Holly - Slaves of Greenworld

Dove, a young man without memory, emerges naked and nearly drowned from a creek. Lacking any past or cultural identity, Dove employs his instinct to succeed and survive in any situation. Amid a developing slave revolt, Dove secures comfort and gay sexual intimacy with his slave, Raret. As he advances in an outlandish culture, Dove demonstrates an innate ability to overcome problems as he bounds up the rigid social hierarchy of Greenworld, an ability enhanced by his mysterious luck. Webs of treachery tighten around Dove as he and Raret seek a peaceful end to institutionalized slavery and seek to curtail the influence of the overlords who whimsically determine the fates of their fellow mortals. In between finding passionate fulfillment with Raret, Dove acquires titles and properties, forms alliances, and battles the rebelling slaves in order to free them, all the while striving toward the final revelation of his own origins.

Slaves of Greenworld

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I would be thoughtless if I didnt attempt to acknowledge everyone who participated in the production of this novel. To Radclyffe, who has been a considerate and insightful fellow panelist, and who has been an inspiration and an everlasting support. To Sandy Lowe, who solves all problems before they can even happen. To my editor, Cindy Cresap, who writes such wonderful things about my imagination and style and finds my occasional misused participle. To all others from Bold Strokes Books, left unnamed here, who deserve my enduring thanks.

To Kristina for art and inspiration.

The Moons Deep Circle

The Raptures of Time

The Hearts Eternal Desire

Slaves of Greenworld

Slaves of Greenworld

2016 By David Holly. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-624-1

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: March 2016

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Cindy Cresap

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Melody Pond

Panic seized me. My eyes told me that I was underwater, but I couldnt see the way to the surface. The creek was deep. Green water streamers brushed my legs, and purplish fish circled my stomach. Air from my burning lungs was bubbling out of my mouth before I saw the skin of the waters surface above me, and I was seconds away from breathing in the cold creek water. I kicked madly, but oxygen depletion had fatigued me, and my mind reeled with the dreadful terror. Without a moment to spare, my head burst into the air. I gasped and sputtered, submerged again, rose, blew water out of my nose, stilled my frenzy, and lunged toward shore. I crept onto the clinging mud and sand that lined the creek, drew deep breaths of humid air, and cried with relief that I was sprawled on warm ground under buttery sunlight.

I looked at the creek that had nearly stolen my life. It was a wide, fast stream and only four or five cubits deep, except for the dark pools like the one that had nearly claimed me. Past the mud lay a wide swath of ferns, dark green at their centers, and growing paler toward the edges of their fronds until they went pink at their tips. Other tiny plants poked from the ground between the ferns, in shades of green and some with odd pink leaves that struggled to exist without chlorophyll. The pinks gave a fairylike hue to the fern swath, and the green tree line beyond mounted higher as it rose away from the stream. I wondered where I was.

A fantastic chill shot through me, nearly buckling my legs beneath my frozen heart. Not only didnt I know where I was, but also I didnt know how Id gotten there. I remembered nothing of my life before my breathless fight to the surface of the creek.

I tried to see my reflection, but the surface was too rippled to give back an image. When I squatted by the water, the ferns tickled my perkies so I stood up again. I ran my hands over my body and found my chest well defined and my stomach flat and hard with muscles under the thin fatty layer. I had enough fat to give me a figure, but not enough to protrude. My biceps and triceps bulged, and my lower body was more developed than my upper. Every sinew in my legs strained with power. I explored my scalp for knots or sore places, but I found none. Whatever was causing my amnesia was not a recent blow to the head.

The air was warm, but the huge sun was moving lower in a sky almost more green than blue. Darkness was not many hours away, and as far as I could tell, I had neither food nor shelter. Drawing a deep breath, I sniffed the ferns. They had a sharp, mint odor that I could almost taste, and I hoped they were edible.

I heard a whispering sound in the grass, followed by sibilant sounds. With no place of concealment in sight, I cast about for a weapon. There were a few pebbles lying along the shore of the creek, but nothing larger. Not a stone, not a stick. I clenched my fists as two spider shapes broke through the ferns. The spiders were large and rather furry, about four cubits in diameter. I prepared for attack, but ignoring me utterly, they lowered their purplish faces into the creek and drank. After a minute, they scuttled back toward the trees.

I had been holding my breath, and I let it out with a whoosh. I felt completely defenseless. I had not felt frightened before encountering the spiders, but I could feel apprehension growing within me. Also I was growing hungry. After my stomach growled several times, I wondered how long itd been since Id eaten. As I stooped to pluck an herb, a mumbling voice reached my ears, and I heard a body pushing through the foliage. This was no spider. Small animals rustled invisibly through the ferns and bright yellow birds took to their wings. I couldnt flee, so I squatted in the ferns and tried to blend.

The shape that broke out of the forest was anything but intimidating. He was an aged man, attired in a tight pink skirt and a chest harness of slick animal hide. Boots of the same material rose to his knees. He had a complex tattoo high on his left arm. This singular specimen took one look at me hunkered naked among the ferns and demanded, Who be you?

I stood to face the old fellow. In some part of my mind, I must have hoped that meeting a person would jog my memory, but nothing about this old man seemed familiar. He was skinny, though not frail, his silvered hair fell to his shoulders, and his gray beard was neatly trimmed. His choice of clothing stuck me as odd, although his pink skirt was a covering of sorts, whereas I had none.