I apologize to my readers on Gaydemon for the long delay between this chapter and the last. My long-time partner passed away on Winter Solstice, and I have been regrouping.
—Voron Forest, Author
The Warlord’s Tale
On the morning of the journey, Brannan awakened in the tower chamber. He felt apprehensive, yet he longed to learn Samir’s secret, hoping it would allow him to understand the Warlord’s actions. Would he regret hearing it?
Geraint entered and gave the Bard a long and appraising look. “You can greet me first, Master Bard, before I get meself all distracted. We have a lot to do.”
So Brannan sank to his knees to give the Old Warrior his morning greeting, and afterwards, Geraint dressed him, this time in the Bard’s own riding clothes and windsilk cloak.
Brannan found himself eager to see his horse as Geraint and two guards accompanied him to the stables within the Redoubt. More than ever, the Bard wished for the ability to use his hands so he could make much of the mare. She must have sensed him approaching her stall as she neighed loudly. And then he faced her.
Geraint brought the mare into the stable corridor and watched with a wry, amused smile as Brannan embraced Rhiannon’s neck. She nickered softly when the Bard laid his cheek against hers. After their extended time apart, he felt tenderness for his long-time companion and blinked away the tears in his eyes. She looked in excellent condition and must have been well cared for. Brannan’s heart suddenly flooded with gratitude to the Warlord that he had not made Rhiannon suffer.
When he and Geraint, who led both their horses, came into the outside staging area known as the Agora, Brannan stopped. He stood in the open with a clear, early morning sky above him. A cool breeze carried the scent of horses, men, and the surrounding forest. He drew the air deeply into his lungs, savouring the illusion of freedom.
“Keep moving, lad,” the Old Warrior said. “You’ll see plenty more sky soon.”
The Warlord approached them, a groom behind him leading his favourite war horse, bronze-bay Malpaisan. The gratitude that still flooded the Bard’s mind for Rhiannon’s well-being prompted him to kneel before his Lord, yet he was afraid to thank him, unwilling to draw attention to his horse. It didn’t matter: Samir raised him and briefly kissed his lips.
The Warlord glanced knowingly into Brannan’s eyes. “Our horses are our trusted servants,” was all he said.
***
Three days of riding took them to Scarfell Mountain. The party consisted of the Warlord Samir, Brannan, Geraint—Brannan’s keeper—and eight chosen guards of unquestioning loyalty, all long-time attendants to the Warlord.
Brannan found that his body quickly adapted to riding again, except for some muscle stiffness at night. Geraint had wrapped the horse’s reins around the saddle pommel as Brannan could not grip them. Instead, the Bard controlled his well-trained, gentle mare with leg aids.
His plans were as yet unformed. He would wait to see what came of Samir’s disclosure to him. Geraint and the Warlord himself had hinted at danger. What could be so terrible that Samir could be triggered into actions he might regret? Brannan was almost afraid to know.
From the Torrent Mountain Redoubt near the Citadel, the road took them below the mountains into the Scarfell region and the turnoff to Scarfell Pass. The more rugged trail passed through lower slopes of hardwood forest, transitioning to mixed pine and birch woods cut with tumbling, ice-cold streams. They encountered no other travellers. Halfway up the Pass, a mineral- rich, turquoise-coloured lake provided an ideal spot where Geraint helped Captain Alanus and his guards set up a camp.
“The Bard and I will continue up the trail straight away,” the Warlord informed his friend.
“Very well, m’Lord. I’ll see you at the time we agreed upon. Stay safe, now,” Geraint said before glancing pointedly at the Bard.
Brannan, noticing, again wondered what could so trouble the Old Warrior about their visit to the Warlord’s chosen retreat, and he resolved to be circumspect in his dealings with Samir.
After watering their horses at the lake, the Warlord and Brannan journeyed on alone. Samir seemed lost in thought, and the Bard was reluctant to disturb him, so he, too, kept silent. A narrow, overgrown, almost hidden trail turned off the pass road and took them higher up until, at last, they reached a clearing on the bank of a thunderous waterfall descending from a high rock ledge and surrounded by tall, mature pines.
Brannan looked around, absorbing each element: the white rocks, the surrounding pines, a bed of ferns, and the rippling surface of the deep pool at the foot of the waterfall. The air smelled richly of pine resin and a green, earthy hint of moist forest undergrowth.
“This is a sheltered, secretive place. No wonder you come here, my Lord,” Brannan said, his voice hushed in reverence. “It must provide a retreat from the cares and responsibilities of your position. I know I would choose a place like this for myself—and my harp.” Then the Bard sighed and bowed his head. “This beautiful spot catches me off guard, Lord. It is not my place as your prisoner to make personal comments.”
The Warlord touched Brannan’s arm. “Here, you are permitted to speak your mind. Did I not say that I created this time for us?”
Samir picketed his bay stallion, Malpaisan, and Brannan’s dappled-grey mare, Rhiannon, in the grassy clearing. Afterwards, he set up a tent under the pines on the soft needle carpet but made a fire closer to the stream on the shelves of white rock. Brannan helped him to collect firewood: the Warlord gathered broken branches and placed them in the Bard’s outstretched arms.
After a simple, cold meal of bread, dried fruit, and cheese, the two men sat close together, sharing a wineskin, with the bright firelight painting their bodies. By the time Samir felt ready to speak, darkness had fallen, and a sky full of stars surrounded them. He settled closer to the campfire, touching his forehead as if gathering his thoughts.
“In my chambers, we spoke of regaining trust. Tonight, I put aside any misgivings to tell you my story, for good or ill. Bard, I am not like you—able to skillfully weave a tale and captivate my listeners.’’
“Then speak it plainly. Only I am here with you; there is no one else to hear except the wild things.”
“Very well. But it will be difficult for even you to hear, you who have heard the confessions of dying men on the fields of conflict. My recounting may become like a heated iron bar in your mind that you cannot quench.”
Brannan recalled some of those confessions he had been privy to and wondered what terrible event the Warlord would disclose that could be worse. He gestured a hand in Samir’s direction, indicating for him to continue. He sensed this was not an occasion to employ excess words or courtly language.
The Warlord drew a deep breath and began, “When I was a young warrior, commanding my first hundred men, I inhabited a keep on the Cerulean River, a broad, navigable water route not far from the sea. I visited whenever I was on leave, as 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 Turns old: Damon and Ysabeau. The babe was named Rafe, and my wife’s name was Ganverna…” Samir paused, his gaze lifting upwards towards the star-filled sky.
Brannan guessed that Samir was not seeing the stars but his past.
“This was when the Northern sea raiders ravaged parts of our land and threatened our city-state. Disdaining trade, they instead plundered and burned the coastal villages. I actively served in campaigns against them at the time. One day, a messenger arrived at camp, half-dead with exhaustion. He informed us that these sea wolves had besieged my holding. I asked leave of my commander to take my men and give aid against the siege. He granted my request.
“After a forced march, we encountered the enemy near the river and fought them. Unfortunately for us, more ships arrived, with the raiders receiving reinforcements at a critical time in the engagement and turning the tide of combat against us. They slaughtered many of my men; others they took captive. Their fate was not pleasant, as the invaders were known for their extreme cruelty.
“With my warriors scattered, I evaded capture and made my way through a hidden passage into the Hold. I discovered that the keep guardsmen who had ventured out to fight had been slain or captured, and many house servants had fled. The remaining loyal few guarded the inner rooms.
“There, I found my wife and children. Ganverna had armed herself, waiting for the invaders to storm the place.” Samir paused again, experiencing another long look down the tunnel of memories, perhaps seeing things that Brannan judged no man should have to recall.
“Take your time; I am listening, my Lord,” the Bard encouraged him.
“I wanted to take my wife and children out through the hidden passage to freedom, but the raiders had already denied us that choice. They had breached the outer portals and used a ram on the innermost ones, cutting off our escape. We could hear the booming sound of it swinging and hitting the gates. The noise beat against our ears relentlessly, each strike bringing us one step closer to doom, and I knew I had to act.
“I also knew the savagery with which the raiders treated their prisoners; that they would spare neither women nor children. Indeed, they especially targeted them for unspeakable acts. I informed Ganverna, my dove”—he paused again—“my wife, of my decision, and she acquiesced to her fate and the fate of our children. She was ever a courageous woman.
“We heard the gates crashing as they fell and knew we had run out of time…” Here, Samir stopped speaking as his voice broke.
Brannan kept 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 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 such torment. He had expected a dispassionate recounting, as was Samir’s habit, but this harrowing and raw narrative tore at Brannan’s soul.
The Warlord rallied himself to continue. “I smashed a lamp against the wood-timbered walls and tapestries, spreading the oil and flames. Then, the raiders broke through the door. Unlike you, I felt I had nothing left to live for, 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 they overwhelmed me, striking from behind and rendering me unconscious. The sea raiders took me prisoner. Half the keep had burned when I came to, helpless and bound in chains.
“Their leader, Vӑgolfr—the Black-Handed, we called him— furious that my family had escaped his reach, told me in detail what their fate would have been to torment me. But by then, I felt nothing. My wife’s and children’s deaths had frozen my heart.
“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 were only some of the wounds I bore. Vӑgolfr decided I would die by public castration, making me bleed to death, but Fate again cheated him.
“My commander and his troops arrived, along with the remaining men of my command, and overran the camp. Once I was discovered and unchained, I went on the hunt. Although my ordeal had weakened me, my desire for redress gave me strength: I lost track of those I slew. Finally, I found Vӑgolfr— 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 glowing branch collapsed in the fire before them, sending a swirl of sparks spiralling into the night air.
Brannan’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. But more than that, the Bard’s bones burned with a painful, inner fire for the Warlord’s tragedy. The children’s deaths especially tore at him. How does a person reconcile that experience to carry on successfully with life?
Brannan considered that Samir had lost his entire family—a wife and three children, not to mention his home, in a seeming instant. Coupled with that, his savage torture made for an almost unbearable situation. How does a man not become bitter? However, bitterness did not define the Warlord, but he was ruthless, took brutal actions, and accepted harsh consequences. Brannan understood that Samir’s story and its inevitable aftermath had now ensnared him to become a part of it.
That Samir had been able to disclose his past demonstrated his ruthlessness towards his own person: he would spare himself nothing. The Warlord also did nothing without reason. Samir sent him a message even though the story had been at Brannan’s request. Could it be that their deepening relationship would not stop the Warlord from carrying out his plans? To take away Brannan’s voice and then his mind? There seemed to be few ways to interrupt that chain of events. One of them was to tell Samir the justification he needed to hear about his imprisonment of Mara.
Brannan now suspected that the Warlord needed absolution for his treatment of his second wife, not just a confession, and perhaps absolution regarding his first family, too. Another way a sea change might come was in the hope, the thinnest of threads, that Samir might alter his mind. However, Brannan also had a ruthless streak regarding himself: he would not compromise the truth. He lived by this code.
Here and now, the Bard had to deal with this terrible event that so profoundly marked his Lord’s soul. Brannan realized he had discovered the well-spring of Samir’s cruelty, but what could he do to show that he did not judge the man?
The Warlord was silent, perhaps awaiting this judgement. Brannan turned to him. He leaned over and kissed the Warlord’s mouth with all the tender passion he could summon. It was both an affirmation and a blessing.
Samir returned the kiss with an urgency Brannan could not resist. The Warlord threw their cloaks upon the ground and began to strip Brannan of his clothes while shedding his own, dropping them heedlessly on the nearby carpet of pine needles. He pulled Brannan down onto the thick, red cloth, even while he claimed the Bard’s mouth. Samir’s kisses assumed a savagery that had the Bard gasping. He opened his legs and raised his hips to the Warlord, whose rock-hard, erect penis raked at his furrow, seeking entry. Pre-cum dripped copiously, soaking the entrance before Samir’s phallus found what it sought and plunged inside.
Brannan’s mind overrode the sudden and intense pain, as he submitted himself to the other’s driving need. The Warlord shoved his phallus deep into Brannan’s anal canal, briefly paused after he pulled out almost entirely, then thrust in again. It had been days since the fisting, and Brannan grimaced at the assault on his tight rectal passage.
He forced himself not to fight it; instead, he raised a leg onto Samir’s shoulder, making himself open to his Lord, who savagely pounded his outsized phallus into the Bard. The Warlord bent his head and bit and sucked the Bard’s erect nipples. A heat suffused Brannan’s penis, crushed against Samir’s abdomen. He could feel its rapidly developing hardness despite his pain.
Samir continued to thrust into him relentlessly, groaning. There was more than lust in this brutal fucking; perhaps the re- living of the Warlord’s past rape fulfilled a need for catharsis. In any case, Brannan allowed himself to give Samir whatever he required: to make himself a mere vessel. Finally, with a roar like a wounded beast, Samir ejaculated deep inside the Bard. Brannan felt his ball sack tighten, and his muscles clenched just before coming immediately afterwards, his semen making a hot flood between his stomach and Samir’s. The Warlord fell back, spent, as Brannan lay exhausted and trembling.
Time passed, and Brannan, his mind emptied, stared at the wheel of stars above the overhead pine branches. The breeze tossed the sighing boughs, making the stars seem to wink and glitter through them.
Samir pulled the Bard to his feet, leading him to bathe in the waterfall pool. Afterwards, they moved to the tent, where Brannan lay naked by the Warlord’s side, his head resting on his lover’s breast as Samir lay on his back, his hands behind his head.
“I sometimes wonder what would have happened if those sea wolves had given me another choice,” Samir said, his voice ragged with spent emotion, “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 another tool to break a person’s spirit, just like rape or the bullwhip.”
Brannan 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 techniques.
As if reading the Bard’s thoughts, Samir continued, “You and I have no illusions about 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 Brannan, thinking of the message he harboured. “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?”
“I know that my second wife betrayed me.” Samir strove to sound adamant, but did Brannan detect the faintest hint of uncertainty?
“And you know this how? On the mere word of three men? They accused Mara of blackest sorcery, plotting to destroy you and the city-state. They told you she was the descendant of a terrible race with evil powers! You chose to believe their word over Mara’s, she who gave you seven Turns of loyalty and love. The greatest lies have some truth, which I will concede in the present issue. Mara’s mother was of another race that many people fear, as your agents confirmed. But she never betrayed you.”
“Then make me understand, Bard!” Samir’s voice held an underlying anguish.
“I deeply suspect the men who poisoned your mind were minions of Lord Nikarkos, the hostage you gave to my people in return for taking Mara from us.”
“Nikarkos! Yes, he could believe that my placing him as hostage shows that I did not value him, when in fact, I chose him because he was an important Lord. But I have kept track of him. My agents say that your King treats him well. He gave Nikarkos a small holding with servants and revenue. But men can long retain a grudge. I remember well the informants that told me of Mara’s heritage and plans.”
“But find them again, Lord, and let them speak truth to you!”
“And use my skills, you mean.” Samir smiled in the dim light of the small orb illuminating the tent, but there was no humour in it. “And if they are dead?”
“Then the Mother-of-All help us,” said Brannan.
“I will consider it,” said the Warlord, putting an arm around the Bard and holding him closer.
***
Samir and Brannan stayed two days in the hidden glade above Scarfell Pass. After the trauma of the Warlord’s tale, Brannan realized they both needed the distraction to recover their inner balance.
In the morning, the Warlord pushed a protesting Bard into the deep, cold pool below the waterfall before joining him there. Brannan revelled in the feel of the water against his skin and found he could swim, despite his crippled hands. The currents soothed his troubled soul. Afterwards, Samir caught two fish he cooked and shared with his lover.
Brannan noticed that the Warlord had shut the door on his inner turmoil again, not mentioning the previous night. They lay on the scented pine needles in the warm sun and explored each other’s bodies, finding new zones of sexual sensitivity and arousal. While intense, their lovemaking proved much gentler and less urgent than the night before, which gave Brannan hope that perhaps Samir could change.
The Warlord carved them a breathing space out of time. Brannan felt grateful, although he knew this relative freedom at Scarfell Mountain would not last. He determined to commit each experience to memory, something to keep his spirit alive in the difficult days he knew would come again.
Now that he was beginning to acknowledge their mutual bond, Brannan realized that his loyalty to the Warlord had turned to love early in their relationship many Turns ago. But nothing hurts love more than betrayal, real or imagined: Samir must have felt betrayed more than a Turn past when he impaled him on his sword as Brannan tried to protect Samir’s second wife from his wrath.
The Bard’s torture began when he recovered from the sword wound to his gut, and he had suffered as Samir’s prisoner since that time. He had dealt with the Warlord’s actions by invoking his bardic training and discipline, refusing to succumb to bitterness and recriminations. He was an empath, having the ability to feel and experience not only his own emotions but also the emotions of those around him on a profound level. However, his role as a psychopomp, leading the souls of the dead along the Shadow Ways to the final gate, enabled him to transcend his emotional reactions, including his sense of betrayal by the Warlord. The ability to selectively dissociate from all but the most traumatic experiences as they were happening had helped keep him alive. But he had not counted on love. Love breached his carefully erected shield and disarmed him, rendering him defenseless in ways he was only beginning to understand.
***
Geraint arrived late in the afternoon of the next day, as pre- arranged. His solemn and guarded expression eased when he found a naked Brannan stretched out beside the Warlord, now dressed in his riding leathers and seated by the fire.
“I see the Master with his hound”—he grinned in noticeable relief—“just had a training session, it seems.”
The Bard forgave the old soldier his irreverence; besides, he mused, it was hard to maintain dignity with his stomach and face splattered with the drying traces of love.
Samir laughed, then directed Brannan. “Is this how you greet your keeper, Bard? Go show him some proper respect.”
Brannan approached Geraint, who stood beside his horse, blue-roan Shade, as grizzled as her master. He dropped to his knees and kissed Geraint’s riding boots.
The Old Warrior glanced at Samir, who gave him an affirmative nod. “Now, Master Bard, show me how much you missed me,” Geraint said, unfastening his breeches.
***
Brannan took a final swim in the deep pool, washing away the physical evidence of his and Samir’s coupling while Geraint packed the gear and quenched the fire.
Samir spoke quietly with the Bard as he helped him dress. “Geraint is one of the very few who know my tale. As happens, he was the one who found and unchained me at the Black Hand’s camp. He pledged his loyalty on that day when he learned what I had done to Vӑgolfr, and in all these Turns, he has never failed me. I owe him. We are easy with one another as comrades-in- arms. That is why you also serve him.”
“I understand, my Lord,” replied Brannan. He looked directly into Samir’s eyes, an unspoken message passing between them, a pledge of the Bard’s obedience and respect for the Old Warrior.
***
The three men rode down the mountain and into the main camp at the lake just as the sun set behind Scarfell’s peak. The guards greeted them, those who weren’t on duty watching the approaches, and the Warlord had a word for each one, his manner relaxed and easy.
Captain Alanus led the Warlord and Brannan to the fire, where Danan turned a spit with roasting meat from the day’s hunt. The young guard looked up and smiled. A pot bubbled beside him, containing what smelled like an appetizing fish stew. Lord Samir had forbidden Brannan to eat red meat as part of the training that restricted his diet. Geraint gave him the fish. The others ate the roasted venison, and the company chatted informally.
After supper, Alanus made a request to the Warlord, “Lord Samir, the Bard has no harp with him, but let him sing for us as he did in the camps.”
Samir looked momentarily surprised, and Brannan watched the Warlord like a hawk, awaiting his reaction. He knew of the guards’ awareness of his imprisonment by their Lord and that his crippled hands prevented him from playing his celebrated harp, but they seemingly did not realize Samir had planned to take away his voice.
“Very well,” said Samir after a long pause. “I will allow it.” Brannan had mixed emotions about singing: a long time had passed since he had done so before anyone. Sometimes, alone in his tower room, the Bard would softly chant the ancient ballads to himself, careful to let no one hear. He wished for his harp, and the pang of knowing that he would never play her again almost crushed his throat closed, denying him his voice. Playing Mavrenn and using his power as a Shadow-singer, he could have had a chance to influence Samir, to make him believe the truth of the message he held deep inside. He struggled to embrace the present moment. He would sing.
Samir looked towards Brannan. “Bard?”
“As my Lord Samir commands,” he replied formally. “What would you hear?”
“Let my men choose.”
A dour-looking guard named Lycan suggested a campaign favourite to Alanus with encouraging nods from the others present. “Let us hear “The Lay of Corleu,” if you please, Bard,” the Captain declared.
Brannan shivered, gripped by a sense of inevitability as if Fate had intervened. He had sung that very song to himself before they had set out on the journey. Then, the Bard had almost whispered the lyrics, but now he could lend it his power. Standing in the group’s centre, Brannan began in a voice that, though seldom used in the past Turn, was rich, masculine, and nuanced.
“Corleu has died, holding the breach, By his actions, he redeemed the land…”
Sometimes, the Bard felt as if he stood in that breach, fighting a seemingly hopeless battle single-handed. Could he redeem the land, and would he suffer Corleu’s fate? As the lyrics unfolded, the guards and Geraint sat entranced. Glancing at the Warlord’s face, Brannan noticed his enigmatic expression. When the song ended, his men requested more, each man naming his favourite.
With his prolific memory and flawless delivery, Brannan gave them everything they asked for. At first, he thought singing would be an emotional ordeal, but as he progressed, he found a lost part of himself, still hesitant and half-wild.
In time, the watch changed, with Captain Alanus and his three fellow guards moving out to cover the approaches and the returning men settling in. They also requested songs. Geraint passed a wineskin to Brannan, who gripped it awkwardly with his wrists and proceeded to quench his thirst. Memories of past nights in war camps surfaced as he recalled other songs and Mavrenn’s beautiful tones.
Finally, Samir announced, “One last song, Bard; we have a long day’s ride before us tomorrow.”
Geraint spoke up. “I’d like to suggest a song, m’Lord.” He paused for a few moments, his brow furrowed in thought, before stating his request. Turning to Brannan, he asked, “What’s that one you used to sing about a dying warrior on the field? The one where that big bugger of a raven hops over to take his eyes, and after holding it off, the warrior finally gives in?”
“You mean, ‘The Warrior and the Raven’?” Brannan replied with a carefully neutral expression.
The others laughed, and Geraint looked rueful. “Well, my memory isn’t what it once was.”
“Yes, the day when memory fails comes to us all,” murmured Brannan, and noted Geraint’s questioning look.
The Bard gave them the song, its haunting melody hooking his listeners’ emotions. The four guards joined in on the chorus. When Brannan finished, there was silence. Geraint’s eyes had a faraway look, and the guards’ eyes glistened with unshed tears; such was the power of the Bard’s voice. All of the warriors present had lost brothers-in-arms on the field of battle.
As the men rose to retire, Samir spoke to the Bard. “Brannan, go with Geraint to his tent. Don’t forget to thank him for your last song.”
Brannan felt a shiver of premonition. Perhaps it was indeed my last song.
To be continued…
Thanks for reading! Visit the author’s website, voronforestauthor.com for links to the book, The Shadow Lord’s Son.
