The Warlord and the Bard

by Eric Alan Westfall

  And now those of the blood have no more fear of being selected, no more tests to face, since I am the chosen Bearer, the Speaker of the Voices of the Sword of Souls. A Speaker who does not wish to Speak, ever again, but who will when he must.

  But must was not then, when the Sword sensed that igniting anger, that shard of Rage, and surged to awareness again. The forever-trapped souls murmured and muttered and cried out in momentary confusion, making a brief cacophony, before settling into a single, coherent, near-choral blend of sound only I can hear. Call us. Let the Voices speak.

  HellFire’s soul-voice rose above the rest. Hold out your hand. Curl your fingers in the shape of our hilt. Call us. Use us. You want to. You need to.

  The Goddess-damned first soul was right. I did want to. I could feel the hilt against my palm, plain black when it is about to be used, the grip wrapped in black leather perfectly molded to my fourteen-year-old hand the first time I touched it; perfectly shaped for my hand every time since. No adornment except the large black jewel in the pommel. I could see the slender, night-sharp black blade that shimmers with dark fires when it is out of the scabbard. I wanted it.

  I would not betray House and Family that way. I controlled the addictiveness of the Sword. It did not, would never, control me.

  No.

  I turned my will against the souls, shattered the combined sound of their voices, severed the connections between them, forced each of them to their individual coffins, slammed the lids down and abandoned them to their individual loneliness. The Sword stilled, became quiescent once more, all in the time it took me to ask, “What did you just say?”

  My hands were clamped on Niallan’s waist. They trembled a little, just a little, with the desire to hurt him far more than the bruises he already had, and so enjoyed acquiring. I shoved that desire back and away, but not too far.

  “I...I said I loved you. That was the seventh time I said it. And he...he said if someone said ‘I love you’ to you seven times, and you heard it seven times, that you would...would love that person, I mean, the one who said it. He said....”

  Niallan stopped speaking as I used my position to unbalance him, pushing his legs wider as if I might try to force him into a split well past what the most limber man can actually do, with disastrous results for his sex life, and perhaps his ability to walk again. I used my left hand to fist Niallan’s sweat-slick hair and pull his head brutally up and back, while my right hand reached around in a motion that usually went with clamping onto his cock, sometimes stroking it to completion, sometimes not. Instead, my hand clamped on his throat.

  Neither move was a lover’s caress, even a lover like me, who is far more interested in his own pleasure than in any other’s, but is still willing to provide that pleasure on occasion. On a rare occasion. Mine are not a lover’s hands. They’re the hands of a warrior who has killed for his King and Emperor, who has killed for himself, who will unquestionably kill again. I was so very tempted to kill at that moment.

  I squeezed Niallan’s throat, felt his muscles quiver, tasted his fear, and contemplated my desire to hurt him so efficiently, so precisely, that the damage would be permanent. Then I pushed the desire away. I would not release the Rage; would not call the Sword. Though a part of me wanted the feeling of holding out my hand after I had yanked my cock out of Niallan and stood over him on the bed. The feeling of the five-foot long Sword appearing in my hand. The feeling of grasping the hilt in both hands, extending my arms above my head, adjusting my feet for the right balance, and then the bend, the twist, the turn, the blade singing down in an arc that would slice through the bed before it sliced through the traitor and cut him in half. The feeling—Goddess, the feeling—of the dark fires swirling, burning his screaming soul as the edge destroyed it, slice by slice by slice.

  Instead I lowered his head and whispered in his ear, “Get dressed. Get out.” If my voice had been an ice storm, Niallan would already have been dead from exposure.

  Foolish Niallan, no, Goddess-damned stupid Niallan, tried to speak. I tightened my grip on his throat until he could barely breathe. My right thumb against his jaw turned his head to the left so he could look at me. His eyes were wide with fright. “Not another word. If you understand, close your eyes.”

  Niallan closed his eyes.

  I let go of Niallan’s throat, let go of his hair, and pulled my cock out of the betrayer. Shoved him forward, and put a knee on his back, just above that fine muscular ass. He collapsed with a strangled cry. I had not tied his hands in a way that would ever allow him to be even remotely comfortable if he collapsed on his belly. Perhaps the strain of being face down with his arms up at that angle explained the groan. It was the kind of pain he definitely did not desire, but at that point I had no concern for his desires. Still, he cut the groan off in case the sound angered me even more. The war knife that was always at my bedside made quick work of the ropes and Niallan brought his shaking arms down.

  I got out of the bed.

  Niallan curled onto his side in a full-body-tremor huddle, as if that could hide him, crying, breathing hard, while desperately trying not to be heard.

  I walked away to the windows. The room is high enough that no one can see in, warded so that no far-seeing will work, but if they can, if someone can...then look and be damned.

  Goddess-damn! my temper. I had just done everything wrong. And it had to be fixed, fixed now, or the so-far-anonymous “he” who had primed Niallan for this, would scuttle into darkness like a kiril does when a light goes on in an infested room. And hiding among all the rest of the kiril, he would be invisible and probably never found.

  Options.

  Call in Imperial Security and let Niallan’s mind be raped until he gives up everything he knows, which is probably only the man’s name. That would leave the mess of covering up the fact he has no mind any more.

  Persuade...compel...Niallan to tell me the name, and then send the White Guard on a raid, with the risk of the man escaping, and warning the others. I was sure there were others. The fucking obscure fucking prophecy is too complex for Niallan’s words to be all that was planned.

  Or something else. Something to track them all down without their awareness that their plan, or at least a part of the plan, was known.

  A minute crept by. I could not afford more time than that.

  Yes. It was an improvisation but it might work, and if it did, Niallan might survive Father’s wrath. Which was not at all a certain outcome, but possible.

  When I spoke again, I forced my voice to become softer, not with real softness, but with a softness born only of control. He would never know the difference. The Sword remained still. “Niallan.”

  He slowly uncurled, twisted and raised his head, struggled to right himself. “Y...yes, my Lord Prince. I...I’m going.” He scooted, bare-assed, to the edge of the bed, looked around for the clothes we had casually strewn about when we were stripping. Got up, began gathering them, staying out of reach except for one quick dart to pick up a shoe.

  I wanted to let loose all of the anger the monitor was keeping so tightly reined in. Was he so fucking stupid he didn’t know any better, or was it that he did know, but wouldn’t let himself know that he knew? The monitor’s wordless assessment was that it was the latter.

  But for this to work...first, some fear. Not incapacitating fear, but fear nonetheless. At the moment, all he knew was that I was angry about what he had done, and I’d never before given him reason to fear me.

  More control. More false softness, almost regret. “You were used, Niallan, you little fool. A lucky little fool as well. Do you realize I could have snapped your neck while my cock was still deep inside you, maybe come while I did it?”

  I am not that perverse, but he didn’t need to know that. What he needed was to be afraid. To acquire the fear he had stupidly never had, the fear that should always be near, only a breath away, when anyone has any kind of relationship with this particular Heir Presumptive and Warlord. I can’t speak for
my ancestors.

  “I could have used that war knife to slit your throat, Niallan, instead of using it on the ropes. Once my father knew what you tried, no one would have said a word to me.” I paused for effect, and spoke the truth. “Hells, all I would have to do is say I executed you as a matter of Imperial Security and that would be the end of any inquiry.”

  “I don’t understand, my Lord Prince.” It was either the long wail of someone who didn’t in fact understand, or the wail of one who was a good enough actor to make that wail believable. Niallan is not that good an actor, but then I would never have believed him capable of acting well enough to get himself this far along in the traitors’ plans.

  If I had just paid attention, if I had fucking counted, I would have known, would have been prepared, would not have let loose even a hint of the fury. If I had fucking paid attention to the events in my life, I could have discussed this with Alain, and worked something out far better than the potentially half-assed plan I had just come up with. Not that I would ever admit any part of that half-assedness to Alain or anyone else.

  Even as self-centered as Niallan is, he would never believe now that his “spell” had worked. So my swift plan was a way to work around that problem. Perhaps even a way to get him believing, if only for a little while, just for a long enough “little while,” that despite my flare-up, things could, even would, go back to the way they had been between us. Not that there was anywhere near as much of an “us” as he believed.

  “You don’t need to, Niallan. You don’t need to.” I paused, looked at Niallan who resolutely stared at the floor, waited until he found the courage to lift his head and look up at me.

  Three more things for Niallan: a little gentleness, an apology from a prince who never apologizes, and more fear.

  “I am sorry I frightened you so, Niallan. It was just...I got angry. But I’m not any more. And there is no harm done. The spell didn’t work. You knew it was a spell, didn’t you?” It was not actually a spell, had nothing to do with spells, but the word would have to do for now.

  Downcast eyes and tight lips. He might as well have screamed the “yes” aloud.

  Softly, softly... “Niallan, dear—” and oh how I wanted to choke on that word, “Niallan, I know you did this because you love me. Right?”

  A slow nod.

  “And you just wanted me to love you back.”

  Another nod.

  “And since I was not harmed, I want you to visit...your friend...tomorrow, the one who told you about the spell. Will you do that for me?”

  Yet another nod.

  “He’s here in the City, isn’t he? A man of a High House and Family?”

  He glanced away, and quickly back, which was also answer enough. Vain little Niallan truly has no gift at all for intrigue of anything other than the variety needed to get a cock in him or his cock in someone else.

  Softly, softly to start, and then finish with the cold of the deep dark between the stars that I do so well.

  “I don’t need to know his name, Niallan. I just want you to give him a message. Tell...whoever it was that the Heir Presumptive was amused, and the Warlord annoyed, but not enough to take the kind of action that could have been taken. Tell him I will let it pass because I came to no harm, but if he or any of his friends tries treason again, they will regret it.”

  Regret it? Death for those who plot against the throne is neither swift nor painless. His House and Family will be destroyed, root and branch, whether or not the rest of them were actually involved. His homes and his lands will be razed, and the earth salted. His name, their names, will be wiped from the memory of the Kingdom and Empire. And for this particular brand of treason, I will not wait for proof sufficient to obtain a judicial decree, I will simply do it. Father does not tolerate treason. Nor do I.

  Niallan had gone white, let the clothes fall. “T-t-treason?”

  I suspected Niallan hadn’t retained much of what I said, perhaps only that one word. “He wanted you to cast a spell on the Heir Presumptive, to gain control of him. That’s treason.”

  “But I, but, I only, I just....”

  I raised my hand, palm forward, to stop the babbling. Niallan was far too self-obsessed to be anything other than a tool. “I know, Niallan, I know. So there is only one more part of the message to remember. Tell your friend that if any harm comes to you or your family at any time for the rest of my life and yours...your natural life...then I will find out who he is, and track him down, and he will regret that as well.”

  I think it was the realization I thought he might be killed because of his failure, that finally made him understand the truth of what he had been involved in. He stumbled backward, hit his calves on a chair, collapsed into it, legs sprawling, cock shriveled as if he’d been tossed into ice water. “I...I never....”

  No, Niallan had clearly never thought there was any personal risk in trying to make a prince love him just by falsely saying “I love you” the number of times required by an obscure prophesy, no matter his own belief that he loved me. He didn’t bother to wonder what else they might have planned for him, for me, once I was spelled into loving him. “Seven times said; seven times heard” is only part of the...story. He just saw the glory of being loved by someone as powerful as me, and had no care for whether the love was natural or not.

  I walked over to stand beside the chair and though Niallan clearly wanted to shrink away, he slowly sat upright. But he stayed very, very still. Prey still. Pray still.

  Now he had to be brought back from that fear.

  I forced my hand to caress the side of his face. Surprisingly he did not flinch away. Perhaps there was more strength in him than I had thought.

  “I said I wouldn’t ask you for his name, and I won’t. But...if that...” abomination! I shouted inside my head “...spell had worked, would you have asked me to take you to the Summer Ball?”

  The hesitation made his answer obvious, but he still nodded.

  Softly, softly, yet again. Entice the prey. “And would you have talked to him tonight, at the Ball, to tell him the joyful news?”

  His eyes again gave away the answer. I made myself sigh. Gently, gently. “No, that would have been presumptuous wouldn’t it, Niallan? Like...boasting. And your friend...he wouldn’t want you to do that, would he?”

  A nod followed by a head-shake. Nevertheless, I understood.

  “What was the signal, Niallan? The signal to tell him how much your prince loved you?”

  “I...uh....” He wet his lips with that talented tongue in a way that under other circumstances might have gotten his mouth full of cock. That was not going to happen. “I...I would wear the red.”

  I blinked, and wanted to scream, “What fucking red?” Then I remembered the red he had babbled on about having bought for an unspecified special occasion, or, as I now understood, in anticipation of a particular special occasion. A red shirt, not merely red, but a howling red, to be worn over cock-molding tight black pants with a matching red stripe down the legs, leading down to red mid-calf boots with heels that he undoubtedly thought would make him sufficiently taller that the actual disparity between our heights would be less noticeable.

  “Wear the red tonight.”

  He looked as though I had slapped his face hard. Poor, confused, traitor Niallan. So very well used, about to be used again.

  “You...you mean we’re going?”

  I held up my hand, palm toward him. He obeys hand-signals just like a well-trained war hound. Or rather, an overly-indulged, but at least reasonably trained, house pet.

  I paused, and voice-linked with my aunt. # How is the party? #

  # Acceptable. But it’s early. Dinner is just over; the rest of the guests are starting to arrive. What do you want? #

  I started to play the game of “Can’t I talk to my favorite aunt without wanting something?” but she cut me off at the first syllable.

  # Don’t test my patience. Not tonight. You have less than no interest in High House
events you generally refer to as “Goddess-lost, Nine-Hells damned gatherings of drunken fools.” Which means you want something. #

  # I need an invitation. #

  # For you? You know you’re always welcome. No, let me amend that. You’re welcome if you behave. There will be no horses appearing on my dance floor...mating! # The chuckle did not quite remove the very noticeable sting from her tone. I had been stung so many times over the years by Father and others when I was young, including the stings that were more like being flayed with a whip, that I have acquired a certain degree of immunity. I ignored it.

  I forced a chuckle in response and agreed that there would be no horses, or anyone else, mating on her dance floor, at least not because of me. Of course, I pointed out, if she chose to let the Tale be danced, the whole no-mating thing might well go by the wayside.

  She interrupted me again. # Stop the evasions, boy, and just ask, so I can refuse and get back to my party. #

  I sighed over the link. # Very well. It’s for Niallan, and, unfortunately, some of his family. I owe him that much, at least. #

  # I’m not in the mood for low humor tonight. #

  The snap in her tone stirred up a responsive snap in mine.

  # And I’m not in the mood for being very polite, Aunt. You either do it because you’ll enjoy the low comic relief they’ll provide, or you’ll do it because I’m your semi-favorite only nephew, or you’ll do it to annoy my father, whose dislike of Niallan surpasses even yours, or you’ll do it because the Heir Presumptive has just told you to. #

  The old lady’s snort blasted back across the link. # For the first three reasons, my boy, for the first three reasons. Just try the fourth and see where it gets you. I have successfully told your father “no” on more than one occasion; I can still handle an upstart Heir as well, Presumptive or otherwise. #

  I really do like Aunt Sylvara. I thanked her, and severed the link.