To Take Away His Voice

Bad Country

Autumn was upon them. It was a time of cold mists, rain, and beautiful colours in the wild forests. Brynnan, Geraint and Nijal were travelling to Brynnan’s homeland. The Warlord and his Guardsmen intended to accompany them as far as Scarfell Mountain. Samir’s Captain of his guard, Alanus, led the way with two outriders. Nijal, on a silver-shaded mare named Myst, rode beside the Bard.

“Will there be trouble on the road, do you think, Nijal?” asked Brynnan.

“Not near the Citadel and the Redoubt, but when we are into the wilder country, there may be brigands. Brynnan, they are like fleas on a dog; they keep coming back.”

“Well, at least we have my Lord’s Guardsmen,” replied the Bard.

They rode in silence before Nijal added, “There are eight Guardsmen, the four of us, and Lord Samir. It will be enough: we are all excellent fighters.”

“Don’t forget my Lord’s warhorse, Malpaisan. He may be ageing, but I would not care to be near him in a fight. I have seen him in action.”

Then Brynnan glanced at the curved sword strapped to Nijal’s back, “Lord Samir wanted me armed also. I am a Bard and Ruithin priest; what would I do with a sword besides performing the Dance of Cuts?”

Nijal turned to him with a wry expression, “You once fought Samir with a sword.”

“Yes, and I was nearly gutted.”

“I doubt your opponents will be as skilled as our Warlord; however, brigands will not necessarily respect a bard.”

“Then I will just have to rely on my other skills.”

Later in the day, they stopped for a break by the shore of a fast-flowing river. A Guardsman took the six packhorses to drink, then tethered them to let them graze. A fine misty rain started to fall, so the company sat under tarps tied to the trees. They made a fire, and Danan, the appointed cook, brewed a welcome soup.

As Nijal and the Bard sat under a tarp, sheltered from the rain, Samir and Geraint joined them.

“Tonight, Brynnan, you will share a tent with me. I am sorry to deprive Geraint, but he will have you for the rest of the journey after Scarfell Pass,” said the Warlord.

“He needs to be with you, m’Lord,” put in the old Warrior, “Besides, Nijal will be with me tonight, and he can entertain me with stories.”

Geraint wore a deadpan expression, but there was a telltale sparkle in his eyes. Nijal laughed, and Samir just shook his head with a suppressed smile.

That afternoon they made good time, and the weather cleared in the evening, making it easier to set up camp and build a fire. The Guardsmen asked Brynnan to sing. He gladly obliged, blending voice and harp. The last time they travelled to Scarfell Pass, Brynnan’s injured hands had prevented him from playing. Now, tonight, the men sat transfixed. When the guard changed, the returning men also asked for songs. But The Bard did not stay up long. He went to the nearby lake to wash then joined his Lord in their tent.

Samir embraced him, and Brynnan sank into his arms with a sigh of contentment. They indulged in slow and gentle lovemaking. The Bard, accustomed to the Warlord’s sexual brutality, marvelled that his Lord could show such kindness. Then he remembered Mara, who in the seven years she was married to Samir, had never known cruelty from him until that last week as a prisoner in the Tower chamber before she escaped. She had shared her confidences with her Bard and Priest.

But now, Samir was licking his chest and torso, under his arms, playing with his nipples. He worked down the line of dark hair on his belly to his cock. Sensations became intense as the Bard’s Lord sucked his stiffening shaft and played with his balls.

Brynnan, who had been stroking whatever he could reach of Samir’s body, experienced a wave of surrender uniquely for his chosen lover.

“I submit to you, my Lord,” he murmured as the sublime ache of orgasm consumed him.

After a short rest, Samir flipped the Bard onto his stomach, treating his back and ass like he had treated his front, culminating at his rectum. Brynnan felt a wet tongue working his ass; then, fingers probed him. Samir reared up on his arms and rubbed his cock down the furrow of his behind before he penetrated the Bard, now his willing sex slave.

Brynnan felt the Warlord’s large, thick cock slowly pushing inside him with the slippery moistness of pre-cum, then it slid entirely out and in again. The deep, slow thrusting continued for some time, and all the while, Samir talked to him.

“You are my bitch-slut, my Bard, my beloved,” he whispered, his mouth close to Brynnan’s ear, “I own you, my slave. Give yourself to me, body and spirit. Make me cum.”

“Take me, my Master and my Lord; take my ass and my heart.” Brynnan pushed back against the Warlord’s intense thrusts, meeting Samir’s raw passion with his own.

Samir experienced an explosive orgasm, cumming in Brynnan’s ass, but he did not cry out, although his gasps were audible. He rolled off his lover, and the Bard shifted so that his back was to the Warlord. Samir’s arm wrapped around his chest, and in that position, he fell asleep.

*    *    *

The next day they rode with more caution. The Guardsmen spread out but stayed within sight of each other. This stretch of the road was wilder and far from habitation. They kept their breaks short. Late in the afternoon, a bird called in the forest.

Nijal, listening closely, remarked, “That bird is a little far from his range if bird it is.”

A while later, the same bird called again, and another answered it from a different part of the forest.

“Decidedly off-key,” Brynnan commented.

He moved his horse forward to travel alongside the Warlord. Samir’s horse tossed his head and whinnied.

“My Lord, we have a bird that needs voice training lessons. I fear trouble may stalk us.”

“I agree, Bard. Malpaisan is uneasy. He senses something untoward. If they attack us, stay well clear.”

“I know it, Lord. We shall not stand in your way.”

The birdcall sounded again. Captain Alanus rode up near Samir.

“Summon your men in, Captain,” the Warlord commanded. “We don’t need them to be picked off one by one. Form a cordon around the Bard and tell Geraint to stay by him and have your bows ready. Don’t worry about Nijal. I have a feeling he can take care of himself.”

Alanus nodded once and saluted the Warlord before wheeling his horse and cantering to join his men. Meanwhile, Brynnan dropped back to Nijal and Geraint.

“Stay beside me on my left side, lad,” instructed Geraint.

“I will scout around us,” Nijal announced, “and inform Samir and Alanus.” He gave Brynnan’s shoulder a quick squeeze and saluted Geraint before riding away.

“Independent cuss, for a surgeon,” observed the old Warrior as he watched Nijal go.

“But not for a Guardian,” Brynnan said.

“Sometime you will have to explain more about these mysterious Guardians of yours . . . but not right now. Here comes trouble.”

Even as he spoke, an arrow thudded into a tree beside them. Samir’s Guardsmen answered back with their bows. There was a distant cry, and a man fell out of a tree not far from them.

As Geraint took up his bow and quiver from behind his saddle, a group of men appeared and charged them. For an old warrior, Geraint was swift. He nocked an arrow and loosed it, followed by another in rapid succession. Both shafts struck their targets in the chest. He released one more arrow; then the attackers were upon them.

One of them leapt at Geraint, sword raised in his hand, and he responded. Drawing his sword, the old Warrior slashed into the man’s unprotected side, under the armpit. The attacker fell, screaming in agony. This time, a second quick slash across the throat permanently silenced him. Then Geraint was on the ground, doing what he did best: killing. He waded through the desperate brigands like a war-dog among chickens, slashing or stabbing all within reach and leaving bodies on the ground.

One man got through Geraint’s guard and aimed himself directly at Brynnan. The Bard responded immediately by thrusting his stiffened fingers into the brigand’s throat, followed by an uppercut under his nose with the edge of his hand. The man died instantly, shards of bone driven into his brain. Brynnan stepped back and shook his hand, which hurt, but nothing seemed broken. He felt the man’s soul flee into the Shadow Realm, and he shivered.

More brigands surrounded a group of three Guardsmen, who might have fared ill if it wasn’t for the arrival of Lord Samir on his warhorse, Malpaisan. The horse surged into the attackers, and before they could slash at his belly, he leaped on the spot with all four legs leaving the ground at once. His rear legs lashed out, delivering a mighty kick that caved in one man’s chest and caught another in the throat.

Then the stallion leaped again, this time forward and stomped down on another man with his big, steel-shod hooves. Simultaneously, he bit fiercely into another’s shoulder then shook him like a rag. The horse was doing as much damage as his rider, the Warlord, who wielded his longsword to deadly effect. Malpaisan’s moves were instinctive and needed only the lightest leg and body aids to direct him. Together, horse and rider were unassailable.

Then the space cleared. Numerous bodies lay on the ground, thankfully none of them Guardsmen. Samir worked to calm his horse as Malpaisan trumpeted a challenge to everyone around him, prancing around, neck arched and tail held high. The Warlord patted and stroked the foaming, sweat-soaked neck and soothed him with his voice.

Geraint checked the fallen. Demonstrating grim efficiency, he dispatched those still alive with a long dagger: this was how a warrior worked, eliminating any further threat.

Brynnan stood beside his horse feeling slightly ill as fading souls fled this world. Other men were oblivious, but the Bard’s connection with the dying frequently troubled him. As the need arose, he might be an efficient fighter, but his bardic training was dedicated to peace and resolution through negotiation and music. He could count some twenty bodies. Brynnan privately noted that at least six casualties were victims of Samir’s formidable horse.

Geraint approached Brynnan, “How are you holding up, Master Bard?”

“I think I find it easier to deal with my own suffering than the suffering of others.”

The old Warrior frowned, “Yet you are not a virgin when it comes to battles. You’ve seen enough with m’Lord.”

“When I experienced any conflicts, it meant that I had failed. My task is to prevent conflicts, not fight them.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. Sometimes there’s nothing anyone can do to prevent soldiers fighting: them buggers just want to kill each other.”

“I suppose you are right, my friend. And forgive my poor manners. Once again, you saved my life.”

“As you saved mine, Bard, so we’re quits. That was quite a smart blow that took out that attacker. Is your hand alright?”

“Just a little bruised. Thank the Mother-of-All that nothing seems broken. The men will still get their songs if they request them.”

Meanwhile, Nijal had returned and was debriefing with the Warlord and Alanus. Another Guardsman, Danan, who had a way with temperamental horses, walked Malpaisan to cool him down.

Samir, Nijal and Alanus came over. Before Samir could speak, Geraint said, “Don’t worry, m’Lord Samir, we’re all good here. Brynnan got his man, and we looked out for each other, as you commanded.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Samir replied, “Nijal found the brigands’ camp and has settled matters there.”

“But now, Captain Alanus and I will check his men for wounds, and I can render aid where needed,” said Nijal, “We will get together tonight.”

He clapped Geraint, then Brynnan, on the shoulder and took his leave with the Captain.

Samir briefly embraced the Warrior and kissed Brynnan on the lips, “It pleases me that you both are safe. If we encounter any more brigands, they will get no mercy from me.”

“Or your horse,” added Geraint.

“He is well past his prime but has a great heart. I am not ready to retire him just yet,” the Warlord said.

But Brynnan reflected on the Samir’s phrase, ‘they will get no mercy.’ He knew from bitter experience just how ruthless the Warlord could be.

They decided to stop not long after they cleared the region. The Warlord wanted the men to rest up. Fortunately, none of the Guardsmen had sustained severe wounds. Nijal salved and stitched deeper cuts and applied compresses and bandages as needed.

They set the camp in a sheltered forest grove by a swiftly flowing mountain stream. The lack of open land made the place more challenging to defend but, at the same time, harder for enemies to detect. Danan hung a stew pot over the fire before making a hot mash with a high protein grain and honey mix for Samir’s warhorse.

After their meal, the men requested songs. In addition to their choices, the Bard sang them Shadow-songs that fostered emotions of peace and strength, healing and resolve, to counter the stressful effects of the afternoon’s fight. He finished with just Mavrenn’s voice, the strings blending into sounds that evoked hiraeth or longing. Then he finished with a melody to invoke sleep.

*    *    *

Samir and Brynnan held each other close, enjoying their mutual body heat inside their tent. Samir was silent for some time but then told the Bard, “When you sang that Shadow song to me at the Redoubt, I became truly aware of your power. So I watched and listened tonight. I saw my men’s expressions of weariness and stress change to determination and hope. Then you sang us all to sleep. Even I felt compelled to seek our tent.” The Warlord leaned back to look the Bard in the eye, “Know then that I will make you accountable to me if you attempt to influence people without my knowledge and consent. Do you agree to this?”

“Yes, Master and Lord. I surrender control of my voice to you. I will sing only as you command.”

“Once again, I have taken away your voice. But now I will give it back to you. Make music as you see fit. I do thank you, my Bard, for your trust in me and confidence.”

Brynnan laid his head on the Warlord’s chest and sighed, “You do not need to test me, Lord. You should know that I will do anything for you.”

They were interrupted by a low voice outside the tent, “It’s Geraint, m’Lord.”

“Come in, old friend,” Samir invited him.

Geraint ducked inside and shed his boots at the entrance. He was dressed only in breeches and a cloak, but he carried his sheathed sword.

“Nijal is outside on guard for us, so we will not be disturbed,” the old Warrior informed them.

“Then come join us. The night is chill,” said Samir.

Geraint shed his breeches and slid under the layered cloaks, adding his own cloak to the coverings. He lay on Samir’s side of their bed, with his sword partly unsheathed. “If anyone attacks us, they won’t find me lacking. I can fight without clothing, but not without a weapon,” he said.

Brynnan reached out a hand and felt the reassuring shape of the Warlord’s longsword near the tent wall.

But Samir rolled on his side to face Geraint, “Come here, my friend.”

The older Warrior wrapped an arm around the Warlord, “Pardon me, Master Bard, if I take some time and greet m’Lord properly.”

Brynnan laughed softly and said, “Take your time. I have been very much indulged lately. It’s your turn.”

Geraint and Samir kissed. Their kisses increased in passion until the old Warrior slid down to the Warlord’s cock and sucked it. Naturally, he performed with great sensual skill. Brynnan could discern the action as Geraint deep-throated his Lord’s large, stiff cock, making it look effortless.

Brynnan reacted to the erotic nature of the moment by sucking the Warlord’s erect nipples nested in the thatch of greying chest hairs, through which he ran his fingers. Samir put one arm around him, then began to kiss him. His other hand stroked Geraint’s head. Their slow, sensual lovemaking freed them from the intense day. When Samir ejaculated his cum into Geraint’s throat, he was almost quiet.

He sighed deeply in satisfaction, saying, “Thank you, old friend, but I am too tired to reciprocate or fuck either of you this night. We will sleep now and catch some fucking in the early morning.”

“What about Nijal?” asked Brynnan.

“With m’Lord’s permission, I’ll spell Nijal on watch in a while so that he can take my place.”

“That will be acceptable,” said the Warlord, “He served us well today. I am grateful that he found the brigand’s nest and cleared it out. When I return to Torrent Mountain, I must send more patrols this way.”

“Let us not speak of parting now, my Master. Tomorrow we will be at Scarfell Pass, and I would rather think on that.”

“So be it, my lover.”

The sky was lightening gradually when Nijal entered the tent, having been relieved on watch by Geraint, who’s departure awoke the Warlord.

“Strip off your clothes and join us, if you will,” Samir invited him.

Nijal had brought his sword with him, a curved sabre with an over-the-back baldric. He set it aside and stripped before easing in beside Brynnan.

For his part, the Bard felt a certain shyness. He had known Nijal since he was a youth in Bardic training. They had never indulged in a physical, sexual relationship until Lord Samir had trained him. It had not occurred to him that Nijal might enjoy sex with another male. Besides, the Guardians had a certain mystique; one did not think of them as cheerfully having sex.

Nijal seemed aware of Brynnan’s hesitancy, for he kissed the Bard’s cheek and hugged him. “Don’t worry, dear Bard, I only bite on request, and you have to ask me nicely. Lie back with your Lord and allow me to suck both of you off if it seems good to him.”

The Warlord gave a low chuckle, “I like your bedside manner, Surgeon. Is this how you comfort my men?”

“I do what needs to be done to heal the body and mind. If nothing works except oral sex, then so be it.”

Nijal slid down until he could comfortably reach both men’s cocks. He tossed his mane of hair over their genitals and proceeded to suck and lick them. His tongue lapped at their balls like a lazy lion licking his paws after feeding on a kill.

Samir half-turned to Brynnan, and they kissed each other. The Warlord ran his hands over his lover’s body, caressing chest, nipples, arms and face and the Bard reciprocated. Brynnan felt amazement and wonder that Nijal, a Guardian, and a man he highly respected, his healer, should suck his cock. His technique wasn’t as aggressive as Lord Samir’s or Geraint’s: it almost seemed lazy in comparison, but it had a deep sensuality. It demanded nothing from its subject except to rest in the experience. He felt himself cumming, quite helplessly, and seized Samir’s hand.

“My Lord, don’t let go!” he fought for breath as the surge of orgasm took him.

“Never, my Bard.” Samir squeezed the hand holding his.

That his lover had just cum inspired the Warlord to follow suit. He continued to grip Brynnan’s hand while his other hand caressed Nijal’s hair.

Afterwards, Nijal lay quietly with his head resting in Brynnan’s groin. When the Warlord asked what he wanted, the surgeon replied he was satisfied enough.

“I took my pleasure in giving you both orgasms,” he told them, “I am just not exceptionally vocal about it.”

“Then come up here with us, and we will catch a little sleep until the dawn breaks.”

So Nijal moved up and lay beside them, on Samir’s side. Sleep quickly took them.

A thin mist hazed the trees but dissipated as the sun rose in the golden sky. At the morning meal, the company gathered around a brightly burning campfire. Their relaxed and cheerful mood, partly due to the Bard’s songs of the previous night, added to the morning’s promise of a good day.

Brynnan sat beside Nijal with a bowl of hot pan-bread and hard cheese balanced on his knees. He glanced at Nijal with a new affection, and the surgeon smiled back at him. Sunlight illuminated his tawny blond hair, the colour of autumn grasses, and sparkled in his ageless, green-gold eyes.

Samir, with Geraint, made the rounds of his men, chatting with them individually. Being his personal Guardsmen, he allowed them a certain intimacy with him, and his practice tightened the bonds between them.

After the meal, Captain Alanus directed his men to pack and prepare the horses. Samir tended to Malpaisan himself. The stallion complained loudly to anyone who would listen when Guardsmen led the two mares belonging to Geraint and Brynnan away from him. Samir hushed him with a command, and the horse obeyed.

Finally, they were ready to depart. Brynnan looked at his lover, the Warlord, astride his massive warhorse, who paced on the spot and tossed his head. The Bard fixed the image in both his head and his heart. They would reach Scarfell Pass this day when their journey together had an ending in sight. There were only two additional days in each other’s company, and he intended to make them count.

*    *    *