To Take Away His Voice

Miserere Mea – Have Mercy

Brynnan lay back on the pallet, his thoughts free-ranging, trying to find some comfort there. More than a year had passed since he slowly recovered from a sword thrust to the abdomen, but it was followed by a year of daily beatings and servitude. His honour and influence in the Council of Seven were denied him. He was now less than a slave because even a slave is valued by his master.

After the initial healing, Talitha, the Head Physician’s daughter, had brought oils and massaged his arms and shoulders; he suffered strains from holding a still position with the claw-cuffs circling his wrists as the lash fell repeatedly. Bard that he was, females had once been attracted to him like a moth to flame; and some men, too, although he only coupled with women. Thoughts of Talitha had kept him from despair when he had finally fallen, and the claws had torn into the tendons of his wrists. His failing hands were no longer able to bring the sweet music from his harp. The Warlord, Samir, architect of his suffering, had intended this.

Lord Samir had isolated Brynnan then. Talitha was forbidden to see him, but a young male servant provided what care he could not do for himself. Brynnan found the young man’s touch abhorrent.

He was now locked in the same tower where Lord Samir had imprisoned his own wife, Mara, and where Brynnan desperately attempted to defend her life. His blood still stained the stone floor when the Warlord impaled him with his sword, even after a year.

But Brynnan’s mind was roaming in the faraway seashores of his homeland when noise and voices announced the Warlord, two guards and the two henchmen who were Brynnan’s torturers.

Samir stood before him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, older than the Bard, well-muscled and fit for his age. He had cropped, greying, light brown hair and icy grey eyes. A closely trimmed beard only compounded the look of a mighty, ruthless warrior.

“How are your wrists? Are they functional?” Samir gave him the barest flicker of a cruel smile.

“No, they are not.” Brynnan’s tone was neutral and quiet.

At this, Samir beckoned to a figure standing in the doorway, a wrapped case in her arms. She walked forward, head bowed. It was one of the musicians from the Hall of Music. She gently placed the case on the floor, casting an agonized glance at the Bard before she left the chamber. Brynnan stared at the bundle. They had brought Mavrenn, his harp. Brynnan slowly closed his eyes.

“Punishment will resume the day after next. We will not chain your wrists above your head, as before. Instead, we have this….” Samir waved a hand.

One of his torturers stepped forward; Kai, dark-skinned and bearded. He held a silvered metal circle: a collar, ringed with retractable claws. It forced its victim to stand motionless. If the wearer stumbled and fell, the claws dug into the throat. They had the potential of piercing a jugular vein. It was a horrible thing.

Samir glanced at the men, and they retreated from the room. He then motioned the two guards to also stand outside the doorway.

One of them began to protest, “He is still dangerous, my Lord.”

Samir cut him off. “He will not attempt to harm me.”

The guard looked doubtful, but he withdrew. When the chamber door was closed, Samir glanced down at the Bard, where he remained seated on the pallet.

“Will you not?” Samir asked softly, raising an eyebrow.

“You know that I will not.”

“You did try, in this very chamber. You used a sword against me, protecting the Witch.”

“Mara never betrayed you,” Brynnan said for what seemed like the thousandth time, “And it was your sword that felled me.”

Brynnan could not help glancing at the old bloodstain on the stone floor. There was no avoiding the memories, just as Samir had intended by placing him here.

“She escaped anyway, with your aid,” Samir added, “and for that, the torture will continue until you die or tell me what I want to know. I have taken your harp music. Next, I will take your voice.”

“And afterwards?”

“After that, I will take your mind. There is a drug that slowly destroys memories. You will have no other option than to drink it in the water you are given.”

Brynnan was gripped by a surge of real fear, although his face was set like stone. He had an eidetic memory. He had spent years learning the codes and laws, the teaching songs, the histories in ballad form, and poetry. Although still young, he was a Master Bard, ‘Marek Mavrenn’ in his native tongue: Servant of Ravens. His essence, all that he most treasured, he would lose if this Warlord had his way, and for once, Brynnan could see no way out.

Try to kill Samos? He knew he could attempt it still, with or without the use of his hands. But that would serve no good purpose and remove a key player, this man, Warlord of the Torrent Mountain Redoubt and the City-State, and husband of Mara. It would seriously damage the plans of those whom Brynnan served, plans which were so necessary for the survival of all that he held dear.

Samir was aware of this dilemma on some subconscious level, even if he did not know the purpose. Therefore he had sent away the guards, conscious of his own invulnerability.

“And what do you want of me, besides a truth that is no truth?”

“Play the harp, if you can,” Samir answered with a cold laugh.

“I cannot.”

“Then there is another instrument you can play.”

An icy light gleamed in the Warlord’s eyes, and the smile was definitely cruel. He moved closer to the Bard until he stood directly in front of him.

It had happened once before, months ago, when Samir had felt that the Bard was defying him. In cold rage, he had struck Brynnan, sending him to the ground. Brynnan had rolled with the harsh blow, but still, his mouth was bruised and cut. Then Samir commanded him to kneel. Brynnan had seen the path before him plainly, with no retreat possible. He had knelt.

And now that same situation was before him. There was no way out, none. To protest, to refuse would raise the Warlord’s hostility against him, and Brynnan desperately did not need the man hostile. One day, he swore, he would get through to the Warlord. He had a message to deliver. But this was not the time, although it seemed that time would soon run out now. Brynnan rose to his knees. He looked into Samir’s eyes without challenging him.

Samir braced on his feet. His hands slowly moved to undo the belt. Freed, his cock pushed its way out, already fully erect. It was substantially large, the shaft thick and the heavy head dripping with moist secretions that signalled his rising lust. Brynnan dropped his gaze. Defiance now would earn him death.

His useless hands fumbled as he attempted to grasp the cock. Using his taped wrists on either side of the cock, Brynnan brought it to his mouth and took it in. It was hot; the veins pulsed, and it tasted salty. Samir grunted briefly and pushed his hips forward. His hands came up and grasped Brynnan’s uncut dark hair, taking him in an inescapable grip. He pulled himself deeper into Brynnan’s mouth as his victim began to suck, slowly and rhythmically. His tongue swirled around the shaft and then the head. The Bard knew what made a man’s cock feel good from having women suck him.

His swirling, sucking tongue and mouth worked as he took the cock in deeper. He increased the tempo, but his rhythm remained strong and steady. Brynnan heard the Warlord’s deeper intake of breath and the grunts of pleasure. Evidently, the man would come soon if Brynnan kept up the rhythm, and the Bard had no desire to prolong the event. But despite himself, to his own horror, he found his body responding, and he could feel his erection rising. Part of him wanted to struggle from the Warlord’s grip, but another part felt regret that he could not grasp his own cock and masturbate in time to the sucking.

Brynnan felt the cock in his mouth spasm, the ripples in the thick, hard flesh as the ejaculation took place, and spurts of hot cum. He knew he had to swallow. He was allowed to fall back onto the pallet. Rivulets of musky sweat trickled down his bare chest – he wore only loose breeches even though the tower chamber was cold.

Samir was not done. Without saying a word, he sank to one knee beside Brynnan and swiftly freed Brynnan’s now-hard cock. Brynnan felt Samir’s right hand close about his flesh and begin rhythmic stroking, even as the left hand grasped his testicles. A part of him hungered for bodily contact, even at the hands of his tormentor. Unable to reconcile sensation with abhorrence, Brynnan’s mind switched off the rational, judgemental side and allowed his animal side free rein. Pre-cum slicked his cock, which was sliding in Samir’s firm grip.

“Tell me when you are cumming.” Samir commanded.

“Yes.” Brynnan’s teeth were clenched as the sensations consumed him like fire.

The stroking became faster and more intense, to the point of pain. But then the agony began to transform itself into a helpless fall into a deep, sensual abyss.

“I am going to cum.”

“Not yet.” Samir’s strokes slowed.

Samir kept up the play, bringing Brynnan to the point of orgasm several times. Brynnan was well-disciplined in the sexual arts, though even he found himself being pushed towards that inescapable edge. But he would not beg.

“Tell me again.” Samir increased the stroke once more.

Brynnan’s cock throbbed. The sensations he was undergoing were indescribable to his own mind. ‘I, the Bard, am at a loss for words,’ he thought and laughed bitterly out loud. Then sensation completely took over.

“I’m cumming now,” he heard himself say.

“Yes.”

The intense orgasm took him in a shuddering wave. Samir held one hand cupped over the end of Brynnan’s cock, trapping the cum and making it drip over his naked stomach. Samir glanced down at the raised sword-scar on the Bard’s abdomen. It seemed to excite him, for his breathing deepened.

“Tomorrow, I will fuck you,” he promised Brynnan.

“I think you just have, in more ways than one.” Brynnan’s voice was low; his body was exhausted and drained.

“And will again.”

The Warlord wiped his hand on Brynnan’s breeches, then stood and fastened his belt. He turned, walked to the door, and left. Brynnan heard the lock engage with a loud click.

“I’m sure you will find more ways,” Brynnan commented softly to the silent room.