To Take Away His Voice

The Tiger’s Claw

Geraint was late in his daily visit. Brynnan wondered briefly what was keeping him, then he abandoned interest. It didn’t matter. The old warrior would show up when it suited him.

Brynnan was alone in the tower chamber. He was not chained at night, so he could move about. He approached the window and looked out through the bars at the rain and mist-shrouded mountainside. Over a year ago, there had been no bars. The Warlord Samir’s wife had been imprisoned in this very room, and no one thought she would escape through this window; it overlooked a sheer drop on this side, as the Redoubt was built into the side of Torrent Mountain.

But Mara had escaped with the aid of Brynnan and a wingsuit. No one had familiarity with wingsuits, so her escape was attributed to sorcery. Yes, she had flown, and Brynnan had fallen, impaled on the Warlord’s sword.

He needed to distract himself. The chamber housed the newly constructed torture frame, well rigged with rings, blocks, hooks and other fittings. A leather-covered bench and cross-beams connected the sides of the frame. Brynnan could no longer grasp any rigging with his hands to do pull-ups, but using the bench on the side made it possible for resistance workouts. He would use it to keep his body trim and muscular.

He swung his legs over the bench and hooked his feet under the adjacent cross-beam. He proceeded to do a series of inclined sit-ups and crunches, working his core abdominal muscles. From there, he moved on to other bodyweight exercises until he was hot—although he wore just a cloth wrapped around his hips—sweating and his muscles were burning.

The sound of voices came to Brynnan’s attention as the chamber door opened, and Geraint walked in, accompanied by a guard who placed bowls of food and two jugs, one of water and one of ale, on the table. The man then left to rejoin his fellow watchman. In the meantime, Geraint placed a wooden chest he carried with him onto the other end of the table. Brynnan shuddered at the sight, knowing full well what it contained.

“Been busy, have you, lad?” Geraint was not one for elaborate speech or titles, and the Bard had learned to appreciate his plain-speaking. “And worked up a good sweat, I see. You can stop now and eat something, though that’s all you are getting ‘till night, maybe. When you have a wash, we’ll do a quick clean-out. There will be company coming later this afternoon.”

Those words, plus the sight of the chest, made Brynnan’s heart sink. It meant torture, or at least physical abuse. As for the contents of the box, would today be the day he succumbed?

In any case, Geraint was finally here, and that meant greeting him as the Warlord had trained him to do. Brynnan approached and knelt. Bending down, he kissed and licked the old warrior’s boot.

Geraint wound his hand in the bard’s sweat-damp hair. “Eager to greet me, are you?” he murmured.

“I ask leave to show my gratitude for your care,” Brynnan said formally.

“Told you not to stand on ceremony with me, lad. But since you mention it . . .” Geraint grinned and opened his breeches, exposing his heavy cock.

This had become a daily ritual between them, at first on the insistence of the Warlord. But Brynnan, through his new training as the Warlord’s sex slave, had come to find pleasure in it and comfort. A short time ago, he had exhibited purely heterosexual preferences and had never submitted to anal sex, and only once performed oral sex on another man. But now, his reality was rapidly changing.

 He started sucking Geraint’s cock with skill. As a Bard, vocal training had given him excellent control over his throat muscles, enabling him to take in Geraint’s girthy penis all the way, and indeed even the Warlord’s very large cock. But instead of cumming in Brynnan’s mouth, the warrior pulled back, although he was still rock-hard.

“There, that’ll do for now . . . M’Lord Samir wants you primed. I should put your cock-cage on, but I’ll give it a miss if you promise to be good. We’ll see to other things first.”

“Like the collar?”

“Like the collar. I thought I’d give it a cleaning and oiling. If the claws come out, it wouldn’t do for them to get stuck while digging into you. These devices are nothing to mess with.”

Brynnan fervently agreed with that sentiment. If you fell while wearing the collar, the claws would extend, piercing the neck tissue. The Bard had been wearing the collar when he was disciplined with the Warlord’s bullwhip, and though he had not fallen, he had stumbled slightly, and his neck had been wounded in several places.

Seating himself on his sleeping pallet, Brynnan used the sides of his wrists to lift the bowl of soft-cooked grain and berries to his mouth and eat from it.

While Brynnan was feeding himself, Geraint unlocked the chest with a key he wore around his neck. He removed the collar. It weighed a substantial amount, as the working mechanism was complex.

He sat down on a bench by the table and picked up a bottle of oil and a rag. “I’ll just extend the claws one at a time and give them a lube job.”

Then Brynnan heard him swear: “Well, I’ll be fucked with a stallion’s sex-hose! This is no good, no good at all.” He sounded uncharacteristically angry.

Glancing up, Brynnan saw that he was working the collar mechanism, causing individual claws to extend out, then down and in, curling like a flexing tiger claw. “What’s wrong with it?”

“This is the collar m’Lord Samir’s been using with you?”

“Yes.” Brynnan was puzzled, “and that means?”

“Well, there are different kinds, see? This one’s what we call a kill-collar. Look how far in the claws can come out. Almost the length of my thumb.”

“Pardon me, Geraint. Musical instruments are what I’m familiar with, not instruments of torture.”

“Alright. A normal collar’s claw-reach is half that. It can puncture your jugular vein, but not deeply. It’s possible to stop the bleeding if you put enough pressure on it. On the other hand, a kill-collar can puncture your carotid artery: You can bleed out enough to die in the space of three breaths. You’d have to have the Good Spirits on your side to stop the bleeding on that, and far as I know, the Good Spirits are usually too busy to bother with the likes of us.”

Brynnan suddenly felt cold. Geraint was a rough-spoken man, but when it came to conditions of life and death on the battlefield, he was articulate and very knowledgeable. When Brynnan had stumbled while enduring the bullwhip, he had not realized how close to death he had been.

Geraint shook his head. “I know my Lord Samir cares about you, but once upon a time, he was hell-bent on torturing you and forcing you to confess—whatever. Trouble is, he gets trapped by his own vows.”

“As do I: I know that circumstance well, the Mother-of-All help us!”

“Anyway, you won’t enjoy your visitors today. But I’ll be here too, to make sure they play fair. I want you to be very careful!”

Brynnan fully intended to.

After servicing the collar, Geraint polished it and put it back in the wooden chest. Then he led the Bard down the turret stairs to the bathing chamber.

“Just a lower clean-out today. Be thankful no one will be using their fists,” Geraint said as he approached Brynnan with the metal-tipped hose.

Brynnan felt a stirring of almost panic. “They are to be allowed to fuck me?”

“I suspect so. But they won’t cum in you. That privilege is reserved for m’Lord alone. His guests get to wear skins.”

“A great comfort, I’m sure,” replied the Bard, as he bent forward.

That afternoon, Samir and Geraint entered the chamber. Samir was in his leathers, grasping his bullwhip coiled in one hand. Geraint carried an oiled leather case used for soldiers’ field kits.

When Brynnan caught sight of Samir, their eyes locked, and it seemed that a current of energy flowed between them. The Bard felt a momentary pain in his heart and a flash of fire in his belly.

However, it was Geraint who fastened the collar around his neck while Samir approached him. The Warlord spoke, “You are to submit to them. I will not tolerate disobedience. If you do not submit, you will be disciplined as before with the bullwhip. Do you understand?”

The tone was severe, but instead of his customary icy stare, Samir’s eyes projected a heat that enveloped them both.

“I will do everything you ask of me, my Lord,” Brynnan said.

“No, I want you to do more. Submitting to them is submitting to me, to my wishes,” Samir replied.

Geraint was carefully watching the exchange. For a split second, it looked to him as if the Bard might actually argue, but then he saw that Brynnan quickly lowered his eyes. He couldn’t help saying again, “Be very careful, Master Bard. Be humble and survive.”

“Sound advice from your Keeper,” Samir agreed.

Just then, a guard entered and announced to Samir, “My Lord, the men you asked for have arrived. Shall I bring them in?”

“Do so.”

“Yes, My Lord.” The guard turned and beckoned the unseen men to enter the chamber. When they did so, Brynnan’s eyes glazed in shock.

He saw the four guards who had beaten him after he was being raped, then Firian, the Bard’s former attendant - blond, handsome and narcissistic. Finally, his two torturers of the past year came in, black-bearded, dark-skinned Kai and finally, red-bearded Efan, his rapist.

Brynnan carefully set his expression like stone, revealing nothing. He could not fathom Samir’s purpose in doing this. Somehow, he would survive; but the image of the tiger’s claw, flexing cruelly, would not leave his mind.

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