To Take Away His Voice

The Suspension of Disbelief

The lightening sky pushed back the darkness in the Warlord’s sleeping chamber. On the large bed, Brynnan abruptly awoke, going quickly from sleep to wakefulness. It was a warrior’s habit, necessary in the war camps where urgent action may be swiftly required. Brynnan was not a warrior, but he was a Master Bard, who had accompanied the Warlord on several of his campaigns and had picked up the habit. He had also found it helpful in his recent captivity, where he might wake up to planned torment and not be taken unawares.

But he was no longer a prisoner unless being a captive of the Warlord’s heart counted. He turned and looked down on the sleeping Warlord, Samir. Not wishing to disturb him, he slipped from the bed and went to the bathing room, where he took a piss and performed his morning ablutions—somewhat awkwardly, despite some sensation returning in his hands.

When he came back to the bed, Samir was awake. He lay sideways with his body supported by one elbow. “Come here, Bard,” he said, “I have need of you.”

Brynnan smiled at him, an expression missing far too long from his face during his captivity. He gladly let himself into Samir’s muscular embrace. Their kisses quickly evolved into other things: Brynnan went down on the Warlord, sucking his large cock. Samir groaned in lazy pleasure as he gripped the Bard’s hair, holding him down. Brynnan took in the cock only halfway, for his throat still pained him. Before his recent injury, he could swallow its entire length. Still, his sucking was sufficiently intense to bring Samir to orgasm. Gratefully, Brynnan swallowed his cum.

The pain in his throat reminded the Bard that today he would again meet Nijal, known as Silver-Hand, the battlefield surgeon who had healed him from a near-fatal sword wound. Could Nijal help him?

*    *    *

The Arena was where men honed their fighting skills using various forms and equipment. Samir was dressed in leather breeches and boots and a studded harness with cross straps over his bare chest, to which he had attached six throwing knives. He performed daily tactical exercises in the Arena to train for combat and keep fit. In actual combat, he would wear full body armour.

Brynnan watched Lord Samir work with some of his men in hand-to-hand fighting. He freely encouraged them to attack him. Although they did not hold back, each one was thrown to the ground, at which point the Warlord would talk to the men about technique or demonstrate a move. He fought with practiced efficiency and speed, born of long years of combat operations. While many a Warlord would stay back and direct operations from the rear, Samir’s hands-on style, while riskier, inspired his men.

Before he became Samir’s prisoner, Brynnan worked out every day and had been an expert gymnast and unarmed combat fighter. In his early Bardic training, self-defence and gymnastics worked as disciplines to centre his mind and focus his energies. He looked longingly at the action taking place before him.

“You must miss your training,” said a voice behind him. “I watched you many times on the rings and the bars. And men feared your hand-to-hand skills.”

The familiar inflections in the voice made Brynnan turn around. The man standing there had a muscular, lithe form, not unlike Brynnan’s own physique. His golden skin tone and mane of shaggy, sun-bleached hair suggested a lion taking its ease. His green eyes, rimmed with gold with flares of turquoise, seemed to flicker from one shade to another. It was hard to tell his age as he met Brynnan’s inspection. He appeared young, but there was an ageless quality in his gaze.

Brynnan’s heart suddenly pounded in his chest, and he had to calm himself with a conscious effort. “Nijal Silver-Hand! You are really here! I heard you were coming, but I didn’t dare hope . . .”

“In the flesh, as you see,” Nijal replied, spreading his arms wide. “I only wish I had been here for you this past year.”

Nijal then clasped the Bard’s shoulders as he looked searchingly at him. “Those scars on your throat are new, and you speak quietly and with some difficulty.”

“Claw collar,” Brynnan replied, “It punctured an artery. Samir’s man, Geraint, saved my life. He knew that it was a ‘killing collar,’ as he put it, and he brought his medical field kit with him to the session where this occurred. He clamped the artery.”

“Ah, I see. That old Warrior is an experienced fighter. Bleeding out is the major cause of death on a battlefield, and I have trained many a seasoned warrior in the use of arterial clamps. Quick action can save a brother warrior’s life. And I see the braces on your wrists, the working casts. Another accident?”

Brynnan’s expression turned grim, “It was no accident,” he held up his wrists, “Claw cuffs,” he said shortly.

“I came here with Geraint. He just told me that you’d been hard-used since I was last with you when I saw to your gut wound.”

“The gut wound troubles me little now,” the Bard replied, “And I never did thank you properly.”

“You need to stay alive, Brynnan,” Nijal’s tone was serious, “Have you been able to talk with Lord Samir yet?”

“No. My Lord only freed me yesterday when he found the men who accused Mara of sorcery, and found out they lied to him. And I have tried my best to stay alive, even in the grip of despair.”

Nijal squeezed Brynnan’s shoulder in understanding. No words were necessary.

Brynnan turned back to the action in the Arena. Samir was still instructing the men, but now he had his sword. It was not a foot-soldier’s short stabbing sword but a heavy longsword that the Warlord could use to deadly effect. Brynnan knew that from first-hand experience and shivered at the memory.

Then he noticed Geraint approaching them. He had also been practicing; sweat and dust coated his limbs

Nijal waved him over, “And here comes my friend, Geraint. He delivered the message from Lord Samir that my services were required.”

Brynnan’s heart leaped within him, “So there is a chance—?”

“We shall have to see.”

Geraint clasped Nijal’s forearms in welcome, and Nijal returned the gesture. He turned to Brynnan.

“I missed my morning greeting, Master Bard,” the old Warrior said, winking, referring to the cock-sucking Brynnan performed on him each morning. “You’re looking better. You must have had a good sleep last night,” he added pointedly.

Brynnan couldn’t help smiling at Geraint’s irreverence. “What news do you have?” he asked the Warrior.

Geraint ran his fingers through his short-cropped grey hair, “Well, m’Lord Samir wants us three to meet him in his place, on the terrace, when the noon bell chimes. I think we have some discussing to do. As for me, I’m off to a hot wash: ease my poor stiffening joints.”

Nijal smiled, “They didn’t seem very stiff when I was watching your swordplay.”

Geraint laughed shortly, “They are trying to teach an old dog. Won’t work.” With that, he turned and left them, heading for the showers.

*    *    *

The noon bell had duly rung, and the four men met on the broad stone terrace adjoining Samir’s apartments. The balcony overlooked the Citadel below them, and the mountainside into which the Redoubt was built. On one side, a high waterfall was visible. The outflow of a subterranean river provided water and power to the Redoubt, which extended deep into the mountain.

Brynnan felt relieved that he would not be speaking his message alone to Samir. He wondered if he could get through to him. What he had to say would stretch the boundaries of belief. He prayed to the Mother-of-All that Samir would open his mind and heart.

He took a sip of the cold white wine flavoured with a hint of pine resin. The taste brought back memories of his lovemaking with the Warlord at Scarfell Mountain when they lay on a blanket upon the pine needles. The air had smelled the way this wine tasted. He wondered if they would ever go there again.

“You have a message for us,” said Samir, “Before we hear it, I want to let you know, Brynnan, that whatever my reaction, I swear I will let Nijal Silver-Hand look to your health.”

“I thank you, my Lord.” Brynnan continued, “I will be concise: I was entrusted to tell you that we face a challenge from invaders who threaten our way of existence. They are not here yet, and we may still have time.”

Samir frowned, “Invaders. From where? My agents have reported no threats. And how do you know this is truth?”

Brynnan sighed inwardly. ‘Just wait till you hear my answer,’ he thought. But aloud, he said, “These invaders come from beyond the stars. I know this is true because our Redoubt in ArMor-ys still functions. We still have systems that look out at the stars and hear their voices. Furthermore, Nijal can vouch for this. He is one of our Guardians.”

Samir just looked at him. Long moments passed. Then eventually, he said, “I would normally ask if you have taken leave of your senses. But I think you are telling me that you believe this.“ He paused, then continued, “Brynnan, this is difficult for me. It is harder to accept this than think Mara was plotting against me. How can you prove this, and how does a battlefield surgeon come into it?”

Nijal interjected, “Have you ever noticed, Lord Samir, that whenever anyone invents a new and powerful weapon, their plans immediately go awry? There is an explosion or some other mishap that destroys creation and creator. Well, that is because of us. I am of a race that tries to ensure that the power to destroy does not progress unchecked.”

“I have heard such reports. But you mean, you and . . .others of your kind keep us living in a dark age, where there is no possibility of scientific advancement?”

“As concerns weapons, the short answer is ‘Yes,” said Nijal, simply.

“And why should we support such an untenable position?”

“Because the invaders are of your kind. There have been signals that we understand. Once before, there was an incursion when your distant ancestors came here from beyond the stars. They destroyed the civilization—my peoples’ civilization—that already existed using unassailable weapons. We who remained vowed that it must never happen again. We looked far different in ages past, but we have the ability to evolve to counter threats, given enough time.”

Brynnan could tell that Nijal was losing Samir on a fundamental level. But the Warlord deserved an unvarnished truth, especially after his own blunt confession to the Bard about the Invaders’ origins.

He spoke. “My Lord, the two men you interrogated did have at least one fact to offer: Mara’s father was a man of our people, cousin to our Chieftain, King Cyndyllan, although he made his living from the sea. Her mother was a woman from the sea, one of Nijal’s race who is falsely called a sorceress. But Mara never lived with her mother, and there were no plots against you. She is innocent.

“I, however, am not.” Brynnan continued, “I was tasked with bringing you this information. I am at fault because I waited too long, seeking an opportune time that never seemed to present itself, especially after becoming your prisoner. Instead, Mara took the brunt of the blame, who was blameless in the matter.”

Far from reacting with fury, as Brynnan expected, Samir instead looked deeply troubled. “My adversaries crafted their lies well. I think we’ll adjourn for now. This bears contemplation,” he turned to Nijal, “You will stay here with me, if you will. We need to talk.”

Nijal nodded in consent. “I will answer any questions I can. Just know there is no threat to you from us. We want to protect the people and creatures of this world and ourselves.”

Samir tiredly rubbed a hand across his eyes, “Brynnan, I need to focus on your ‘Guardians’ for a time. Please go with Geraint and stay with him. And you may serve him as you serve me. I’ll send for you later to continue this discussion.”

The Bard got down on one knee. “My Lord,” he said, bowing his head.

Samir raised him up and kissed the palm of Brynnan’s hand. “Go,” he said, and it was a command this time.

Geraint came up and put a hand on Brynnan’s shoulder, “Come with me, lad, and I will teach you how to get your mind off things for a time.”

*    *    *