A New Reality
“You have Raith to thank that you still live.” Samir coldly regarded his prisoner, who was chained to the cell floor by an ankle cuff. The Bard looked pale and thinner. He had lost weight during his recovery from the sword thrust into his abdomen. “I left you to die, but later, Raith came and told me you still clung to life and that you would be more valuable to me as a prisoner. At first, I did not think you would recover. The wound became infected, and you were feverish and unaware. But my battle surgeon, Silverhand, was in the Citadel, and I summoned him. You won’t recall that he cut you open again and plied his skills.”
“Nijal Silverhand was here with me?”
To Samir’s eyes, the Bard paled even more. “Yes. He is gone now. I sent him north.”
Brannan looked down. “Then I owe him a debt, also.” “You will not be able to repay it,” the Warlord replied.
Three Moons had passed since that fateful day when his wife had escaped. Despite the search efforts, no trace of her had been found. Samir had rushed to the window embrasure in the tower after Mara leaped from it, but he could see nothing but the whiteness of swirling snow against the sheer grey mountain face. She had disappeared as if she had never been, lending conviction to the Warlord’s belief that she practiced some dark art.
But Brannan—the man who had supported him unquestionably in his campaigns, his once-friend whom he had trusted, had now betrayed that trust; Samir found the knowledge intolerable.
Brannan, crouching on the floor, half-naked, shivered visibly. “Why have you brought me here? What do you want of me?” he asked.
“I brought you here because it is a secure place to keep you locked up. I cannot let you go. How do you think your ArMorican people will react if they discover the truth? I want you to tell me what you know. Was your King also aware of my wife’s…capabilities? Did you make plans with her? You were Mara’s confidant and priest and instructed her in the laws and the responsibility of her position. Did she engage you in her plots?” Samir waited to hear what his prisoner would say. All the while, he felt a wrongness, aware his world had been turned upside down. He held his impatience in check.
Brannan replied, “I was aware of no plans. The idea that she worked against you is not rational. There is nothing I can tell you.”
With a heavy heart, Samir said, “Is that the way of it, Brannan? I thought you might refuse. I will have you beaten daily until you return to your senses. I will not maim you, but I will make your life extremely unpleasant. You will come to regret your intransigence.”
The Bard’s eyes flared with an unnamed emotion, and he appeared about to speak but then kept silent.
Since the Bard’s recovery, he seemed different from the eloquent man Samir knew. The Warlord was aware that the trauma of such a wound, not to mention its circumstances, could transform its victim. The change was reflected in Brannan’s silent and withdrawn mein and the stare in his dark eyes as if the horizon was too far away.
Samir felt that he, too, was changing. Although ruthless, he had been capable of mercy on occasion. Now, that ability seemed stripped from him. His former loving regard for his wife and his Bard made their betrayal doubly painful. With a heavy heart, he called through the door. “Leoric, bring them in.”
Leoric, his customary doorkeeper, appeared. The white- haired, older man was dressed in a silvered mail hauberk and the livery of his Lord. Samir implicitly trusted Leoric’s discretion as the guard escorted two men inside.
These were not ordinary attendants. Both were tall and overly muscled. One was dark-skinned and black-bearded, the other of a ruddy complexion with a red beard. They wore chaperons of dark maroon with the hoods pulled back to reveal their shaven heads. Their accoutrements proclaimed their profession: belts and cross-straps bearing keys, whips, a short club each, and iron cuffs. These men were seldom seen, being part of the foot soldiers of the Western Garrison, but others whispered about their reputations for efficient brutality. However, they had their uses and were loyal.
The Warlord turned to the Bard. “This is Efan”—he indicated the red-bearded man—“and this is Kai. You may have seen them before. They practice physical persuasion when it is needed. Both obey my word, so your entreaties will not benefit you.”
“Samir, you accuse me of plots, but you harbour a dark side I did not guess at. What do you hope to achieve?”
“Your subjugation and compliance,” the Warlord said. “Kai, teach him respect when he speaks to me.”
Kai stepped forward and grasped the Bard’s neck in a huge hand. He forced Brannan’s head down while Efan unfastened iron cuffs from his belt and manacled the Bard’s hands in front. Both men pulled their victim upright and attached the chain hanging from a large, black iron ceiling hook to a ring joining the heavy cuffs, stretching his hands over his head.
“You may begin, but stay away from the lower body—he is newly healed from a wound. Do not mark his face. I want him to be able to speak to me,” the Warlord instructed.
Watching from the doorway, Leoric said, “Permission to wait outside, my Lord.”
Samir glanced at his man, whose face bore a closed expression. But the Warlord had regard for him, so he replied, “Permission granted. You may patrol the corridor and check that the access doors at the end are still locked.”
Leoric left the chamber, and Samir turned back to the two torturers. He tried to remain dispassionate as they beat Brannan with their multi-tailed whips, demonstrating teamwork and proficiency as each struck the Bard’s body in practiced rhythm. The only noises were the swishing sound of the whips and the abrupt slap of impact, leather on flesh. Brannan did not cry out, but the occasional grunt escaped his lips at the force of the blows. The skin of his back rapidly reddened, then deepened in colour.
When bruises started to show, the Warlord called a halt. Part of him felt sickened at what he was doing to the man he had held in affection, but another part took satisfaction that the Bard was being punished for helping his wife.
Brannan trembled, and sweat coated his body, but the torturers were not even breathing heavily.
“Release him now, and re-secure the ankle cuff,” Samir ordered. To Brannan, he said, “This is part of your new routine. Efan and Kai will arrive daily for a session with you. Get used to it.” After the torturers did as they were told, they saluted the Warlord and left the chamber.
Samir walked towards his prisoner, who stood somewhat unsteadily, facing him. Now you will face the consequences of your actions, Bard.
“Kneel when I speak to you. You are nothing more than a hound to me now.”
Still, Brannan did not move, and the Warlord, in a sudden fury, raised his arm and backhanded the Bard across his jaw, felling him with its strength. Brannan rolled with the blow and came to his feet, his mouth cut and bleeding. Samir prepared to strike again, but the first blow seemed to have had its effect. Brannan knelt.
Caught in the surging grasp of wild emotions, frustration and fury mixed with grief overwhelming him, Samir opened his belt and breeches, facing the man who had been his friend. He pulled out his stiffening phallus with one hand and gripped Brannan’s long hair with the other.
“Give me suck, Bard, or I swear I will take your life right now.”
The Bard complied. Hesitant at first but then unresisting to Samir’s guidance, he performed until, with a cry of anguish, Samir came in Brannan’s mouth. He held the Bard’s head close against his loins and felt him swallow. The surge of release left the Warlord drained, and the anger ebbed away like a receding wave when the tide had turned.
“Don’t resist me, Brannan. You will only do yourself harm.” Samir, feeling a wetness start in his eyes, turned away abruptly.
Incredibly, he heard the Bard whisper, “My Lord, it is all right to mourn.”
To be continued ...
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