A Bridge Too Far
Brannan looked regretfully at the large hook newly installed in the chamber ceiling. Its purpose, he was sure, was to support a chain and the claw collar, but Brannan would have used it to exercise his upper chest and arms if it were not for the tendon damage to his wrists. For the past Turn, the Bard had maintained his fitness by exercising in his place of confinement. There had been a handy bar in his previous cell, but the Warlord had sent him to this tower chamber after he had stumbled, the claw cuffs digging into his wrists.
His body was still firm; hard, rounded pectorals, curved triceps, and contoured abdominal muscles defined his physique. He had a naturally lithe form, although he had inevitably lost body fat over the past Turn from being deprived of food and from the stress of daily beatings.
He was also sore: the previous day, when the Warlord had taken him anally for the first time, he made Brannan come to orgasm and subjugated him. The Bard analyzed his feelings detachedly: the Warlord leads me to an unknown destination. All I know is that the destination will likely prove merciless unless I capitulate to all of Samir’s demands. Should I finally lie, thus giving myself a chance to deliver Nijal’s message? But if I do so, and Samir ever discovers it, that will destroy any chance that he will believe the truth I hold, incredible as it seems. But again, perhaps the torment will stop…
The chamber door opened, and the young man assigned to attend to his needs entered, carrying clothes and a bucket of warm water. Brannan couldn’t stand Cassian. He was fair-haired and handsome, and he knew it. He constantly posed around the Bard or “accidentally” touched him. Brannan would not let him assist in bathing his body, which proved difficult, although Cassian tried insistently to claim that duty. He did allow Cassian to trim his beard close to his jaw.
So the Bard reacted angrily when he felt a hand caressing his thigh as he awkwardly attempted to keep hold of the sponge and wash himself. He turned and saw that Cassian had undone his breeches and that he stroked a well-shaped penis as he stared hungrily at Brannan’s body.
“Cover yourself,” he barked at the attendant.
Cassian pouted. “Don’t you want me inside your ass? I heard that you enjoyed yourself yesterday. Or you could fuck me instead.”
“The impertinence of you, insolent dog!”
Brannan knew the young man would never have spoken to him this way before his fall from grace: people traditionally gave a Master Bard the utmost respect.
Brannan struggled to control his anger. “Leave this chamber now before Lord Samir hears of your disgraceful conduct.”
Cassian paled at the mention of the Warlord’s name. He fastened his breeches, picked up the soiled bedding, and left, hurriedly pushing past the guards stationed outside.
Shortly afterwards, the door opened again, and his two burly tormentors, Efan and Kai, came in, followed by four guards. The torturers looked at Brannan with knowing glances but said nothing. Instead, they brought out the plain iron manacles for his wrists and placed the box containing the collar on the table.
Efan moved to unlock the chest. He patted his jerkin and swore, “I did not ask Lord Samir for the key.”
He and Kai shared a meaningful look.
“It doesn’t matter. Our Lord will bring it,” Kai responded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “In the meantime, we can use the ceiling hook and chain him.”
“What about the table?”
“We’ll leave some slack in the chain.” “Is that safe?”
“He will not cross Lord Samir. You have seen it. Besides, the guards are here.”
Brannan listened to their conversation with growing suspicion. Something about the exchange was off. Nevertheless, he allowed the two men to restrain him.
Again, he was stripped. This time, they manacled his wrists together in front of him rather than behind his back. Efan slung a doubled chain over the ceiling hook and fastened one end to the iron wrist cuffs. He pulled on the chain, raised the Bard’s arms, and attached the other end to a ring on the wall, leaving a little slack.
Brannan’s suspicion deepened when they told the guards to wait outside the door. Kai pushed him against the table.
“It’s too bad we can’t lower his head enough to reach you,” complained Efan.
“Then we will just have to take turns.”
Brannan breathed deeply, trying to tamp down a growing rage. He heard rustling behind him.
“Grease it up good,” Kai laughed.
Without warning, Efan grasped his hips, and a cock suddenly penetrated his rear, not pausing, as Samir had done, but ramming it deep inside. While the phallus wasn’t as large as Samir’s, the forceful push caused Brannan sudden pain, making him cry out.
Efan’s breath was hot and wet in the Bard’s ear. “Yes, scream, you bitch.” His muscular grip tightened as he started pumping rhythmically.
Something in Brannan snapped. He pushed violently backwards with an elbow to Efan’s face, then continued the motion into a spinning turn on the chain, sweeping his leg and planting a solid kick straight into the torturer’s throat. Efan dropped like a stone, clutching his neck and making choking, rasping sounds as he rolled in agony.
Kai rushed forward to his partner, simultaneously shouting for the guards. Seeing the situation, the guards converged on the Bard, beating him with the clubs from their belts. One of them unhooked the wall chain, and Brannan went down, the guards piling on top of him.
“HOLD!” a deep and angry voice roared from the doorway. The chaotic tableau froze, except for the injured torturer, who thrashed about on the floor.
The Warlord strode into the chamber. His gaze was pure ice. His anger was palpable. “Off him!” he commanded the guards. They cautiously stood as if expecting an attack from the man they had been beating. Brannan pulled himself to a sitting position, his face feeling bruised and bloody, as did his arms and chest.
“Who gave you permission to mark my property?” Samir’s voice had a cold, flat, dangerous quality.
The guards hung their heads. Kai protested, “See what he did to Efan! He attacked him!” Then, a look of guilt stole over his face, and he promptly fell silent.
The Warlord’s gaze slowly swept the room, raking across Brannan, who guessed that Samir must note his naked, bloodied and chained self, the table, and Efan’s still exposed penis, now flaccid. Samir walked over to the prostrate torturer. Kneeling, he touched the man’s throat and felt it with his fingers. After some moments, he stood and addressed Kai.
“He is fortunate. He will live. The blow did not crush his larynx, but it is damaged.”
“The prisoner intended to kill him!” Kai protested.
“I think not, or Efan would have been dead.” Samir turned his icy gaze on the Bard.
Brannan bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.
The Warlord looked back at the guards. “All of you will be disciplined.” He turned again to Brannan, pointing directly at him, “You especially, Bard.”
“What about Efan, Lord?” Kai asked.
“Guards, take this man to the healers. In the meantime,” Samir indicated to Kai, “unchain my prisoner completely.”
The torturer dared not disobey. He freed the silent Bard and left with the guards and the unfortunate Efan.
Lord Samir and Brannan looked at each other for a long moment. When Samir spoke, the Bard discerned a note of regret. “I will come this evening and punish you myself. It will be severe.”
The Warlord then left, leaving the bruised Bard to his reflections.
Night had fallen, and the Warlord Samir was on a mission. He strode purposefully up the steps to the top level of the tower. Although the windows showed darkness outside, the stairs were well-lit with light from the orbs.
Tonight, Samir wore all black leather: gloves, breeches, shirt, and a thick vest. Heavy boots encased his feet. He had dressed in protective clothing for a reason.
He carried a coiled whip in his hand—not just any whip, but a bullwhip twice as long as Samir was tall. A metal ball weighted the pommel, and a steel rod stiffened the handle. The tightly braided leather thong of the whip tapered along its entire length to the fall, a woven, steel-wire reinforced cord attached to a tufted cracker.
Samir knew intimately what significant damage it could do to human skin and flesh. The taper ensured that the generated power wave travelled down the length of the whip with increasing velocity until, near the end, it became faster than the speed of sound. This design caused the explosive crack and gave the whip its devastating cutting effect.
He had promised to visit a harsh punishment on the Bard, and he would follow through. His need to control Brannan, to take his power, was strong, but somewhere, conflicting emotions warred within him. Samir dismissed them, unwilling to distract himself at this time. What the Warlord was about to do demanded total focus and faultless judgment, as Samir knew he risked Brannan’s life. The confession he had long sought seemed to assume less importance as Mara’s whereabouts continued to elude him, despite his agents’ searches, and he knew that he kept Brannan imprisoned for the sake of controlling him, to prevent him from realizing a truth Samir had come to suspect resided within himself.
He reached the top chamber. Two guards stationed there wrested open the heavy door. As Samir passed them, they turned and followed him in.
Brannan, still naked, lay on his floor pallet. His body bore bruises from the beating he had taken earlier that day. The Bard struggled to stand up as the Warlord and the guards entered. When he caught sight of the bullwhip, his eyes briefly widened, but that was all.
“I am bringing you the punishment I promised earlier,” Samir told Brannan. “I did not give you permission to attack my henchman, no matter what he was doing to you. He likely will be unable to speak again, which I find unacceptable.”
The Bard remained silent. He had nothing to say to the Warlord’s assertions. They were accurate, and he could offer no defence, even though Efan had sexually assaulted him before Brannan attacked his abuser.
“Kneel when I speak to you, Bard,” Samir commanded.
Brannan promptly sank to his knees. Disobedience was not an option when facing the Warlord’s burning anger.
In the absence of the two torturers, Samir tersely instructed the guards as he unlocked the wooden chest on the heavy table, “Prepare him. Collar him and chain him up.”
He gave the claw collar to the older guard, and the man placed it around Brannan’s neck, then locked it. Meanwhile, the other guard rigged a long chain from a pulley on the ceiling hook to the collar. Taking hold of his arms, the guards pulled the Bard to his feet and manacled his hands in the front. They attached a short spreader bar between his ankles, ensuring he could not execute a high kick like he had used to disable his rapist. Then, the older guard tightened the chain, leaving barely any slack.
The forward binding of Brannan’s hands was no mercy: it was a cruel reminder that he could not grasp the chain above with his injured wrists and hands to prevent the claw collar from piercing his throat. His life would depend on his sense of balance.
The Warlord walked behind the Bard, placing himself at an optimal distance to accommodate the reach of the bullwhip. “Stand clear,” he instructed the guards, who hurried towards the door.
Brannan tried to prepare himself, but he knew nothing would help. Although his two torturers had beaten him daily with various implements, he had experienced the bullwhip only once before, and that was just six strokes. He sincerely did not want the experience repeated; however, it now seemed inevitable.
“Bard, you will count each stroke. There will be thirty.”
Brannan heard the number with dismay. He could accept punishment with stoicism, but this was different, chained as he was, with the claw collar around his neck. The Bard wondered if he would survive and not fall.
The wait for the first stroke seemed interminable; then, suddenly, it came in a loud crack and an incredible explosion of pain. It was like a lightning strike; it was Fire from Heaven; it was like nothing he had experienced before, beyond compare with the lighter bullwhip his torturers had used.
He stiffened in shock before remembering to call in a shaking voice: “One!”
He again heard a howling noise like a sudden wind, and the explosion occurred a second time, the searing pain radiating through his entire body. This time, he staggered slightly and caught himself before he could fall, but he felt the warning prick of the claws and a warm trickle of blood on his throat.
“If you fail to count, I will add an extra stroke,” he heard the Warlord say.
“Two!”
Then, without pause, the third stroke arrived.
By the tenth stroke, streaks of blood painted his neck, and Brannan thought he would pass out. When his two torturers beat him, repeated whip strokes had built up a numbing effect as his body’s natural painkillers kicked in. This experience was far different. Each blow of the bullwhip was like the first one in its shock and intense pain. Brannan concentrated his efforts on staying upright and as immobile as possible; however, Samir cruelly varied the timing of each stroke, so there was no rhythm to help the Bard acclimatize. Nor could he put his mind elsewhere and dissociate from the experience; having to count the strokes kept him firmly rooted in the moment.
By the twentieth stroke, Brannan was barely conscious but still standing, although his legs trembled, and he felt on the point of collapse. The blood from the collar’s claw wounds flowed down his chest, and he also felt rivulets of blood on his back and buttocks.
By the thirtieth stroke, the Bard was nearly out of his mind with the pain. Tears poured down his face, but he did not beg for mercy; that would have been futile. The Warlord seemed determined to punish him for taking matters into his own hands during the torturer’s assault. Brannan had seen Samir on the battlefield as he plied his dreadful sword. Many downed enemies had cried out for mercy, but the Warlord never hesitated to finish his opponent.
The Bard knew he survived to stay upright only because Samir paused to give himself a brief rest every ten strokes. His torturers, on the Warlord’s orders, had never beaten him as severely as this.
Dazed, Brannan barely noticed as the two guards unclipped the chain and removed the collar, manacles and spreader bar. They had to half-drag him back to the pallet, where he sank to his knees and bowed his head. He felt dizzy and weak from the effects of shock, becoming only dimly aware when they left the chamber and closed the door.
There was silence. Then the Bard heard the creak of leather and the sharp click of nailed boots on the stone floor approaching him.
“Look at me!” Samir’s voice commanded.
Brannan did so, meeting the Warlord’s cold, grey eyes. “Have you learned to obey me, Bard?” Samir asked softly.
“Yes—Lord.”
“In future, whatever anyone does to you, I want you to endure it. I will not countenance such behaviour from you again. I will deal with the consequences, not you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“You did well to hold up,” Samir said unexpectedly, “and you can still speak.”
Confused, Brannan did not know if this was dark humour on the Warlord’s part. He said nothing. Then the Bard felt a leather-gloved hand in his sweat-tangled hair, pulling him towards Samir’s crotch. Only then did he notice the bulging erection as the Warlord slowly unpacked his meat.
This time, the Bard did not hesitate. He took Samir’s weighty and stiff penis in his mouth. Brannan sucked, directing his remaining strength into satisfying the Warlord despite the crushing soreness in his throat and the black spots that danced in his vision, trying to give pleasure to Samir through the miasmic curtain of pain. He concentrated on the aroma of leather and sweat that assailed him. Registering the Warlord’s grunts of satisfaction, the Bard continued his efforts, willing away his exhaustion.
Samir wound his fingers tighter in Brannan’s hair, releasing a hot, spurting load of semen with a groan, and Brannan swallowed all of it, tears still trickling down his face.
The Warlord left after that, leaving the Bard naked, shivering, bleeding, and agonized. No position provided him relief. As an object lesson against autonomous behaviour, the beating was proving effective. Brannan, in future, would have to weigh the cost of what actions he could take against his need not to antagonize his captor further if he was ever to have a chance of delivering his message, even if it meant enduring rape. Eventually, crouched in a fetal position, he drifted into an uneasy semi-sleep.
Brannan roused late at night to the sound of the door opening again. A tall, cloaked, shadowy figure moved to stand over him, dimly illuminated by the soft light of a single lamp. The Bard felt his heart beating in fear despite his resolve to remain unbroken. The hushed tone of Samir’s voice reached him.
“Get up, Bard.”
Brannan tried to struggle upright, wondering what new torture Samir had in store when, surprisingly, the Warlord reached down and helped him kneel before holding a flask to his lips. Brannan swallowed the liquor. It tasted bittersweet and intense, flooding his body with a wave of heat and speeding his heartbeat.
Brannan clutched the thin blanket around himself as the Warlord assisted him to his feet. The blood had dried, sticking the covering to his back. He half expected Samir to rip it from him, but the Warlord guided him to the door instead. There were no guards present.
They walked down one flight of stairs to the next level, with Samir supporting the Bard. A door opened off the landing, and they entered the bathing room.
Brannan was allowed to piss before he sank facedown onto a bench and watched as the Warlord stripped himself of his clothes. The light of the orbs revealed his powerful and muscular body. Brannan noticed the thick, greying hair on his chest and the scars: Samir had plenty of them from conflicts he had fought. His heavy cock hung down, resting on substantial testicles.
When the Warlord turned his back, Brannan started in shock, suddenly reminded that Samir bore the unmistakable scars of a bullwhip. Old, white, knotted seams crisscrossed the flesh. He had seen the marks before but had balked at asking the Warlord how he had acquired them: it seemed too invasive a question and not significant to know then. But now, having just endured the act himself, he began to understand. At one time, had Samir been a prisoner himself? He suspected so.
Samir turned a lever on the wall, and a wide waterfall began to spray down from a high ledge. He brought the Bard under the stream. Even with its warmth, piped from the deep hot springs under the mountain, Brannan cried aloud as the water touched his raw wounds. But Samir took a sponge and removed the stuck-on blanket with unexpected gentleness.
Brannan knew from firsthand experience that Samir was a competent field surgeon: a warrior had to be when on the battlefield with wounded comrades. The Bard had once taken an arrow in the back as he performed a dangerous mission for the Warlord, and Samir had tended to it with skill. But this present gentleness of touch had the Bard unsettled and off-balance. Despite the other’s care, he endured more pain as the soaked cloth peeled away from his torn skin. Nevertheless, the spray began to revive him.
After Samir had finished, he took one of the stacked towels and dried the unmarked areas of Brannan’s body. The wounds were left to air dry.
They entered the upper chamber again before Samir spoke to him. “We will wait some days for your wounds to close before I continue your subjugation. Your wounds will take many Moons to fully heal, but the scars will be permanent. However, at this time, I only need you to be able to lie on your back. This is necessary for your next session. In the morning, I will send someone new to attend you”—he gave Brannan a knowing look— “and you will rest and prepare yourself mentally for a submission like you have never imagined.”
“Lord, do you really need to continue this torment? I would give you anything you asked for that did not violate my vows, were I able to do so,” Brannan protested. “But I cannot give you an untruth.”
“Bard, I have my reasons beyond the stated ones. You will soon find this out.”
Samir pulled the bloodied sheet from the pallet and tossed it aside, motioning for the Bard to lie down. Brannan did so, easing himself onto his stomach and shivering against the cold.
The Warlord turned to the table and took items from a packet he had brought. He opened a jar of salve, knelt beside Brannan, and gently applied some to the wounds on his back, sides, and buttocks. Next, he covered them with large pieces of gauze; the ointment would prevent them from sticking to the cuts. To the Bard’s surprise, Samir took his long, wine-dark cloak from his shoulders and carefully laid it over Brannan.
A sob shook Brannan at this gesture, which flew in the face of all he had been subjected to. More than all the torment, the Bard suddenly felt close to breaking. The urge to give the Warlord whatever he wanted, to let go and cast aside his vows and the tattered shreds of his pride, overwhelmed him. “My Lord…,” he began.
“Brannan?”
The Bard struggled for breath, his throat hurting even more, and he was choked with grief. Strongly reminded of their prior friendship, yearning filled his soul. Brannan tried to say the fateful words that would provide the Warlord with everything the man had wanted. The Bard felt Samir’s hand on his shoulder. Mother-of-All, give me strength!
“My Lord,” he repeated. “Your cloak: I may get blood on it.” This was not what he had meant to say.
As if sensing that the Bard intended other words, Samir was silent. But when he spoke, there was a gentleness in his tone. “It has absorbed more blood than yours,” he said. “Rest now.”
Samir left him then, and Brannan wondered if he had made the right choice by denying the urge to submit. He had come so irresistibly close. The Bard also pondered what the Warlord meant with his comment about the blood. However, he did not dwell on the mystery for long before drowsiness overtook him. Brannan set his confusion over the Warlord’s gentleness aside. This time, he managed to sleep so dreamlessly that it was like a fall into the Abyss.
"The Shadow Lord's Son" is the published version of "To Take Away His Voice," also on Gaydemon. This version has alterations and new chapters not found in the other. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Check the links on Voron's Author Website.
