Brynnan: An Evil in Siginak

“Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me” Hebrew Bible, Psalm 42:7, Ancient Texts, Ar Mor-ys Archives

“. . .the name that can be named is not the eternal name. The Nameless is the origin of Heaven and Earth; the Named is the mother of all things.” Lao Tzu, The Tao, Ancient Texts, Ar Mor-ys Archives

The Deep Calls

‘I didn’t even say farewell to Nijal,’ the Bard thought as he came out of the Shadow-ways and into the realm of Annwn. But he knew it would have made his decision harder.

He looked about him. Deeper twilight prevailed, and he was in the mountainous wasteland once more, with the temple-like Dome on the hill. Nearby, a lake occupied the mountain hollow. The wind whispered across the waters, and waves lapped the shore.

“My Father, I am here,” Brynnan spoke aloud, but he did not sense the Huntsman’s presence.

‘Am I to die alone?’ he wondered. ‘What will happen then to my body?’

A feeling of loneliness gripped him. He looked at the Dome and at the lake. Choosing, he wandered to the lakeside and found a wide, flat rock protruding from the pale, sandy shoreline, where he sat. Then he became aware of another sound, a low, steady drumming, almost below the threshold of hearing. Then, very faintly, the cry of hunting hounds: which meant in Annwn that they were close.

The drumming suddenly became loud, and a tall, dapple-grey horse burst upon him. Hounds surrounded it, surging forward to greet him. The horse’s rider brought it to a sudden halt, making it rear up on its hind legs. Then the rider dismounted and approached, even as he called the hounds back from Brynnan.

“Father! You have come!” Brynnan cried, getting up to meet him as relief filled his mind.

Tall, grey-cloaked Arawn, King of Annwn and Hunter of Souls, embraced his son. “Did you doubt it?” the King asked him.

“Yes. Forgive me, but right now, everything feels uncertain. Even the sky is darker than I have previously seen it.”

“But there are stars . . .” Arawn said, his grim expression banished by a sudden smile.

“Father, I have given thought to my d—“

“Ah?” Arawn interrupted the Bard and raised a finger. “There is no rush here. You know how time runs in Annwn. The problem of the Necromancer will wait.”

“I want it over with now; however events turn out.”

“Do you not want to drink of my wellspring first? The burden is still all yours, but I want to share my spirit with you before yours takes irrevocable flight.”

“Will I see you again after—?”

“That remains to be seen, but I will do what I can. Now, let us lie together.”

Arawn led Brynnan to where the grass and short, purple-flowered heath grew thick and soft. He removed his grey cloak and spread it before disrobing. Brynnan, suddenly filled with desire for his Father’s touch, slipped off the amethyst-coloured robe he had worn to meet with Belisarius and knelt upon the cloak, awaiting Arawn. He narrowed his mental focus to include only the imminent time-to-be and not the event that would come after.

Arawn’s body was lean and powerful, and his black hair flowed past his naked shoulders. His deep eyes glimmered in the set face shadowed by a close-trimmed beard. The King knelt facing Brynnan and, reaching out, touched the three brands on the Bard’s chest. An intense warmth flared there, but it was not painful for once. A current of energy flowed between Brynnan and his Father, and his cock leaped in response, stiffening almost instantly. He saw his Father’s cock become hard simultaneously, and, reaching out, he stroked it in wonder.

Then Arawn pushed him down on the cloak, lying over him and pressing his body against Brynnan’s as they kissed. The Huntsman moved his hips to rub their pre-cum soaked cocks, together, making his son respond in kind.

Eventually, Brynnan, breathing heavily, said, “Let me suck your cock, Father!”

“Yes . . .”

Arawn allowed Brynnan to slide from under him to change places so that the Huntsman lay on his back. The Bard worked his way down, pausing to suck on his Father’s nipples. He nursed there for a while, then kissed a trail down the King’s taut stomach to his loins. He sought out the full ball sack, which he licked and nuzzled before pulling each testicle into his mouth and swirling his tongue around them.

Arawn grunted in appreciation and held onto Brynnan’s hair with both hands, keeping the Bard from moving away.

“Let me at your cock, Father; I want to take it and swallow it all.”

“Then do so, my son: suck me until I cannot stop myself from fucking your ass.”

Allowed to move up again, Brynnan grasped the cock—a thing of beauty with a prominent head larger than his own—and guided the rigid phallus into his mouth. It tasted of their combined pre-cum, a warm, musky sweetness. Brynnan treated it with adoration and reverence: this magus-staff that had conjured him into existence when Arawn had mated with a human female.

Arawn caressed his son as he was skillfully sucked off, his slender but strong fingers stroking Brynnan’s face and hair until his body’s own urge made the King say, “Stop now, beloved son. Lie on your back, so I can see you as I fuck you. Give yourself to me, and I will, in return, give you peace.”

Brynnan shivered. These last words were very similar to what he said to the dying on the battlefield when he would help free and guide their souls. He knew now that his strange gift was a skill inherited from his Father, who welcomed particular souls to his land while others were doomed to be victims of the Hunt. He kissed the glans of his Father’s cock before relinquishing it and wondered if the King’s words were also a ritual invocation.

But now, the Huntsman knelt over him, slowly stroking his cock in preparation to guide it into Brynnan’s rectal passage.

Staring into Arawn’s face while raising and offering his ass, Brynnan felt his mind slip out of the moment as his future briefly intruded, and he searched for hope and assurance. ‘Will you look after my body when my soul makes its journey, my Father?’ he thought.

Arawn whispered out loud, “Yes . . .” and he drove his cock deep into Brynnan’s rectum.

Then Brynnan was totally engaged by his Father’s fucking him, his act of surrender deeper than ever before. When Arawn reached his orgasm, Brynnan was right along with him, and they came together as their hips surged close, both releasing floods of semen. Afterwards, they simply clung to each other.

* * *

They emerged from the lake where the cool waters had bathed their bodies as they swam.

“I will never be ready, but let us do this now, Father, while your essence inside me gives me courage.”

“Very well, my son. Lwydrew shall carry us that short distance.”

The dapple-grey stallion, Llwydrew, brought them to the portico fronting the Dome on the hill. Brynnan, in a final procrastination, took some moments to make much of the horse, stroking the long neck and scratching the twitching ears. The horse lipped at his sleeve. Then, leaving horse and hounds behind, the Huntsman and his son entered under the massive stone Dome.

The blue-glowing reflective pool surrounding the stone table at its centre met their gaze: the slab was to be Brynnan’s resting place. But first, both sat on the granite bench in the portico.

Brynnan spoke first. “I know this is the only way to confront the Necromancer, but I never knew how difficult it could be to die without doing severe damage to the body,” he said. “I chose a form of cell death and thought about simply stopping my brain function where the cells begin to die in brief moments. But then Nijal informed me that for humans, in the cell death of apoptosis, the cells in our tissue groups take different amounts of time to cease functioning irrevocably, with the bones’ cells taking days. I must accomplish it all at once, even though time runs differently here. Besides, while with this method the cells do not rupture, the genetic material inside them degrades.”

“This is true,” replied Arawn, noncommittally, aware that he could not aid his son in this act of self-sacrifice.

“But after some thought, I believe I have found a way. You will keep my body in stasis?”

“As I did before. You are ready?”

“Yes.”

There was no point in delaying. Brynnan turned to his Father and quickly kissed his lips. Then he stepped into the knee-deep pool and waded to the stone table, his motion causing a hollow echo in the great chamber. The water’s reflected blue glow rippled across him as he laid himself on the slab. He glanced at his Father.

Arawn was standing: a tall, grey silhouette. He was in his kingly aspect now as Lord of the Dead, and he bore a crown shaped like branching thorns, with stag antlers springing from each side of his head. A pale nimbus surrounded him.

Brynnan resolutely turned his gaze away, looking up at the Dome with the blue light rippling across it from the unsettled water.

The time was now.

Brynnan opened the purple robe to expose his breast. He placed his two hands on the branded sigils of Night, Wind and Eternity and cast himself into the Void.

He died.

* * *

In the Torrent Mountain Redoubt, the Warlord, Samir, awoke abruptly from a deep sleep, his grey eyes snapping wide open. His hand automatically groped beside him for his lover, Brynnan, but instead, it encountered the dense, hairy form of the ghost dog, Ysbryd. In the darkness, the dog’s eyes glowed red.

“Geraint!” the Warlord shouted and immediately was answered by a gruff voice and a flare of orb light from the nearby divan where the old Warrior kept night watch.

“I am right here, m’Lord!”

“Brynnan’s presence has gone dark to me. Whether we are in active contact or not, I can always feel his mind at some level. Now it’s just—gone.”

“What is Ysbryd doing?”

“That’s the strange thing. The beast is alert, and his eyes glow red, but he is not otherwise reacting. But I am concerned. I feel in my heart that something terrible is afoot.”

“Should we send Ysbryd to find our Bard, m’Lord?”

“I may. Let us hold off just a little, my friend, while we both seek for Brynnan with our minds.”

“But let us not wait overlong, Lord.”

* * *

In Siginak, the Guardian, Nijal Silverhand, finished saddling his horse, Myst. The renegade Administrator, Strategist Soren, had revealed to Brynnan’s mind-probe that the Necromancer’s lair was at the waterfalls upriver from the settlement. It was a long shot, but it filled the Guardian with purpose.

Accustomed also to being in mind-contact with Brynnan, Nijal felt its sudden absence, but in his case, he knew exactly what it meant. He paused in his task, leaning his forehead against his horse’s shoulder and closing his eyes tight against the inevitability that he had known would come.

* * *

This was the Unknown Region, where all possibilities existed; the formless Void, the deeps calling his eternal name. He had risen from the abyss to build an image of himself, creating a mystical body from the returning memories. He fastened vision to one locus: eyes that could observe his own limbs. The body was only partially substantial, and it glowed with blue fire.

His mind was stripped of surface emotions—fears, doubts, and hope. There was only the mission.

”The name that can be named is not the Eternal Name. The Nameless is the origin of Heaven and Earth.”

Where had those words come from? But a name suggested itself: ‘Brynnan.’ It fit him like a comfortable old cloak. It was like a door opening, and memories poured through it. There was a target to acquire, and that was the Necromancer. He knew that corrupt soul well, having been previously summoned and controlled by it before he broke free. He focused on it, and it drew him.

* * *

Following the aqueduct, Nijal faced the junction where it joined the wide waterfalls where much of the water still poured down the steep rock face. Here and there, between veils of foaming water, stunted trees grew from the rock, concealing its folds. Nijal dismounted and removed the reins from Myst’s bridle, tying them to the saddle. At a word, the horse wheeled around and cantered away, out of sight of possible guards.

Wary of enemies, the Guardian waded the river and searched the rock face, drenching himself in the cascades of water. He found what he was looking for next to a thick clump of cedar: a dark opening into a natural passage. He went in.

* * *

The hollowed cave complex was an ancient place well-hidden behind the high waterfall. In his inner sanctum, Ruh-çağiran Natan, the Necromancer, looked down on the young, blond-haired man his guards had brought before him, who crouched naked and fettered on the deep red rug. His face was bruised, his lip cut, and there were lash marks on his back—Natan’s guards had not been gentle.

“You did not attempt to warn me of Soren’s capture, Kuruntu. Why, I wonder? Did you think the power I lent you would protect you from me? Let us see!”

He stepped before his servant and opened his robe. “Suck my phallus. Try your best to draw my soul out.”

“Please, Necromancer . . .”

“Plead all you want. Obey me, or die now.”

With great trepidation, Kuruntu struggled to his knees and hesitantly opened his mouth to take Natan’s long, thin cock. Would his own soul be taken? But nonetheless, there were no options, so he sucked on the shaft, feeling its hot hardness in his mouth.

The Necromancer pulled his victim’s head tightly onto his prick and fucked the young man’s mouth while Kuruntu struggled not to gag. “That’s it. Don’t stop. You are going to swallow my cum,” Natan snarled.

Kuruntu sucked with all his skill, knowing his life was on the line. Tears of fear and reluctance trickled down his face. He felt the cock’s relentless pounding bruising the back of his throat. Then, without warning, the Necromancer stiffened, tightening his grip on his victim’s hair, and ejaculated. Kuruntu openly sobbed as he swallowed the jets of cum.

Ruh-çağiran Natan cast the young man from him and straightened his clothing. “Your efforts to hide your thoughts from me are laughable, Kuruntu. Don’t even try. I suspected something was deeply wrong when I could not contact Soren’s mind. Again, why did you not attempt to use the power I gave you to overcome our enemy, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, that Ruithin Bard and Priest who is such a thorn in my side? You and Soren were with him: indeed, Soren fucked him. I should have given him the power. Well? Answer me!”

Kuruntu bravely raised his eyes to the Necromancer. “I would have tried again, but Strategist Soren was overcome and fainted before Brynnan had a chance to fuck me, or I, him.”

“Young fool! Are you so naïve? That was no accident but a move against him by the Bard. Who knows what he learned of Soren’s thoughts?”

“Forgive me, Necromancer! But I have not seen Brynnan since that time.”

“Yes . . .the Bard’s presence on the plane of existence has gone dark to me also. As if he were dead.” The Necromancer paused and spoke his thoughts aloud. “But if that is the case, I can summon his soul.”

“But my Lord, last time—“

“You are going to say he defeated me? Yes, he did. But now, I contain increased power from the souls I have absorbed and subjected to myself. No human soul can withstand our combined force. And just to make sure, your soul, Kuruntu, shall join them. You have outlived your physical usefulness.”

“Necromancer, please don’t do this. Know that if I can, my soul will resist,” Kuruntu said in a voice hoarse with emotion.

The Necromancer laughed, but it was devoid of humour. He produced a device in his hand and approached Kuruntu.

“At least, your suffering will be brief as you die. You should thank me!”

Kuruntu gazed at him in horror, but then his expression changed slightly to puzzlement, then outright terror.

“Yes, you should fear me—“ Natan started to say, then realized the youth was looking past him.

The light from the orbs in the room inexplicably dimmed. Ruh-çağiran Natan felt a cold sensation creeping up his spine as he slowly turned around, but he already knew what and who he would see. But still, it shocked him.

Even with his spirit-augmented vision, the soul was hard to fix in his mind. It appeared twice his height and glowed blue with coruscating waves of sparks. The form constantly morphed and changed while remaining roughly human. Sometimes more female, sometimes more male, reflecting a multitude of sexes. Natan had the impression it was far more extensive than it looked; he was seeing it from a distance, and it could crush him if it had a mind to. But for all its changing, it was still recognizably Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, his enemy, the one who had inflicted this unrelenting feeling of despair upon him, which he, in turn, had inflicted on the settlers in nearby Siginak.

Even under his control, the souls inside him clamoured and pushed to escape. The Necromancer felt a glimmer of doubt for the first time: Natan knew he faced his possible doom.

Then a sort of fatalistic curiosity took over, and his collector’s mind urged him to say, “What are you? I have never encountered a soul like you before. But you are the Marec Mavrenn, who did so much to destroy our mission on this world when we sought to overcome it.”

The soul’s form seemed to steady into a decidedly male aspect, and the features looked more human. ‘I am whom you suspect: Brynnan Marec Mavrenn. 

“Ruh-çağiran Natan, your own destiny was in your hands. I had to stop you, but I offered you mercy, a means of escape from the shackles of depression and despair. Why did you not take it and free yourself? Instead, you spread the malaise to your people who simply attempt to create a life here.”

“You! A mere human, offer me mercy?” Natan laughed scornfully. Then he paused, and his eyes in his pale, ascetic face narrowed. “But perhaps you are not human. You certainly must be dead and have cheated me of the pleasure of killing you myself. I have discovered there are supra-natural beings in existence that can interact with us. The ignorant bring them into existence. Are you some kind of abomination; half-human, half-spirit?”

‘I am beyond that, Necromancer. I am beyond your conception, I think.’

“But not beyond my power—“

Suddenly, Natan bent all the force of his mind against Brynnan’s soul, striking like a venomous snake. At the same time, he lunged, the device in hand, towards Kuruntu, who cowered on the rug.

The chamber door flew open, and Nijal was there with sword drawn, interposing it between the Necromancer and the hapless young man. The force field from the device hit the polished blade, and it arced backwards to enter the Necromancer. He had no time to scream before he collapsed, dead, on the ground.

But the fight had only just started. The six souls, the Necromancer’s captives, now freed, swirled around Brynnan’s soul-form, ready to send it into oblivion. They did not get the chance.

Brynnan formed one word: ‘Ysbryd.’

A monstrous phantom faced them down. Ysbryd drifted in mid-air, jaws agape, glowing red eyes like lava from an active volcano at night, pulsing and sparking. He thrashed his broad, dark head, snatching at the souls that accosted Brynnan. They seemed to shrink in the grip of his impossibly long, sharp teeth until they were like so many white rags. The great dog shook them and growled, a sound like thunder. Then, souls clenched in his jaws, he disappeared, taking his prey with him.

Silence reigned, but only for moments. Kuruntu had mercifully fainted and was unaware when a white vapour gathered around Ruh-çagiran’s body.

Brynnan sent a spear of thought into Nijal’s mind, ‘Quickly, Nijal! The Necromancer’s soul is forming and will be dangerous in his artificially enhanced power. You must destroy the implant in his brain.’

Understanding instantly what he must do and was uniquely qualified to do, Nijal raised his sword and performed the grisly but necessary task. Then it was done, and Nijal held a bloody, fingernail-sized unit in his hand. He dropped it on the stone part of the floor and ground it to bits with his boot heel.

The Necromancer’s soul continued to form, morphing into a semblance of its human body. Nijal could see it but knew that in Brynnan’s presence, the new soul was impotent against the Bard’s power. He heard Brynnan addressing it.

‘Necromancer, you brought your own death upon yourself. But now you are no longer alive in the Material Realm; your despair is gone. I can have no further mercy upon you. However, I am not the judge in this case—but my Father, the ruler of the Realm of Souls, is. It is my sire you have most offended. Therefore, I call on him.’

To Nijal’s senses, the air suddenly became frigid, and a mist formed, surrounding the King of Annwn’s manifest presence.

Grey-cloaked, now in his Hunter’s garb, Arawn’s glance swept the chamber, then turned to the immobilized soul.

“Necromancer, I bind thee by thy eternal name, નીતિભ્રષ્ટ, Nitibhrasht. I will place you in the Desert of Souls, and you will be hunted by my hounds until you find your destination: the Realm that your name reflects.”

Its voice faint, the soul seemed to protest, but Arawn merely regarded it dispassionately and said, “That is all. I have other things to attend to.”

The King gestured, and the soul simply disappeared.

Witnessing, Nijal couldn’t help but object, “Lord King of Annwn, that’s it? What of all the suffering he is causing to the people of Siginak, not to mention your own son?”

Tilting his head to one side, Arawn replied, “You question my Judgement, Nijal?”

“Lord, my own sense of justice seeks an answer,”

“Noted, Guardian. Very well; you shall have one. Ruh-çağıran Natan chose to act in a genuinely depraved manner and was unrepentant. He shall find the realm his soul deserves, and even that is too much for you to know. But the despair he cast on the people of Siginak is gone with his death. My concern now is with Brynnan. I do not know if he can be restored to life. A God’s resurrection is a given—it happens to us more than you might think; but in this case, with my son being half-human . . .” Arawn shrugged eloquently.

“I go now to see what can be done. There is one that can help, but I might have to interfere with the laws that govern our realms; but what are rules for? As for you, my Alsar friend, take Kuruntu and go. Deliver him to Belisarius. His was indeed a case of misguidance and entrapment; there is room, I think, for a little mercy.”

“Is there nothing I can do for Brynnan?”

“Be hopeful. All is not lost yet. If my son can return, you will see him in Siginak. Then you can journey back together. I know you would otherwise miss his company. If his death is irrevocable, his soul will dwell in Annwn, to which it is bound, and eventually, he will be joined by the Warlord Samir’s soul. They share an unbreakable bond, so be comforted. And now, I take us to our home in the Blessed Realm, the Isle of Apples, as some call it. Farewell.”

There seemed nothing more to add. Nijal watched as Arawn embraced his son’s soul, and together they faded.

He turned to crouch beside Kuruntu, touching his forehead. As the young man awakened, Nijal said, “Come on, lad. I know someone who’ll forgive you. Let’s find you some clothes and leave this place.”

* * *

To be continued . . .