietly.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Death Watch.

Truth and Lies (The Eternal Dungeon)

"Thatcher was having difficulty deciding who to attack first."

When you're a prisoner, having a torturer who's mad can be an advantage. Or maybe not.

Thatcher Owen is a soldier who has been sent to the Eternal Dungeon for doing his duty. Accused of committing war atrocities, he is faced with the possibility of being manipulated by his torturer into confessing to a crime that was no crime. So Thatcher sets out to trick his torturer. But how do you trick a man whose very sanity seems in question?

Seward Sobel is faced with a similar dilemma. As senior night guard to the Eternal Dungeon's High Seeker, his job is to prevent that brilliant torturer from abusing his prisoner. But how do you tell the difference between madness and genius?

As these two men perform their delicate dance of duty, their fates will depend on the High Seeker's truthfulness . . . and on the nature of his lies.

This novella can be read on its own or as the first story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

Once again, the High Seeker's voice was light, as though he were chatting with an old friend. "It's rather late for you to make that decision, Mr. Owen. You have already told me several lies. Most of them I think you are genuinely not aware are lies, for which reason I will take no notice of those falsehoods. But one lie I believe you are very much aware that you told, and the manner in which you spoke the lie reveals that."

Thatcher did not even bother to ask which of his truths the High Seeker disbelieved. He simply snorted. "So you think I lied to you. Right, then. Do whatever it is you Seekers do when you're lied to."

"I very much regret it, Mr. Owen, but I fear that I must." The High Seeker's voice had turned soft. "The Code requires that punishment occur after any prisoner deliberately lies to his Seeker."

Thatcher felt his back grow stiff, and he cursed himself for showing that much weakness under the High Seeker's scrutiny. He had known that this would come – had known that the High Seeker would find an excuse to torture him. Now all he must do was endure the pain, until the High Seeker finally realized that no amount of pain would cause Thatcher to lie about what he had done.

The High Seeker had made no gesture that Thatcher could see, but the redheaded guard outside must have been listening at the keyhole, for he entered the cell, carefully locked the door behind him, and pulled out his whip from where it hung looped on his belt. Thatcher did not like the look in the guard's eyes. He had seen that sort of look in the eyes of Vovimians who, in the moment of their charge, wished not only to shoot but also to disembowel with their bayonets. The first guard, the one who shadowed the High Seeker, was far more reassuring; his expression was bland and businesslike. Thatcher turned his attention back to the High Seeker, to see whether he could read anything in the man's eyes.

He was just in time to see the High Seeker begin to remove his shirt.

"What the bloody blades are you doing?" Thatcher was disconcerted. It was not as though he had been unaware of the possibility of this type of attack – he had heard rumors about where the High Seeker's tastes lay. But he would have expected the High Seeker to be more subtle – to send away witnesses before he began proceedings.

The High Seeker did not pause. He completed untying the fastenings on his shirt and handed the shirt to his first guard, who was frozen like a statue. Out of the corner of his eye, Thatcher could see that the redhead had likewise gone completely still. If this had happened before, the High Seeker was apparently not in the habit of allowing his guards to watch.

Thatcher's rapist – Thatcher could think of him in no other way now – walked toward him. He said, "I am preparing, Mr. Owen, for the punishment."

Thatcher thought this was the most unnecessary speech he had ever heard in his life. He braced himself for the fight to come. The High Seeker might have the right to search him, but Thatcher would sooner have given up his right of rebirth than to endure this particular punishment passively.

He was disconcerted once more as the High Seeker walked past him. The High Seeker stepped over to the far wall and stood facing it; he did not turn. Instead, he raised his arms high over his head. Thatcher was still trying to form theories as to this strange position for an attack when he noticed that the High Seeker was touching a ring that was inset into the wall.

"Mr. Sobel," the High Seeker said in a matter-of-fact manner.

The first guard broke out of his paralysis. He placed the shirt aside on Thatcher's sleeping bench, and then came forward, pulling something from his pocket. Thatcher had time enough to see that it was a set of keys before the guard reached up and inserted one of the keys into the wall, just above the ring. There was a click, and the bottom of the ring sprang out a couple of inches from its flush position. It now looked like any other whipping ring Thatcher had seen in his years in the army.

Thatcher was slowly figuring out the reason why the ring was normally kept stored within the wall, and was grudgingly admiring the Seekers for their care in preventing prisoners from having a means to hang themselves. Thus he missed the moment when the guard began to bind the High Seeker's wrists to the ring with a leather strap he had taken from his pocket.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Truth and Lies.

Barbarians (The Eternal Dungeon)

"With a movement too quick to see, the master torturer used his whip to send the prisoner to his knees. 'Crawl,' he said in the flat voice a man might use toward a stubborn animal."

Vovim was renowned for its strong monarchy, for its love of the theater, and for its skill in the art of torture. In other words, it had all the qualities needed to become a civilized nation. But would anyone be willing to defy Vovim's tyrannical king? And if they did, would they survive?

Grieving over an acrimonious departure from his love-mate, a youthful ambassador from the neighboring nation of Yclau has come to Vovim on a mission to help that barbaric kingdom's prisoners. But he faces unexpected barriers: An insane young king. The king's effeminate companion, who holds his own plans for the ambassador. And a populace whose greatest wish, it seems, is to see the ambassador die during a theatrical performance.

Then arrives the only Vovimian who seems to have a shred of sanity to him. But this man is a skilled torturer, and he is hiding depths that even the ambassador may not be able to penetrate.

This novella can be read on its own or as the second story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

Though the Code forbade Seekers all private belongings, long-standing custom permitted them a small allowance for luxuries. The High Seeker, being Vovimian-born, spent most of his allowance on books and art, and one evening in autumn, while the rain beat upon the crystalline rock that shed the only light into the underground Eternal Dungeon, the High Seeker had shown Elsdon Taylor an etching of a Vovimian theater company in performance. For the next two hours, Elsdon had listened with fascination to the talk of stage scenery and costumes, of introductory mimes and dramatic dialogues, of divisions into acts, of conflicts, climaxes, and finales, and (since this was, after all, a Vovimian theater) of bloody corpses on the stage afterwards, and of the theater companies' decision whether to fake the deaths or use criminal volunteers who had decided to let their execution be a final act of theater.

"But don't the condemned criminals panic at the last moment and spoil the show?" Elsdon had asked.

The High Seeker had bestowed upon Elsdon that look he often gave when they were discussing his native land, as though a lifetime of words could not complete Elsdon's education in this matter. All he said, though, was, "Not in Vovim."

Elsdon had spent the following night dreaming that he was watching a play in Vovim, performed by the world's finest players. For the next few weeks, his thoughts had lingered upon the regret that he would never have the opportunity to watch a Vovimian theater performance – not unless luck turned his way.

Luck, unfortunately, had turned his way. Amidst all his past dreamings, it had not occurred to Elsdon that he might take part in the performance himself, and that he would play the role of the criminal.

It was perhaps not surprising to learn that the King's palace was equipped with a theater, nor that the theater was located directly across the hallway from the throne room. Nor was it particularly surprising to learn that all of the courtiers and palace guests who had been milling about in the hallway, waiting for the King to emerge from his private audience with his High Master, were delighted to accept the King's invitation to enjoy the performance. They crowded into the vast theater, jostled their way into cramped rows, and stood on benches at the back and sides of the theater in order to get their best glimpse of the stage.

The stage itself had been stripped to the bare minimum, making a striking contrast with the fripperies and frills that usually adorned a royal performance. At Master Toler's orders, the only scenery left on the stage was a blood-red curtain, which would make for an arresting contrast with both the master torturer's uniform and the prisoner's lack of clothes. The middle part of the curtain had been pulled up to reveal the naked stone wall behind, and here a wooden post had been fastened to the stage floor. Attached to it halfway up was a set of iron chains, which sparkled under the lamps. The other lamps in the room shone their light on the stage, or on the narrow walkway leading from the theater door to the stage.

Elsdon made his entrance down this walkway. He was not permitted to walk.

"Crawl," said Master Toler.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Barbarians.

Hidden (The Eternal Dungeon)

"One hundred lashes today. At least, it was supposed to be one hundred lashes, but my darling torturer (I call him that to annoy him) was fooled when I pretended to faint after the fifteenth lash. He didn't even order the guards in the corridor to poke me back to wakefulness with their bayonets. Makes me ashamed to acknowledge that we belong to the same profession."

He had been given the kindest, gentlest torturer in the dungeon. The prisoner was left with only one hope: that he could teach his torturer how to be cruel.

When the High Master of Vovim's Hidden Dungeon is arrested and placed in the hands of one of his own men, High Master Millard's immediate instinct is to show his torturer how to do a better job.

But Millard is facing seemingly insuperable odds: a lackluster torturer, a bitterly insane king, and most of all, Millard's own doubts as to whether he will be man enough to face the coming ordeal.

Perhaps he won't. And perhaps that is part of the lesson he needs to learn.

This short story can be read on its own or as the third story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.
 

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

Day 3: One hundred lashes today. At least, it was supposed to be one hundred lashes, but my darling torturer (I call him that to annoy him) was fooled when I pretended to faint after the fifteenth lash. He didn't even order the guards in the corridor to poke me back to wakefulness with their bayonets. Makes me ashamed to acknowledge that we belong to the same profession.

Afterwards he complied with my request for pencil and ledger-book. He even sharpened the pencil for me with his dagger. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Doesn't he realize what could be done to him if anyone finds out he's giving special favors to me?

Why am I surrounded by incompetents? This dungeon is filled with torturers who bungle simple rackings, burn themselves on their own pokers, and grow enamored with their prisoners and help them escape. I'm glad Toler isn't here to witness this.

Day 4: Another attempt at the hundred lashes, another bluffed faint. This time my darling torturer brought water to me. Any hopes I'd had, though, that he would dash it in my face were frustrated when I discovered that he was planning to give me water to assuage my thirst. I would have screamed at him, but I was too busy gulping down the water. It's been four days since I was allowed to eat or drink.

I reminded him of his duty afterwards, though. He looked hurt, and then slapped me to the ground. There might be some hope for him yet.

Day 18: The gap in time is because we actually managed to finish the hundred lashes. Instead of immediately following up on his advantage, though, my darling torturer allowed me time to heal. I might as well admit that he's a loss and resign myself to being in the care of the kindest, gentlest torturer who has ever performed in the Hidden Dungeon.

Curse it, no. He will not disgrace me like this. I'll see him dead first.

Day 19: Gave my darling torturer a small lecture yesterday about the duty of a torturer to his art. It seems to have done him good; he used the poker on me afterwards. I'm still able to write, which means he was too soft on me. I wish I could figure out how to reach him.

In the meantime, I can continue keeping this record, which I expect will be invaluable to future generations of the King's Torturers. This must be the first time in history that a prisoner has recorded his reactions while being tortured to death.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Hidden.

Debt Price (Master/Other) - m/m prison fiction and slave fiction

Illustration by H. Rose Melenche for Debt Price

"He kept his gaze cast below the belt. In the chill cell, sweat was beginning to form now on his neck, running down his back and between his bound wrists. 'Lord,' he said softly, 'I would be glad to pay to you my debt in any way I can.'"

No one would pay his debt price to gain him release from prison. So he sought to pay it himself by offering the only thing he could, his body. But one man would require more.

Convicted of helping to wage a campaign of terror against the lords who oppressed the commoners, the prisoner comes to realize the full implications of what he has done. All of his attempts to mend what he has broken will fail until he meets a young lord whose own struggles have just begun.

Set in an imaginary world based on Renaissance Europe, "Debt Price" takes the reader from the gritty punishments of prison life to the delicately balanced world of a farming estate, showing the slow healing of a prisoner who knows both what it means to be abused, and what it means to be the abuser.

This is an announcement of an older story.
 

Excerpt

He still could not hear any sound from the streets outside the prison; he must be in some part of the prison that faced the back. The terrible possibility that he was trapped in an inner courtyard clenched his heart for a moment; he swallowed and continued sliding forward. The grass was warm and soft under his feet; he had forgotten the sandals within the crystal chamber, but he dared not return for them. He was very close now to the gate, and already his mind was seeking alternatives if the gate should prove to be locked. Could he climb through the close-leaved hedge, or climb over the gate? And how much time did he have before somebody would learn that he was missing and send out the search for him? With his chest heaving once more, he darted across the dangerous gap between the infirmary and the gate.

The gate had a light wooden bar holding it closed; he did not bother with his hands this time but pushed the bar up with his elbow. He stepped back to let the gate swing open, then stepped through to freedom.

And stood motionless, the wind taken from his body as effectively as the first time a guard had punched him in the stomach.

He was no longer in the city. He was in the countryside: under his feet lay an enormous marble pavement that extended up to the point where it turned into a gravel driveway; beyond that were crop-fields – circles of level earth dotting the landscape. In the distance, trees shaded a huddle of houses; to the left of him, many yards away, stood another hedge, which appeared to lead to a body of water, for he could hear the quacking of ducks. Behind him – he turned slowly to look – were not the grim, dark walls of the prison, but the neat stone walls of an estate house, glinting with dozens of windows and capped with a bell tower.

To the right of him, sitting in a chair with his back to the youth, was a man. Slowly, like a shy beast creeping forward into danger, the youth walked toward the man. His heart was pounding so hard now that it was difficult to breathe. He could not see the man's face, but he could see the man's hand lying upon the arm of the wooden chair, and on that hand was a crystal ring.

He reached the chair finally, hesitated for a moment, then swiftly made his way round to the front and knelt before the man. After a moment he dared to look up.

The lord with the light hand was as he had been a fortnight ago: young and stern of face. He had over his lap a writing board and paper, and his left hand held a lead stylus. He was silent, looking down upon the youth.

"Lord master," the youth said softly, "I will do my best to repay to you my debt in any way I can." He placed his hand softly upon the inner part of the lord's thigh.

The lord recoiled as though a dung-beetle had run across his privates. He stood up, causing the chair to scream across the marble; the stylus broke in his hand and fell to the ground. His hand upon the writing board had turned white.

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Debt Price.

Life Prison (Life Prison)

"I'd heard of guards like this; they existed in prisoners' tales like beautiful princesses exist in the tales of ugly boys. I supposed that I ought to be grateful to have been assigned such a guard. . . . I didn't feel grateful."

In the unmerciful world of Mercy Prison, there is no rule but unending pain. For Merrick, the arrival of his new guard provides hope that he may break beyond the boundaries of his life prison. But appearances can be deceptive, and Merrick does not yet recognize the danger this guard poses to his future.

Merrick's guard is bound in his own special imprisonment. The meeting of these two troubled men will determine their destinies, and the destiny of their nation's life prisons.

This novella can be read on its own or as the first story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison.  Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

He paused at the doorway. "Good evening," he said.

I didn't reply; I've never seen the point of passing pleasantries with one's rapist. He apparently agreed with me that extended conversation would be a waste of time, for after a moment he said, "Will you take off your shirt, please?"

I took everything off. The only reason my clothes were in as good a shape as they were was that I had done my best to keep my guards from tearing at the fabric. I folded my uniform neatly upon the blankets – I always kept the blankets in a corner when not using them, so as to avoid getting the guards' stains upon them – and then, without waiting for orders, went over to the bed-shelf and placed myself in the position I found least painful, on my stomach.

To my relief, he didn't try to shift me. He walked forward, fully clothed, his hand resting lightly upon his dagger. I wasn't sure whether he meant that as a threat or whether this was simply his natural mode of walking. I kept a careful eye on the dagger in any case. When he reached me, he sat down next to me on the bed-ledge and pulled from his pocket a tiny jar.

I stared, fascinated, as he unscrewed it to reveal the ointment within. Under normal circumstances I would have been delighted – even Avery had only used spit – but my mind was still bitter with the disappointment of the morning. I heard myself say, "Did your daddy give you that as a coming-of-age present?"

His gaze flicked toward my face, then away. He dipped a finger into the ointment and then reached over and touched one of the welts on my back.

I jerked and bellowed, more from the shock than from the feel of the fiery ointment. I just managed to keep myself from hitting him. He raised his hand from my back and said, "Did that hurt?"

"Yes, it bloody well hurt!" I said, annoyed at the man's continued penchant for stating the obvious. "What is that, a salt solution?" I was trembling all through now, and was using every curse I knew against myself. I ought to have expected this, yet I hadn't guessed that he was the type of guard who would rub salt in prisoners' wounds.

He shook his head, dipping his finger into the ointment once more. "It's aloe. Lie still; it will sting for a moment before it begins to work."

I narrowed my eyes, trying to read his face, but the proof of his words' truth could be felt on my back; where the ointment touched one of my welts, the pain was beginning to ease. I closed my eyes and let him apply the rest of the ointment in silence.

He had firm hands, like that of a doctor who applies pain in an impassive manner, knowing that the pain will lead to healing. I'd heard of guards like this; they existed in prisoners' tales like beautiful princesses exist in the tales of ugly boys. I supposed that I ought to be grateful to have been assigned such a guard.

I didn't feel grateful. As I heard the sound of Thomas screwing shut the ointment jar, I said, "You were transferred from Compassion because you showed too much mercy to a prisoner, weren't you?"

I opened my eyes in time to see him turn as white as though I'd just kicked his balls. It was a gratifying sight, and I didn't bother to hide my grin.

He said stiffly, "My transfer is none of your business."

"Only your daddy's business, it seems. You'd have been ejected from the guards if it hadn't been for him protecting you, wouldn't you? What do you suppose he would think of you if he could see you acting as nurse to a prisoner who insulted you—?"

He stood up abruptly, and I tensed, waiting. But he simply said, again stiffly, "Do you have any other needs that require being tended to?"

"Only one," I said, rolling onto my side and enjoying the delicious amusement that came from seeing him shift his gaze away from my body. "It's quite simple. It should be simplest of all for you."

His eyes flicked toward my body briefly, then away again. His face said clearly that he expected to regret this question, but he asked it in a dutiful fashion: "And that need is?"

I let the lightness fall from my voice as I propped myself onto one elbow. "Help me to escape," I said quietly.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Life Prison. A shorter version of the novella is available as online fiction.

Coded Messages (Life Prison)

"Sweet blood, Tom, sometimes I wonder at your innocence. Why do you think that your prisoners were sent to prison? It wasn't for lacing daisy chains."

One of them rapes prisoners. The other wants to help prisoners. So why are they talking to each other?

As guards send each other telegraph messages through their prisons' coding offices, strange developments occur in the life prisons of the Magisterial Republic of Mip: hardened prisoners become reformers, idealists dally with danger, and the prison keepers struggle to keep control. The strangeness will only become odder when two guards, who hold very different views on the proper handling of prisoners, strive to find common ground.

This short story can be read on its own or as the second story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

Tom:

You might have warned me before that our letters are being read by Compassion's Keeper. You know that Mercy's Keeper has a hard enough time staying awake to do routine paperwork, much less bothering to read private correspondence between guards.

I don't know what you mean by "applicable to your own situation." I was just curious about your activities. One thing I will say for you, Tom: You livened this place up by always doing the unexpected.

Yes, Merrick's insanity has infected guards now. Our Keeper is tearing his hair out. He can't actually order those guards to rape prisoners, and none of the guards has been stupid enough to refrain from beating their prisoners when the prisoners break rules. But this is causing divisiveness in the guard-room. Up until now, except for the occasional eccentric like you, we were all agreed on how the prisoners should be treated. Now that unity is gone, and I'm not the only guard worried that the prisoners will take advantage of this fact to start a riot.

Sedgewick

o—o—o

Dear Sedge,

I should clarify what I said in my last letter. My father reads outgoing correspondence from Compassion. He considers it a matter of honor not to read incoming messages. He isn't concerned about the activities of guards in other prisons, but he doesn't entirely trust his own guards, least of all me.

I think that, when you come down to it, trust and lack of trust are what divide the guards at your prison. The guards who keep the Boundaries trust the prisoners to adhere to the rules with minimal need for punishment. The other guards don't.

How are matters with your prisoner? Is he continuing to cause problems for you?

With respect,
Thomas

o—o—o

Tom:

Wake up to the real world. What divides the guards here is that some of us like to rape prisoners and some of the guards are too goody-good for that. Bloody blades, Tom, you're never going to be able to keep control of Compassion if you continue talking like a child.

My prisoner is driving me to distraction. I might be able to take leave some time during the next century.

Sedgewick

o—o—o

Dear Sedge,

Maybe you should take leave now. I sense there is more going on than you're saying. . . .
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Coded Messages.

Milord (Life Prison)

"'You've been very well-behaved here. You deserve a better assignment than Milord as your guard.'"

He was the model prisoner, respectful to his guards and loyal to his fellow prisoners. What no one knew was that he held the key to destruction.

Having pledged himself to assist in a popular movement by prisoners and guards to reform Mercy Life Prison, Llewellyn fears the future, when it is likely that the reform movement will face stiffer opposition from Mercy's Keeper. But Llewellyn's fear of the future is overwhelmed by the present knowledge that he is not what he appears to be. Until now, he has managed to hide his secret and to sway his guards to follow his chosen path.

Now he has been placed under the power of a guard who cannot be swayed and who is intent on bringing Llewellyn under his control. Can Llewellyn escape from his new guard's control? Will he really want to, once he has seen the door open to a world filled with true respect, loyalty, and love?

This novelette can be read on its own or as the third story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

Excerpt

The fingernails of his left hand scraped at the harsh stone of his bed-shelf as he opened and closed his fists repeatedly. Until now, he had been able to fool himself into thinking he was helping his guards. All of them, even the ones who stammered, were men who had broken the Boundaries of Behavior, and who would do so over and over again, regardless as to how well Llewellyn behaved. They were abusers, rapists, men who used their prisoners for their own pleasure.

This being the case, wasn't it better for their souls if Llewellyn consented to their beatings, turning their abuse into something better? Wasn't he benefitting his guards if he did this? Wasn't that more important than the fact that his own needs were thereby being met?

"Maybe that's why I always felt sick afterwards," he murmured. "Not because I despised them, but because I despised me."

He was faintly aware of hot tears running down his face. Tears of contrition? Or of self-centered pity that he would no longer receive what he wanted? That he could no longer corrupt his guards, turning them into worse men than they had been before?

"Oh, Hell," he murmured. "I have always been your servant, haven't I?"

The Vovimian god did not reply; nor did his sister Mercy. Llewellyn could not even remember when he had begun to pray to the gods. His mother's family was of Yclau descent; Llewellyn had been taught to believe in rebirth, not in an afterworld filled with Hell and Mercy and the lesser gods. But there had been no one else he could speak to – no one to whom he could voice his shame and his pleas for help.

"Oh, Mercy," he whispered fruitlessly. "Help me. Send me your Grace."

The goddess Mercy was silent too. Outside the cell, a guard paused to speak low-toned to another guard. It was Sedgewick's voice. Llewellyn had often dreamed of having Sedgewick as his guard, and had dreaded the thought of having him. What would it be like to receive that much pain, and to despise his guard that thoroughly? More and more, as the months drew on, he had felt sick from the awareness that he allowed vile men the means by which to fulfill their base desires. For a few hours – just a few hours, after Merrick's description of Lord Vere – Llewellyn had thought he had found an alternative: a man of honor who would beat his prisoner for just reasons.

Groping for his blankets with his left hand, Llewellyn shuddered at the thought of his self-deception. Would he add much to his sentence of punishment in Hell's domain if he became of the few prisoners at Mercy Prison to succeed in killing himself? Perhaps he should be seeking the longest sentence possible, as compensation for what he had done. He shuddered again as he groped further. The blankets were beyond his reach. His right forearm remained over his eyes, shutting out the light.

Gradually, he became aware that he was not alone.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Milord.

The Unanswered Question (The Eternal Dungeon)

"He was weaponless. Or rather, not quite weaponless, for he knew what he was capable of doing with his body, but he bore no blade, nor any whip, nor any lead pipe with which to stun his victim, nor any rope with which to strangle the victim . . . The number of potential weapons he had deliberately laid aside was frighteningly high."

No weapons, no allies, and no guarantees that he will survive the test.

A killer has arrived at the palace of the Queendom of Yclau, ready to make an offer that the Queen may not be able to refuse. But this is a killer with a difference. For the young foreigner who struggles to fetter his own darkness is about to enter the queendom's Eternal Dungeon, where idealistic torturers strive to transform the hearts of their prisoners. Surrounded by great-spirited men who are determined to put him to the test, the young foreigner may be the only man who can recognize the flaws in the dungeon's ethical code.

This novella can be read on its own or as a prequel to The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

This is a reissue of an older story.

"This story does a great job of showing how Layle became so important to the Eternal Dungeon, and of giving more insight into his character." —Review of The Unanswered Question (with major spoilers for the first volume of the series, but not for this particular story) by Zoe Cannon at LibraryThing.

Excerpt

With the door safely barred, Layle carried out his usual nightly routine of checking his bedroom for traps and poison. He did not yet know how high the murder rate was between torturers here, and until he knew, he would take no chances. He had been the most talented apprentice to enter the Hidden Dungeon in recent years; all the other youths' hands had been against him, once they had realized that he was a future contender for the position of High Torturer.

Here he would be lucky if the Codifier permitted him to clean the floors, but the other young torturers could not know that. So he searched diligently, but the bedroom was clean of all murderous items, perhaps because it ordinarily served as Mr. Sobel's bedroom. Mr. Sobel himself was spending a night on the sofa in the next room, which he had termed his parlor.

Layle surveyed the bedroom, trying to decide how to spend the next few hours. The Code of Seeking required junior torturers who were assigned to the night shift to be on-duty from the end of dusk shift to the beginning of dawn shift, other than a brief break for a midnight meal. At this time of year, in early autumn, that meant his shift lasted roughly ten hours. A further four hours – the length of the dusk shift and dawn shift combined – were set aside for meals and leisure. That left the junior torturers with a luxurious ten hours in which to sleep.

Layle required only six hours of sleep. Seeking a way to entertain himself, he brought out the Code and began browsing through it. This time he did so with a critical eye, searching for ways in which the Code could be exploited to bring about abuse.

There were many. After a while, Layle sought out a pencil in the room and began making careful notes of how an unscrupulous member of the dungeon – himself, for example – could follow the rules of the Code, yet destroy other members of the dungeon . . . including the prisoners.

He must have fallen asleep in the process. When he slept, he dreamt of his old workplace, and of what he had done there.

He awoke, shivering from cold sweat, just as he was on the point of spurting his whammer. He was so very close . . . but once awake, the image of a battered prisoner was taken from him, and he knew that he was in a place where he could not carry out such deeds.

Not because it was impossible to do so. He knew that now. He knew that he could commit every crime in the Yclau law books and get away with it here. That meant he was more of a danger to this place than he had contemplated upon his arrival.

He fell into fitful sleep again, and this time he dreamt, not of his past prisoners, but of the prisoner awaiting him in the breaking cell. He would find some excuse to send away Mr. Sobel, or else he would find a way to bribe or intimidate the guard; Mr. Sobel, who had arrived here with honor shining upon him, had clearly had his honor gradually stripped from him under the corrosive influence of his fellow workers at the Eternal Dungeon. So Layle would exploit Mr. Sobel's weakening ability to tell right from wrong, would strip the prisoner of his clothes and his defenses, would use all the instruments in the rack room on him, would end with the instrument of his own body . . .

Again he awoke in the moment before he would have spurted. His baubles ached unendurably. Shivering, he knelt down and began building a fire in the grate.

This must not continue. It had happened every night since he had left the Hidden Dungeon, with the result that he had barely received any sleep. To a certain extent, he could offset that with the training he had received to remain clear-headed when called upon to torment a prisoner for many hours. But if this continued, he would soon be falling asleep at his work.

And the dreamings when he was awake were a worse threat. How could he break the rapist of the Queen's niece if he was sucked into a dark dreaming of abuse every time that he contemplated torturing a prisoner?

He sat back on his haunches, watching the flames lick the wood, and remembering that he must wean himself from this comfort, since the torturers' living cells contained no stoves and presumably no fireplaces. The autumn-cool dungeon was considerably warmer than the winter streets he had slept on as a child; he was unlikely to die of pneumonia here, sleeping under the warm blankets.

But the coldness inside him could not be eradicated so easily. He had realized that on his way to the Queen's palace – had realized that he had established habits too deeply rooted to be weeded immediately. Even as he outwardly vowed to remain loyal to the high principles of the Code, the dark desire within him rebelled. And the form that rebellion was taking was unending images of what he had done and what he might do. Dreams when he slept; dreamings when he was awake.

And now temptations to act on those dreamings, having realized how easy it would be to continue his old life here.

"This isn't why I came here," he murmured as he stood up. "If I had wanted to continue serving Hell, I could have stayed in the Hidden Dungeon."

The charcoal glowed red, like the eyes of Hell, watching, waiting.

Since an early age, he had served the High Master of hell – whose name could only be spoken in the presence of the damned – and had been formally dedicated to the god when he reached his journeyman years. Hell was the patron god of all the torturers in the Hidden Dungeon. Layle Smith in particular had reason to be grateful to the torture-god who had granted him such great talents.

And now, by fleeing from his work for Hell's representative, the King of Vovim, Layle had broken his oath of loyalty to the god. It occurred to him that he had not prayed since he had made the decision to leave the Hidden Dungeon. How could he pray to a god he had spurned?

But there were other gods in the world. And staring down at the red eyes of Hell, Layle knew what he must do.

He raised his face and his hands toward heaven, awkwardly, having never taken this position of prayer before. He whispered, "Mercy, I do not deserve your grace—"

And then he stopped. What else, after all, could he say to the goddess Mercy?

He thought hard, for so long that his arms began to ache, but he did not lower them. Finally he added, "I broke my oath of service to your Brother. . . but I believe that you are the one who guided me to this dungeon. If I am wrong, I will accept any punishment you deem proper for my broken oath. But if I am right in believing that you sent me here for your own purposes, please show me how I may serve you."

Yes, that was good; that was a proper petition from someone in his situation. He lowered his arms, feeling relieved. He had thought himself alone in his struggles here, but if Mercy had enticed him away from his work for Hell, then she must have some plan for him. He merely had to figure out what it was.
 

¶ Available as online fiction and as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): The Unanswered Question.