The Warlord’s Tale
Three days riding took them to Scarfell Mountain. The party consisted of the Warlord Samir, Brynnan the Bard, the old soldier, Geraint—who was also Brynnan’s keeper, and eight chosen guards—all long-time attendants to the Warlord. Brynnan found that his body took quickly to riding again, except for some muscle stiffness at night. Geraint had wrapped the horse’s reins around the saddle pommel, as Brynnan could not grip them. Instead, the Bard controlled his well-trained and gentle mare simply with leg aids.
From the Torrent Mountain Redoubt near the Citadel, the road took them below the mountains to the turnoff to Scarfell Pass. A more rugged trail took them through mixed pine and birch forests, cut with streams. They encountered no other traffic. A mineral-rich, turquoise-coloured mountain lake provided an ideal spot where Geraint directed the guards in setting up a camp.
The Warlord and Brynnan continued on alone. A narrow trail took them further up the mountain until, at last, they reached an area on the bank of a thunderous stream that descended from a high waterfall. Tall, mature pines surrounded the clearing.
They set up a tent under the pines on the silky soft needle carpet, but they made a fire closer to the stream. It was a sheltered, secretive place that Samir came to occasionally when he needed a retreat from the cares and responsibilities of his position.
The two men sat close together, sharing a wineskin, the bright firelight painting their bodies. Darkness fell, and a sky full of stars surrounded them by the time Samir felt ready to speak. He settled himself closer to the campfire and was silent, gathering his thoughts.
“Bard, I am not like you—able to skillfully weave a tale and captivate your listeners.’’
“Then speak it plainly. Only I am here with you; there is no one else except the wild things.”
“Very well. But it may become like a heated iron bar in your mind, one that is unable to be quenched.”
Brynnan merely gestured a hand in the Warlord’s direction, indicating for him to continue. He sensed that this was not an occasion to employ excess words or courtly language.
Samir drew a deep breath and began, “When I was a young man, commanding my first one hundred men, I inhabited a keep on the Cerulean River, which I visited whenever I was on leave. My wife and children lived there. My youngest was a babe in arms—a boy. Then there were the twins who were just a handful of years old; Damon and Ysabeau. The babe was named Rafe, and my wife’s name was Ganverna . . .” Samir paused, his gaze glancing upwards towards the star-filled sky.
Brynnan knew that Samir was not seeing the stars but his past.
“This was when the invaders from the sea were ravaging parts of the land and threatening our City-state. So, I was active in campaigns against them at the time. One day, a messenger arrived at camp, half-dead with exhaustion. He informed us that the invaders had besieged my holding. I asked leave of my Commander to take my men and give aid against the siege. It was granted.
“After a forced march, we encountered the enemy near the river and fought them. Unfortunately for us, the invaders received reinforcements at a critical time in the engagement, and the tide turned against us. Many of my men were slaughtered. Some were taken captive. Their fate was not pleasant, as the invaders were known for their extreme cruelty.
“I escaped and made my way through a hidden passage into the Hold. There I found my wife and children. Ganverna had armed herself and was waiting for the invaders to storm the place.” Samir paused again, experiencing another long look down the tunnel of memories, seeing things that perhaps no man should have to recall.
“Please, continue, Lord,” Brynnan encouraged him.
“I wanted to take my wife and children out the hidden passage to freedom, but that choice had already been denied us. The invaders were using a ram. We could hear the booming sound of it swinging and hitting the gates. I had to make a decision.
“I knew the savagery with which the invaders treated their prisoners, and neither women nor children were spared. Indeed, they were especially targeted for unspeakable acts. I informed Ganverna, my dove,”—he paused again—“my wife, of my decision, and she acquiesced to her fate and that of our children. She was ever a courageous woman.
“We heard the crashing of the gates as they fell and knew that we had run out of time . . .” Here, Samir stopped speaking as his voice broke.
Brynnan was silent now, giving the Warlord a space to master himself. Even the wind had died, as if it, too, waited for the revelation.
“So, I killed them,” the Warlord continued relentlessly. “First, Ysabeau, my beautiful daughter, and then Damon, my son. My wife held them close to her as I took their lives. They did not have time to know what was happening. Then, after that, the—babe,” he seemed to be unable to speak the child’s name, “and finally, my Ganverna. She held onto me, and I kissed her as I . . .” Samir could not finish but sat staring into the darkness.
The Bard had never seen the Warlord in this much pain. He had expected a dispassionate recounting, as was Samir’s habit, but this was harrowing and raw.
“I took a lamp and smashed it against the wood-timbered walls and tapestries, spreading the oil and flames. Then the invaders broke through the door. Unlike you, I felt I had nothing left to live for at that moment, so I resolved to take as many of them with me as I could before I fell. The fire by then was intense, and I wanted to die there, with the bodies of my family. My sword swept through my enemies, and I waded in their blood. But one of them struck me from behind, and I was rendered unconscious. I was taken prisoner. When I came to, half the keep was burned, and I was bound in chains. Their leader—Demetron the Black-Handed, we called him—was furious that my family had escaped his reach. He told me in detail what their fate would have been in an effort to torment me. But by then, I was feeling nothing. My heart was frozen within me.
“That night, I was raped by over twenty men and left bleeding and unconscious. I awoke vowing revenge. In the following days, I suffered torture, including the bullwhip. The scars on my back are only some of the scars I bear. The rapes continued. Their leader Demetron decided I was to die by a public castration and mutilation, being made to bleed to death, but again he was cheated.
“My Commander and his troops, along with the remaining men of my command, overran the camp. Once I was found and unchained, I went on the hunt. I lost track of those I slew. I finally found Demetron—what I did to him does not matter here. Suffice it to say that I exacted revenge. That is all.”
The wind started to pick up again, making the pine trees whisper and moan. A branch collapsed in the fire before them, sending up a swirl of sparks.
Brynnan’s awareness slowly returned to the present, and he took solace in the night. Samir had been right: his unspeakable tale lay like a red-hot iron bar in his mind. The story explained much of the Warlord’s motivating force. How does a person reconcile that experience to carry on successfully with life? The Warlord was not a bitter man, but he was ruthless, taking both brutal actions and their harsh consequences. Brynnan understood that he was now intertwined with the Warlord’s story and part of its consequences.
That Samir had been able to tell him demonstrated his ruthlessness towards himself, that he would spare himself nothing. The Warlord also did nothing without reason. Even though it had been at Brynnan’s request, Samir was sending him a message. Was it that their deepening relationship would not stop him from carrying out his plans? To take away Brynnan’s voice and then his mind? There was only one way to interrupt that chain of events—tell Samir the justification he needed to hear about his imprisonment of Mara, his now-escaped second wife. But Brynnan also had a ruthless streak regarding himself: he would not compromise the truth. It was a code he lived by.
But now, something else was needed. Samir was silent, awaiting a judgement perhaps. Brynnan turned to him. He leaned over and kissed him with all the tender passion he could summon. It was both an affirmation and a blessing.
Samir returned the kiss, but his passion had an urgency that could not be denied. He began to strip Brynnan of his clothes while shedding his own, dropping them on the nearby carpet of pine needles. He threw down their cloaks and sank down upon them, pulling Brynnan with him. Samir’s kisses assumed savagery that had the Bard gasping. He opened his legs and raised his ass to the Warlord, whose hard, erect cock raked at his furrow, seeking entry. Pre-cum dripped copiously, wetting the entrance to his ass. Samir’s cock head found what it sought and plunged inside without waiting. Brynnan ignored the sudden pain, submitting himself to the other’s driving need. Samir shoved deep, pausing briefly as he pulled almost all the way out before he drove himself in again. It had been days since the fisting and Brynnan’s rectal opening was tight once more.
Brynnan then raised a leg onto Samir’s shoulders, making himself totally open to the Warlord, who began to pound him in a savage earnestness. His mouth tongue-fucked Brynnan’s, claiming him, before he bent his head and bit and sucked at the Bard’s erect nipples. A heat suffused Brynnan’s cock, crushed against Samir’s abdomen as it was. He could feel his hardness developing quickly.
Samir continued to pound him mercilessly, groaning. There was something more than lust in his fucking; it was perhaps a re-living of his past rape or a need for catharsis. In any case, Brynnan allowed himself to give Samir whatever he required, to make himself a mere vessel.
Finally, with an animal cry, Samir ejaculated, shooting his load deep inside. Brynnan felt himself cumming at the same time. His semen made a hot flood between his stomach and Samir’s. As the Warlord fell back, spent, Brynnan turned and licked his stomach and cock clean.
Inside the tent that night, Brynnan lay naked by the Warlord’s side, his head on Samir’s breast. The Warlord lay on his back, his hands behind his head.
“I sometimes wonder what would have happened if there had been another choice,” Samir said, “then I remind myself that any ‘choice’ would have been a false narrative. For those versed in the torture and suffering of others, ‘choice’ is just another tool aimed at breaking a person’s spirit, just like ‘rape’ or the bullwhip.”
Brynnan wondered if Samir was aware of the irony in his statement. Here he lay, the living embodiment of those practices under Samir’s hand. Then he considered where the Warlord had learned these practices himself.
As if reading the Bard’s thoughts, Samir continued, “You and I have no illusions on that score. We are too well versed in the ways of the human mind. You also know that my feelings for you cannot be allowed to change the path we are on. Too much is at stake.”
“Indeed, so much is at stake,” said Brynnan, “You do not know the extent of it from my position. I want so badly to tell you, but your prejudices stand in your way. How can I convince you?” he sighed.
“I know that Mara betrayed me.” Samir sounded adamant.
“And you know this how? On the mere word of two men? Mara gave you years of loyalty and love. The greatest lies have some truth in them, and I will concede that is so in the present case. But she never betrayed you.”
Samir’s voice held underlying anguish to it. “Then make me understand, Bard!”
“I know who sent the men who poisoned your mind. They were minions of the hostage you gave to my people in return for your taking of Mara. But find them again, Lord, and let them speak truth to you!”
“And use my skills, you mean.” Samir smiled to himself in the dark, but there was no humour in it. “And if they are dead?”
“Then the Mother-of-All help us,” said Brynnan.
“I will consider it,” said the Warlord, putting an arm around the Bard and holding him closer.
* * *
