To Take Away His Voice

A Space Out of Time

Samir and Brynnan stayed an extra day in the hidden glade above Scarfell Pass. After the trauma of the Warlord’s tale, recounted the previous night, both men needed the distraction to recover their inner balance.

In the morning, Samir pushed a protesting Bard into the deep, cold pool below the waterfall before joining him there. Brynnan revelled in the feel of the water and was able to swim, finding it soothing to his troubled soul. Samir caught two fish, which he cooked and shared with his lover.

Afterwards, they lay on a cloak on the scented pine needles in the warm sun and explored each other’s bodies, finding new zones of sexual sensitivity and arousal. Brynnan trembled with pleasure when Samir licked the silky dark hair under his armpits, then he, in turn, licked Samir’s, inhaling their slightly acrid scent and taste. Their fucking, while intense, was gentler and less urgent this time around than the night before.

The Warlord was carving them a breathing space out of time. Brynnan felt grateful, although he knew that this relative freedom, here, at Scarfell Mountain, would not last. He determined to commit each experience to memory, something to keep his spirit alive in the difficult days he was sure would come again.

Now that he was beginning to acknowledge their mutual bond, Brynnan reflected that his loyalty to the Warlord had turned to love early in their relationship many years ago. But nothing hurts love more than betrayal, real or imagined: Samir had felt betrayed by Brynnan over a year before and had impaled him on his sword. His torture began when he recovered from the wound. He had been the Warlord’s prisoner since that time. 

*    *    *

That afternoon, Geraint arrived, as pre-arranged. His drawn and guarded expression eased when he found a naked Brynnan stretched out beside the Warlord, who, now dressed in his riding leathers, was seated by the fire.

“I see the Master with his hound,” he grinned in relief, “Just had a training session, I believe.”

The Bard forgave the old soldier his irreverence; besides, he mused, it was hard to maintain dignity when your stomach and face were splattered with drying cum.

Samir laughed. Then he directed Brynnan, “Is this how you greet your keeper, Bard? Go show him some proper respect.”

Brynnan arose and walked to Geraint, who stood beside his horse, a blue roan named Shade, as grizzled as the old soldier. He dropped to his knees and kissed and licked Geraint’s riding boots.

The old Warrior glanced at Samir, who gave him an affirmative nod.

“Alright, Master Bard, let’s have a proper greeting now.” He loosened his breeches, exposing his thick, semi-erect cock, then placed a guiding hand on the Bard’s head.

Brynnan gently licked and nuzzled the cock first, watching it grow hard, before taking it in his mouth. He was acutely conscious of the Warlord watching him perform as he sucked deeply on the shaft. He was gently interrupted when he was about to urge Geraint to cum.

“Not so fast, lad. Perhaps your Master would care to join us.”

Brynnan’s face burned, but it was true. The Warlord was mastering him, slowly but surely. Samir approached them, pulling out his own cock in a leisurely action. Brynnan was about to suck the Warlord’s cock when Geraint’s hand on his hair restrained him.

“Let me show you how it’s done, lad.” The old Warrior got down somewhat stiffly on his own knees and took the Warlord’s cock in hand. He then brought it to his mouth and began to suck in long, slow pulls. Samir’s head tipped back, and he sighed in pleasure.

Geraint continued his play, then said to the Bard, “Now you.”

Brynnan followed Geraint’s lead and began to suck the Warlord’s cock in a similar way. While he was doing so, Geraint reached down with his hand and fondled the Bard’s cock.

Samir said, “Spare your knees, friend; my hound can service us both.”

Geraint stood up slowly with a grunt and brought his cock alongside Samir’s. For his part, the Warlord rubbed his large, pre-cum moistened cock head against Geraint’s own.

Brynnan licked their balls and sucked them both until they came. First, Geraint, who spurted his cum over the Bard’s chest and nipples, adding to the existing dried cum, then the Warlord, whose cum Brynnan swallowed, all the while marvelling at the Warlord’s stamina. He truly did not mind the service now and was pleased that Samir seemed to be recovering from the dark mindscape of the night before when he had so brutally fucked the Bard’s ass. Geraint surely knew exactly what he was doing.

After a last swim in the deep pool, Geraint packed the gear and quenched the fire while Samir spoke with the Bard. “Geraint is one of the very few who know my tale. As happens, he was the one who unchained me at the Black-Hand’s camp. He pledged his personal loyalty on that day when he learned later what I had done to the Black-Hand, and in all these years, he has never failed me. I owe him. That is why you serve him also, and why we are easy with one another as comrades-in-arms.”

“I understand, my Lord,” replied Brynnan, and he did understand. An unspoken message passed between them, a pledge of obedience and respect.

They rode down the mountain and into the guards’ camp at the Pass just as the sun set behind Scarfell’s peak. The guards greeted them, those who weren’t on duty looking out at the approaches. Samir had a relaxed manner with them as loyal and long-time companions.

They were led to a fire where meat was roasting from the hunt that day. Lord Samir had forbidden Brynnan to eat red meat as part of the anal training that restricted his diet. He was given more fish by Geraint. The others ate, and the company chatted informally.

After supper was done, Alanus, the captain of the guard, made a request of Samos, “The Bard has no harp with him, but let him sing for us, Lord, as he did in the camps.”

Samir looked momentarily surprised. Geraint was watching the Warlord like a hawk. The guards were aware that the Bard was now a prisoner and that his hands were crippled for some reason, but they did not know of Samir’s plans for him.

“Very well,” said Samir after a long pause. “It will be instructive.”

Brynnan did not trust his Lord’s answer. Instructive to whom? He had mixed emotions about singing. It had been a long time since he had sung before anyone. Sometimes, when he was alone, he would very softly sing the ancient ballads to himself, but he was careful to let no one hear.

Samir looked towards Brynnan, “Bard?”

“As my Lord Samir commands,” he replied in a formal tone. “What would you hear?”

“Let my men choose.”

The other guards gave Alanus, their captain, encouraging nods. He named a song that was a campaign favourite.

“Corleu has died holding the breach, but by his blood, he has redeemed the land . . .” Brynnan began in a voice that, though seldom used in the past year, was rich, masculine and nuanced.

As the song’s story unfolded, the guards, and Geraint, sat entranced. Brynnan, glancing at the Warlord’s face, could not read his closed expression. The guards requested more when the song ended, each man naming his favourite.

Brynnan gave them everything that they asked for. His memory was prolific, and his delivery flawless. He thought at first that singing would be an emotional ordeal, but as he progressed, he felt something within himself opening, still hesitant and half-wild.

In time, the watch changed, with Alanus and his three fellow guards moving out to cover the approaches and the returning men settling in. They also requested songs. Geraint passed a wineskin to Brynnan, who gripped it awkwardly with his wrists and proceeded to quench his thirst. Memories of past nights in a war camp surfaced in his mind as he recalled other songs and the beautiful tones of Mavrenn, his harp.

Finally, Samir announced, “One last song, Bard; we have a long day’s ride before us tomorrow.”

Geraint spoke up. “I’d like to suggest a song, m’Lord.” He paused for a few moments before stating his request. Turning to Brynnan, he asked him, “What’s that one you used to sing about a dying warrior on the field? The one where that big bugger of a raven approaches him to take his eyes, and after holding it off, the Warrior finally gives in?”

“You mean, ‘The Warrior and the Raven’?” Brynnan replied with a carefully neutral expression.

The others laughed, and Geraint looked rueful. “Well, my memory isn’t what it once was . . . .”

“Yes, the days when memories fail comes to us all," murmured Brynnan.

Geraint gave the Bard a shrewd look: he knew the Warlord’s ultimate intentions. But Brynnan gave them the song with a simple yet haunting melody. Three of the men joined in on the chorus. When Brynnan finished, there was silence. The men’s eyes glistened with unshed tears; such was the power of the Bard’s voice. All of the men present had lost brothers-in-arms on the field of war.

As the men rose to retire, Samir spoke to the Bard, “Brynnan, go with Geraint to his tent. Don’t forget to thank him for your last song.”

Brynnan knew just what he meant.

*    *    *