Chapter 7
Brothers in Arms
A hand carefully lifted the mantle from the Bard’s prostrate form. Brannan felt a sense of loss. He had been covered by Samir’s cloak; it was warm and bore the Warlord’s scent, reminding him of their previous close association when they had been friends. After one fight with the sea raiders, Brannan remembered helping Samir remove his armour and sweat-soaked padded aketon.
The Bard shifted under the ministering hand. Thankfully, the bleeding on his back seemed to have stopped, so the cloth did not stick to the cuts caused by the Warlord’s whip.
Brannan thought about the Warlord’s scarred back, which he had seen when Samir had taken him downstairs and bathed his wounds. He began to understand how Samir could judge the strength and number of blows or know the devastating pain the whip would inflict.
The hand shook his shoulder, and a voice said, “Wake up, Master Bard.”
Brannan carefully half-turned to see a grizzled, older man standing over him. He was not tall, like the Warlord, but he had a compact physique that was muscled still. His white hair and beard were cropped short, and his face bore a scar across the forehead, pulling at one eye. An Old Warrior and, it seemed, a survivor. Brannan recognized him as one of the Warlord’s close friends among the horse warriors.
“It’s me, Geraint, if you recall. I am to attend to you while you heal. I’ll also oversee any preparations Lord Samir might want of you.”
Brannan could only be glad it wasn’t Cassian. The young former attendant’s one-track mind had been solely focused on seducing him. Brannan hadn’t been the slightest bit interested. Geraint assisted him in rising and helped him piss in the bucket. Then he took Brannan to the table, dressing his wounds with competent and efficient hands. He put the salve directly on the gauze pads and laid them over the worst cuts, using a long linen bandage to hold them in place.
“There. Got yourself in a right pickle, haven’t you? The salve should dull the pain. I’ve used it many a time in the field, on m’mates and on meself.”
“You have been with the Warlord for a long time,” Brannan ventured.
The Old Warrior seemed at ease. “You would have been a boy when I first met m’Lord Samir. I’ve served him for twenty Turns,” he replied. “I’ve been on all his campaigns, fought alongside him, and looked out for him. I am his man.”
Brannan suspected his comment was a warning demonstrating his loyalty to the Warlord. That, although seemingly friendly, he could not be subverted in any way.
“I’ve seen you on the field with him, although our different duties kept us apart,” the Bard replied.
“Aye. And I’ve seen you many a time, Master Bard,” Geraint replied as he removed the soiled wrappings from Brannan’s wrists and inspected them.
“Hmmm…claw cuffs. Efficient little buggers,” he commented in a matter-of-fact tone. “I remember when you were out with us, hunting down the wolf’s heads who were raiding the villages in Scarfell. Heard you play that harp of yours and the songs. Went straight to the heart. Pity about your hands. Still, if that is m’Lord’s will, then so it shall be.”
Brannan felt a pain in his heart at Geraint’s words as memories surged.
“Can my wrists heal?”
“Dunno. It’s possible, I suppose. Happened before. Depends on our Warlord’s will, too,” Geraint said as he, not ungently, applied salve and fresh dressings to Brannan’s wrists.
Brannan tamped down a surge of hope, knowing that was likely not in Samir’s plans for him.
Geraint continued, speaking in a lowered voice even though no one else occupied the chamber. “I wondered why, after all this time of keeping you locked up, he’s now decided to take away your skills. But I know a thing or two about Samir’s past that you may learn sometime if you ever get the chance. He’s sensitive to betrayal, and he’s been sore hurt.”
“But why now? Why not at the beginning of my imprisonment?”
“You’ll have to ask him that, though I doubt he’ll answer. But you can never tell. Once upon a time, he seemed quite fond of you. Ah, well. Back to work.”
Among the items on the table was an odd-looking metal device. Geraint picked it up. “Turn around, Master Bard, and let me at you. Lord Samir wants you caged while you heal.”
Geraint took the device and fastened it around Brannan’s penis, encasing it in the metal coils. A ring fitted around his testes, with a leather strap separating them. A divided bar at the tip of the cage allowed Brannan to piss while restricting his ability to have an erection and, therefore, ejaculate. Geraint turned a small key that fitted into the cage’s lock before replacing the lanyard around his neck.
“Not allowed to jerk off, are you? I’ll remove it once a day so I can wash you, but that’s all.”
“Thank you, but I don’t feel the need to pleasure myself these days. Or the ability,” Brannan responded wearily.
Geraint then brought a bundle from the table, which turned out to be a dark blue cloak. He draped it lightly over Brannan’s shoulders, making him wince slightly. It was warm, and Samir’s scent was on it, as it was on the dark red cloak Geraint had now picked up from the pallet.
Brannan knew he should have felt an aversion to wearing it, but the odour drew him, its familiarity reminding him of better days when he and Samir had been close. For a moment, he felt confused and uncertain. What was happening to him? Then he understood.
“No clothes for you until you heal up. This is one of m’Lord’s older cloaks and a favourite. He honours you,” Geraint said with a short laugh.
“More likely, he trains his hound,” retorted Brannan dryly, referring to the practice of bonding a hunting hound by giving it an article of his master’s clothing to lie on in its kennel. He wondered at the Warlord’s seemingly contradictory actions: to nearly beat him to death and then come later to bring solace. It almost seemed as if Samir fought himself.
“Not stupid, are you?” Geraint said.
The Old Warrior led the Bard back to the pallet, helping him down. He brought a bowl of oatmeal gruel, and Brannan ate it as best he could before lying on his stomach to watch as Geraint tidied up.
The door guards saluted and stood aside as the Warlord entered the chamber, pleased to see his old friend with the Bard.
“How is he?”
“The wounds will take a long time to completely heal, but only a few days before he can be placed on his back, as long as we keep the dressings on. Anyway, that’ll give me time to rig up the frame for you, m’Lord.”
Samir walked over to Brannan and appraised him with a critical eye. “You will remain resting and not exercise. I don’t want you to tear open the cuts.” He nodded towards the Old Warrior. “I remind you that Geraint is my man, not a servant. I’m sure you recall him. He and I go back a long way.”
Here, he exchanged a knowing glance with the Geraint, whom he greatly valued. Many shared memories of dangerous times bound them, the Old Warrior frequently fighting at Samir’s back to protect him.
“He will treat you fairly, and you, in turn, will treat him with the respect you accord me. Do you understand, Bard?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Furthermore, every morning, you will suck his cock to thank him for his care. Do it well.”
Samir observed Brannan carefully to see how he would receive this new directive. He needed to keep the Bard subjugated to prevent him from thinking and analyzing his situation, or he might begin to guess that more than a desire for revenge motivated the Warlord’s actions. Samir could not predict the outcome of his design to use Brannan in a way that would hopefully destroy the Bard’s final resistance, and it would not be without risk. But in a few days, he would find out. The Warlord noted Brannan’s startled look, but if he felt reluctance or abhorrence, the Bard hid it well.
“As you wish, Lord,” the Bard replied, lowering his eyes.
Samir looked at Geraint, who nodded. “Thank you, m’Lord.”
“You will begin it now; I will watch and see how you do.”
The cloak fell from Brannan’s shoulders as he struggled to his knees.
Samir settled on the table’s edge and waited. The Bard’s attitude would reveal much of what the Warlord would attempt in a few days. Do I intend to punish him, or will this be something else? I must tread carefully from here. I wanted a confession, but I now believe Brannan’s knowledge of Mara’s guilt is not as essential as I once thought. I can never free him. I don’t need a war with King Cyndyllan right now. Unless… Could I possibly change Brannan’s mind? Can I ever trust him again? If only I could find Mara.
Samir felt the customary pang of anguish about his missing wife. Pained, he closed off his thoughts and returned his attention to the Bard and his old friend.
The Bard waited, schooling himself to acceptance. Geraint walked over and stroked Brannan’s dark hair that hung below his shoulders, his touch almost tender. He then took the Bard’s hand and placed it on his crotch, where his breeches bulged from his developing erection.
“Go on then, Master Bard.”
Brannan, acutely aware that the Warlord watched them, slowly opened Geraint’s clothes with his teeth to free his member. Despite the awkwardness of the task, the Old Warrior did nothing to aid him but looked down with an amused glint in his eyes. Geraint’s substantial and girthy penis, springing from a nest of grey hairs, had a slight upcurve. Bluish veins patterned its length. The helmet-shaped head was wider than the shaft, and a drop of pre-cum glistened at the tip. Brannan licked it off. The shaft of the penis felt surprisingly hard and firm for a man of Geraint’s age.
As if reading his thoughts, the Warrior chuckled. He nodded at his phallus. “He’s an experienced old soldier. Never let me down yet. Whores, brothers-in-arms, enemies, prisoners, and also my wife, may the gods rest her soul.”
Brannan took the penis into his mouth. Its taste was not unpleasant, and its masculine animal scent drew him in. Tasting its raw saltiness, he slowly worked the large member down his throat as far as he could manage before the pain stopped him. Geraint did not force him. The Old Warrior still stroked Brannan’s head, letting the Bard do all the work.
A strange thing happened. Brannan’s mind now felt fully engaged, and all he could think of was satisfying this man. Where had his revulsion at servicing another male gone? He became aroused, and his penis strained at the confinement of the cage. Feeling frustrated, he wanted to grasp and fondle Geraint’s cock with his hands, but that was impossible.
The Old Warrior grunted in earnest now. “That’s it, young Bard; finish me off good.”
Brannan sucked the shaft as far as he could, caressing it with his lips and tongue, and the steady rhythm drove Geraint over the edge, making him come. Gasping, he gripped the Bard’s hair tightly as his body twitched with the aftershocks. Brannan swallowed, then gently licked the still semi-erect phallus and the now-sensitized head. Geraint released the Bard’s hair from his grasp and moved back.
“Thank Geraint for allowing you to please him. You will do this every morning he desires it,” the Warlord said.
“Oh, I think I might desire it,’’ Geraint laughed. “You did very well, Master Bard, and I should know.”
He turned to the Warlord. “And you say he never sucked cock before yours? Incredible!”
“Our Bard is skilled at mastering the arts quickly,” Samir replied. “I give him an incentive.”
Brannan’s face burned as he listened. He thought he was accustomed to shaming, but the casual way the men discussed his performance humiliated him and made him feel used.
He stayed on his knees. “Thank you, Warrior, for letting me please you, and I also thank you, Lord Samir, for the honour you give me,” Brannan replied, carefully keeping to a neutral tone.
The Warlord raised an eyebrow but did not take issue with the Bard’s choice of words.
Geraint looked shrewdly at Brannan. “It’ll take five days for his back to heal enough, I judge. Then he should be ready for you, m’Lord. I’ll make sure he’s well-prepared.”
Brannan could only wonder what he meant.
After the Warlord left, Geraint said, “You’re hurting, aren’t you? I can see the shadow of pain in your eyes. Go lie down.”
Brannan complied with relief. He struggled to find the least agonizing position.
Geraint moved about the chamber, carrying a weighted measuring string that he used against the walls and floor. “Yes,” he muttered. “It should just fit and still allow folks to get around it.”
Despite his pain, Brannan’s curiosity overcame his desire to simply rest. “What are you planning, Geraint?”
“M’Lord wants a frame with a sling. It will be comfortable for you to lie in,” the Old Warrior responded.
“That’s not the whole story. There’s more, isn’t there?”
Geraint’s lips pursed. “You’re right, but I’m not free to say.”
“I suppose I’ll find out in a few days.” The Bard sighed.
“I don’t know his plans, and of those I do know, I don’t approve of all of them,” said Geraint candidly. “But it’s not my place to question—unless it’s something really dire that I can’t ignore, then I have no problem giving m’Lord Samir a piece of my mind. We’ve been battle companions for so long that I can take some liberties with him.”
“I’m not sure I want to know his plans for me. I just try to deal with them as they come, one day—one moment even—at a time,” Brannan said.
“Sensible thing to do, lad. You’ve survived this far. But tell me, when you sucked me, it seemed to me you weren’t too averse. Getting used to it already?”
“No. The thought of doing that to others I’ve met revolts me.
But you…”
“Aah! Succumbing to my charm, are you?” Geraint replied with a chuckle. “Many have—I can’t help it.” Then, the Old Warrior looked plainly at him. “M’Lord gave the order, but I’d rather not force you. I remember how you were before this trouble, and to my mind, you deserved respect, for you treated all men equally, even old soldiers like meself.”
“But now I’m branded a traitor: my Lord still thinks I betrayed him and must have formed a plot with the Lady Mara,” Brannan said, eyeing the Old Warrior carefully.
“So some people say. But for me…Aah! I’d better keep my mouth shut. My first loyalty is to m’Lord Samir. If only you knew him—”
“I thought I did, Geraint. We shared many, many experiences. But now, I cannot speak a truth to him that he will listen to. But I do thank you for your care.”
“I hear your last attendant wasn’t to your liking.” Geraint grinned.
“He wasn’t,” Brannan replied shortly, unwilling to say more. Then weariness washed over him, and he lay still.
“I’m going to let you alone now,” said the Old Warrior. “I’ll be in later today to bathe and feed you. Don’t think too hard, now!”
Geraint knocked on the chamber door, and the guards opened it. He turned and left with a last glance at the Bard’s still form.
Brannan resolved to take the time to rest. Samir had given him five days of respite. He needed to conserve his inner resources for the next battle. He wondered about Geraint: would the Old Warrior prove friend or adversary?
He was still puzzling over that particular conundrum when his mind sank into a daze. It was not quite sleep, but it seemed a grey mist surrounded him where he lay, and he felt the temperature dropping rapidly. Shivering, he looked up and, to his dismay, found himself in the place where he escorted the dying on the battlefield.
I am in the Shadow Ways, but no one else is here. Why, then, am I in this place?
His amorphous spirit form coalesced into its human double, and he walked down the silvery tracks, passing endless doorways to other realms.
No! I do not want to come to the Dread Portal! Am I dying?
But he got no sense that this was so. Abruptly, he stood in a forest clearing. He saw a mound ahead, and on the mound, a white standing stone taller than himself. An opening in its face revealed a black infinity filled with stars.
I am dreaming, but it seems so real…
He became aware of a shadowy figure standing beside the stone. It bore the antlers of a stag.
‘They are coming,’ he heard it say. ‘You cannot stop them.
Touch the stone, and you will know.’
Brannan knew there would be no return if he did so, dream or not. He tentatively reached out a hand—
‘I am not ready!’ he cried, attempting to draw back in the vision.
A flame enveloped him, his chest burning as if branded, and he spun into an endless, dizzying fall.
