To Discover His Truth

A Time Of Innocence

Three men lay in the shelter of rocks and trees from the heights above the broad river valley and watched the keep. Redstone Holding sat on top of a granite outcrop in the steep river valley. The Ironstrike River narrowed below the outcrop, creating a stretch of dangerous rapids, but a ford called the Carrying Place allowed a crossing for horses and goods. Brynnan would have to cross the river to reach the Holding on the rock outcrop.

“I don’t like it, but I can’t think of a better way,” sighed Geraint, “That place can swallow you up. How long do you want us to wait for you?”

“Give me until the moon is dark. If we have to escape at night, a dark moon is best.” said the Bard.

Geraint frowned, “That’s a long time for a snatch-and-run.”

“I am thinking of contingencies and variables. They may imprison me for a time.”

Nijal said, “If you can get out sooner, I will watch for you. My night vision is quite good.”

Brynnan believed it. As a Guardian, Nijal was of another race: one whose blood had carried an agent that could change a man. Brynnan had changed in subtle ways after Nijal had transfused his own blood into the Bard.

“I can’t see much point in waiting longer,” said Brynnan. “I am going in now.”

They withdrew from the edge and returned to the staging area chosen. Rhiannon, the Bard’s dapple grey mare, stood saddled and carrying the harp and a pack. He and Geraint had swapped cloaks, and the old Warrior now wore Brynnan’s unique wind-silk one. There was nothing to do but to bid each other farewell.

Nijal and then Geraint embraced and kissed the Bard. Brynnan said to Geraint, “When I return, I will thank you.”

“See that you do, lad. I will hold you to it.”

Brynnan raised a hand in a farewell salute and turned Rhiannon down the trail.

In the night, the three had come together, a common need binding them. It seemed as if a fever possessed them. The afternoon of that day, they had made love with each other with the aid of a huge fallen tree. They slept as one, tangled together. When they awoke, it was Nijal this time who initiated their love-fucking. At first, he kissed both Geraint and Brynnan before concentrating on the Bard. He had rolled Brynnan face-down and gripped his neck with his teeth while inserting his substantial cock into the Bard’s ass. Brynnan, spreadeagled, ass raised, had quickly surrendered to Nijal and had to bite the bedding underneath him to prevent crying out in his passion. Then Geraint, kneeling upright, kissed Nijal fiercely as the Guardian pumped his cock. The old Warrior leaned in and sucked Nijal’s nipples, making him moan. Then he lay beside Brynnan and began to kiss him. Nijal could sustain his fucking for a considerable time, but eventually, amidst Brynnan’s pleas, he pumped his cum deep inside the Bard’s ass.

Geraint took his turn next, and as Nijal, lying partly on his side with one leg over Brynnan’s ass, embraced the Bard, the old Warrior shoved his erect and already stiff cock into Nijal and did not spare him. It did not take Geraint long to cum, excited as he was by his play with the two men. Then it was Nijal, amazingly hard again, who fucked Geraint while the Warrior sucked on Brynnan’s cock, where the Bard lay on his back crosswise in the tent. The whole affair was intense and relentless, different from lazy fucks they had enjoyed in previous days. They knew the time of parting was imminent. But in all the action, even as Geraint swallowed Brynnan’s cum and Nijal ejaculated for the second time, love was not missing. Afterwards, they did not sleep but washed in the cold stream nearby, using an orb for light, packed, and left while still dark.

And now, Brynnan left his two companions at the ridge top and rode down the trail to an uncertain welcome. Preferring the curiosity of men to an unexpected arrow in the back, he sang as he rode. He chose lyrical ballads, song-stories designed to draw in and engage listeners. And for himself, it banished apprehension, replacing it with peace.

The trees thinned, and five riders came out to meet him on the trail as he approached the river. Brynnan did not stop singing until he reached them. When he did so, a man who carried an air of command spoke to him.

“Finish your song; then we’ll see what to do with you.”

That was a good sign. So the Bard sang the rest of the ballad, bringing it to a peaceful conclusion. He needed the armed men to come to a peaceful conclusion, too.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said, giving the man a title that was perhaps higher than his rank, but flattery and respect were also effective weapons for disarmament.

“Who are you, singer, and where are you going?” their leader asked.

“As you say, I am a singer who makes his livelihood from giving songs to those that ask in exchange for food and shelter. My name is Bryn, and I am from the Torrent Mountain region. My destination is yonder holding if I can exchange my art for food and shelter.”

Brynnan decided to stay to the truth as much as possible. If Andri heard, it would reassure him.

“That’s our place, and you most certainly will come there. You will accompany us.”

Even though the threat was apparent, Brynnan assumed an air of innocent naivety. He bowed in acknowledgement from Rhiannon’s back, “I thank you, Captain.”

As they rode towards the river, one of the men asked him, “Is that perchance a harp strapped to your horse?”

“It is.”

“Are you any good? You sing well, but can you play?”

“I have some small skill. And I will gladly play for you.”

The other men laughed as if they shared a private joke. “Oh, you’ll play, alright. Never fear on that score.”

The men looked both rough and experienced. They wore body armour of overlapping leather plates. Brynnan noticed that the armour bore cut marks and other signs of active fighting but was also well maintained. It would be no easy task to overcome them.

They came to the river where the rapids looked ferocious. Brynnan made careful note of their crossing. The water churned deep and rough on either side of a strand of harder rock in the sedimentary shale that afforded a path. In some places, the water came up to the horses’ hocks. Rhiannon took it all in her stride.

A winding track took them up the outcrop where two great gates kept the holding secure. Guards posted by the gates saluted the incoming company, and one of the guards sounded a ram’s horn, alerting the people inside. As they drew close, the gates opened. The leader of the men with Brynnan stopped to talk to the gate guards. Brynnan heard them laugh, and the captain gestured back towards the Bard. They assumed him an innocent of whom they planned to take advantage, Brynnan deduced. But the Bard intended to keep them underestimating him. If they knew he was a Ruithin Priest, they might have taken more precautions. Ruithin roamed far and wide, and their reputation preceded them.

As they dismounted, boys came to take the horses. Brynnan asked if he might stable Rhiannon himself. At first, they were reluctant, but he used his most winning manner and was finally allowed. He wanted to know where to find her in a hurry. A servant came to him and led him into the keep. They walked down a corridor of red stones, past numerous rooms, until the man unlocked a door.

“Here is a chamber for you, singer. Someone will bring you the necessary things. Later you may be summoned to entertain us. Be ready.”

The man left Brynnan alone, but the Bard heard the lock engage as the servant closed the door. He sighed and didn’t even bother to check. It was an old and tired script to his mind: evil host imprisons guest, then bad things happen. The ballads were full of such stories and for a reason.

Soon, a boy brought him food and wine and water for washing. He was a few years yet from puberty, almost pretty, with flowing red hair. A well-made blue embroidered tunic covered his body. But a purpling bruise on one side of his face marred his otherwise fresh appearance.

Brynnan took the opportunity to talk with him, but he had to do so without raising any suspicions. “This Holding is difficult to reach, and a lonely place. Have you many friends?”

The boy answered, “I do, but they work in the stables and the kitchen, and our Lord doesn’t like me being with them.”

“So you serve your Lord?”

The boy preened, “I am his special servant. Lord Artagar is very kind to me. He treats me well.”

“I am sure he does,” Brynnan said, eyeing the bruise on the lad’s face.

“My Lord gave me a name, and it’s Artan. It means ‘bear cub.’”

“It’s a good name. May you grow up great and strong. And I believe your Lord’s name means ‘bear hunter.’”

“How did you know?” Artan said with wonder in his voice.

“I am handy with languages. But please don’t tell anyone. And you can call me Bryn,” the Bard knew that a way to create bonding was to trust someone with a secret.

“I won’t, Bryn. And you won’t tell my Lord that I visit the stable boys?” Artan’s tone was pleading.

“It will be our secret,” he smiled at the boy, then added, “It must be a rare but special thing to have visitors, and you are such a good young servant. You must be proud.”

For the first time, the boy looked down. “We have visitors sometimes, but I didn’t get to serve the last one. He came just before you. He was a prisoner. Lady Sarain has taken him to play with.”

“That’s a shame. I hope he was older than you. It would be hard to be a prisoner at your age.”

“He was older than me, but not all the way grown. I felt sorry for him. He seemed like a gentle person.”

“You have a good heart, lad. Listen, you had better return before they notice that you’ve been gone overlong.”

An anxious expression crossed Artan’s face, “Yes, I better go, or Janos, your guard, will come in to fetch me.”

The boy raced to the door, knocked with four measured raps, and the guard opened the door. Artan left, and the guard, presumably Janos, peered in, saw Brynnan, and closed and locked the door again, without a word spoken.

As he ate the food before him - roasted root vegetables, bones with some meat on them, and stale bread - Brynnan mused on what he had discovered. In a sense, he felt relieved to know that Andri had at present one keeper and had not been thrown to the men to use as a sexual plaything, although that was no guarantee that the young singer would be treated well.

When he received a summons to attend the hall gathering, he complied, escorted by Janos.

The highest-ranking people at the gathering sat at a table of their own. Janos directed Brynnan to a seat nearby. The Bard looked around. The main hall consisted of solid red stone up to the high ceiling. An elevated gallery ran around the wall, built directly into it. Brynnan could see at least two windows in the gallery, and a guard patrolled its length. There was an access stairway by the end of the hall, at the back.

People feasted and talked. It seemed to be mostly men. He spotted a few women; some seated with a man and the others servants. They did not look cheerful or at ease and had to put up with men at the table groping them.

The Lord, Artagan, was a rangy, tall man. His long, light yellow hair grew past his shoulders, matched by long moustaches and a beard divided into many braids. Disks of copper ornamented his hair. Brynnan thought that the old Warrior, Geraint, would disapprove: he felt that long hair was an opportunity for what he called a ‘grab and stab.’

They were interrupted by a page who blew a blast on a curled ram’s horn. The people in the chamber quieted down and looked towards a second large door.

Lady Sarain, the Lord’s wife, made her entrance. She wore power like a mantle. She was of medium height, and her full curves and form-fitting grey silk gown hinted at a deep sensuality. She had a beautiful face, marred only by her cold, expressionless eyes. The black velvet cloak she wore flowed to the ground. Wolf fur trimmed the shoulders. A belt with a long dagger, a pouch, and a coiled, short snake whip fastened about her waist.

There was no mystery on where she would ply the snake whip. Its victim walked behind her, a modified claw collar around his neck, connected to a long chain leash, which the lady held. Manacles, attached at the waist to a bondage harness, constrained the prisoner’s hands. He wore a short kilt around his loins. Otherwise, he was naked. When he turned, Brynnan saw reddened welts on his back. It was Andri.