The Waterfall
In Geraint’s own quarters, Brynnan was troubled. “This isn’t going well.”
“I think it’s going very well, Master Bard. M’Lord turned you over to me. He wasn’t pissed. He did right to call for a one-on-one with your surgeon,” Geraint sighed, “When I heard your news . . .invaders coming from the stars. It's hard to believe.” He shook his head but added, “Trust our Lord Samir. You’ve seen him hot-headed, and he can be that, I assure you. But when it comes to battle planning, he’s able to step back and look at the bigger picture. He’s still alive—like you. Be warned, though; he’ll do whatever he has to do. Anyway, you heard what he said about serving.”
Brynnan sighed, “Perhaps you are right.”
“My pleasure or yours? Best thing for a breathing space while you consider what to do next.”
“Geraint, I am in your hands.”
“Give yourself to me, then. I won’t let you fall.”
Brynnan felt oddly reassured.
They stripped down together. Brynnan would have knelt to service the old warrior, but Geraint instead led him over beside his bed. “Not as big as m’Lord’s bed, but it will fit us both.”
Brynnan somewhat hesitantly embraced Geraint’s bear-like body; the first time he had done so, despite having to suck the old warrior’s cock each day and be bathed and cleaned by him.
Geraint, for his part, took the Bard’s face in his rough, callused hands and kissed him. Then he ran his hands down the other’s body, rubbing hardening nipples, contouring muscles and tracing a finger down the trail of dark hair that grew down Brynnan’s stomach to his cock. He stroked the smooth skin of the cock, lingering at the head, which was already moistened with pre-cum.
Brynnan was well aware that, for all Geraint’s good nature, he was in the hands of an old campaigner who had survived, who had dealt physically and sexually with both prisoners and other survivors of conflicts. One who could be a killer on the battlefield as ruthlessly efficient as the Warlord. He had watched Geraint’s sword practice in the arena that morning and had appreciated the older man’s economy of motion and workmanlike approach. And so, he was surprised, not with Geraint taking the initiative, but that the man’s moves were slow and sensual. He knew all the right places to stroke and probe.
“Have you been bred by anyone other than m’Lord, that is, barebacked?” Geraint asked him.
“None, except for that torturer who raped me, and he didn’t get the chance to put his cum in me before I kicked him in the throat.”
“That kick was a deed well done,” Geraint answered with satisfaction. “The other six who took your ass all wore skins. And, again, what did m’Lord tell you just before we came down here?”
“That I am to serve you as I would serve him.”
“Right. I am going to fuck your ass—barebacked,” Geraint informed him, “Get on the bed and be a good hound.”
Brynnan, rather than being offended, found that the words stirred him sexually. The old Warrior had a unique way about him, and Brynnan had found that he wanted to please him in their daily cock-sucking sessions. He moved onto the bed on all fours and waited for whatever Geraint would do.
“You did what I asked you and cleaned yourself this morning?”
“You taught me well, Geraint. I try and keep myself prepared for my Lord.”
“Good, because I just changed my bed covers,” said Geraint.
His comment made Brynnan laugh out loud. It hurt his throat, but he didn’t care. It relieved his tensions.
“Wait ‘till I’m in you—I’ll get you laughing then,” Geraint taunted him without malice.
He mounted Brynnan and stroked the furrow of his ass and the sensitive perineal area with the head of his thick cock. Brynnan could feel the large mushroom head probing at him. He adjusted his breathing and relaxed his muscles as Geraint finger-fucked him to open the passage. Then he pushed the head of his cock into the anal opening, simultaneously slapping Brynnan on the ass, hard, with his free hand.
The Bard expelled a breath as the big cock-head slipped inside him. Geraint pushed in deeper, then stilled his movements.
“Just feel it inside you. Fills you right up, doesn’t it?”
Brynnan grunted an affirmative. Then he was moved to say in a hoarse whisper, “Fuck my ass, Geraint. I have wanted this. I only wish my Lord Samir was here, too.”
Geraint laughed shortly, “I’m glad you want my cock, lad, because I think this won’t be the last time you’re given over to my care. As for m’Lord and you and me, trust me.”
Geraint then proceeded to fuck the Bard; slowly teasing and holding off until Brynnan found himself begging for it.
“Old Warrior, I’ve no shame left when it comes to you and me. I am begging you to take me and give me your cum, inside me, right now.”
“Now, how can I refuse an invitation like that?” Geraint panted as he increased his pace.
The thrusts became more forceful with increasing rhythm as Geraint gripped the Bard’s hips and rode his ass.
Brynnan’s body and mind entered a blissful realm. “Yes,” he sighed, “Fuck me hard, like that . . . like that . . .”
Geraint obliged and reached that destination where lust overwhelmed him, and he spilled his seed in long pumping thrusts, holding his cock in place as his cum spurted. After some moments, Geraint withdrew his member and pushed Brynnan down on the bed, flopping beside him and grinning. He turned and kissed Brynnan’s mouth roughly and deeply.
“How can I thank you? You’ve cum already!” Brynnan quipped.
“Let me catch my breath, then you can thank me by giving me your cum. I’ll just suck you off. I don’t think you’ll last long.”
Brynnan was already very hard, and he almost came right then, listening to the old Warrior’s imminent plans. Geraint recovered fast as he turned over and moved down the bed and, without further pause, began to work on Brynnan’s cock with great skill.
“Teach me—” Brynnan begged him.
“Lie there and learn,” Geraint replied as he nuzzled and sucked.
Then the warrior’s exquisite torture reached its inevitable conclusion, as Brynnan cried out and ejaculated down Geraint’s throat. The warrior kept the cock in his mouth, and Brynnan could feel Geraint’s throat muscles constricting around it as he swallowed. The sensation wrought the last of his cum from him: he felt drained but replete.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Geraint.
“What you just did to me—being fucked and sucked,” Brynnan replied.
“See?” Geraint laughed, “I took your mind off your troubles, after all.”
* * *
The Warlord greeted them as they returned to his quarters.
He looked closely at their faces, “A pair of scoundrels indeed. Bard, I have never seen you looking guilty before. What you’ve been up to, I can only guess.”
Geraint, never one to be tactfully silent, admitted, “Well, m’Lord, you did give us your orders. Your Bard was most dutiful in fulfilling them. It would have made you proud.”
Samir shook his head, “Perhaps he can demonstrate his obedience to us later . . . however, let us get down to business now.”
Nijal Silver-Hand, sitting by the terrace wall, spoke, “Lord Samir and I have come to an arrangement.“
“I agreed to suspend my disbelief,” added Samir, “—for now.”
“And I agreed to find out if we can penetrate the Redoubt here. Perhaps the systems are still active,” Nijal added.
“There are maintenance systems still running—heat and water,” Samir said thoughtfully. “However that is not my purview. War—or should I say, defence—is what I am tasked to do. My fellow council member, Raith, is our systems manager. I will have to convene the Council of Seven.” He shook his head, “Wait until I tell them the reason.” He turned to Brynnan, “What say you, Bard?”
“My Lord, it’s a question of hypotheticals. We present the council with possibilities and various scenarios. We may have to treat the situation as an exercise until those we involve can wrap their heads around the probability of an invasion on the scale that this threatens to be.”
Samir nodded in guarded agreement, “I’ll want you with me, Bard, when the council convenes. Come to think of it, I have a possible plan.”
He turned his attention to Nijal. “Can you give me a starting scenario?”
“Assuming we have a landing of our unwelcome visitors and assuming we are correct in their identity, they will make an initial peaceful approach. They will want to make settlements or join yours—on their terms. They will want you to adapt to their way of life. They will have a technology that needs to exploit our resources—exploits the Mother-of-All, our world.” Nijal fell silent.
Brynnan offered his advice. “Unfortunately, many people will not see the ultimate danger in them and will want to be divided. There could be grounds for a civil war if these Invaders are cunning in their approach. We need time to spread this message, but we need to find the proof we can offer our people before we can do that.”
“You will be my envoy once again, Brynnan,” said Samir.
“A poor job I will do of it, now, my Lord. To be persuasive, a Bard needs his voice and his music.”
“Yes, I have been thinking of that,” said Samir, with chagrin in his tone. “It is my grievous error that I nearly took your voice, as I had already taken your music from you. I think it’s time we took steps to remedy that situation.” The Warlord turned to Nijal. “How soon can you do an assessment of his injuries?”
“Assuming the infirmary is well-equipped, and I have Healer Dane’s cooperation, there’s no reason to delay. I can do a cursory examination after we finish our meeting and a more in-depth one all day tomorrow, by your leave.”
Brynnan’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. He was reluctant to allow himself to hope, but the longing within him was great. He lifted his eyes to the Warlord: all centred upon him.
Samir stepped forward and put his hand on Brynnan’s shoulder, sensing his need. “My Bard, I know Silver-Hand’s reputation. He has already repaired the damage I once did to you when I gave you that grievous wound that should have been fatal. Trust in him now.”
Brynnan suddenly felt overwhelmed. He remembered Mavrenn’s promise from his dream vision when he was in a coma. He turned to the Warlord and bowed his head against Samir’s shoulder, saying in a low, hoarse voice, “You had need of me this morning, Lord: I have need of you this night!”
Samir looked up at the waterfall on the mountainside, whose hidden river maintained the Redoubt, seeing its powerful and ever-falling grace. ‘You are that waterfall, my Bard,’ he thought. ‘You pour yourself out in service to others.’
But aloud, he said, “Let us meet in my chambers after the evening meal if Nijal is finished with you by then. Geraint and Nijal: join us also for a time. And let there be no talk of invasions.”
Geraint looked at the Warlord, impressed, “Now I’ve never heard you not wanting to talk about fighting before. Something must be in the air.” Then the old Warrior addressed the Bard, “Mind what I said earlier. Told you it would be arranged.”
* * *
