Brynnan: An Evil in Siginak

The Ghost Returns

Brynnan said, “You see, I know where this illness comes from and how it spreads.”

“You mean that the Necromancer may be responsible?” Nijal replied.

“No,” said the Bard heavily. “I am responsible. It was I that caused it.”

*    *    *

Nijal was not sure he had correctly heard Brynnan. He repeated his words just to be sure. “You caused the illness in Siginak. That’s quite a statement. Can you justify that?”

“I caused the deep depression, the desire to self-destruct, the crushing despair. I caused it to manifest inside Ruh-çağıran Natan, our Necromancer. I did it at my tomb when my soul escaped him and re-animated my body, which my Father had kept in stasis. I did it to stop his further actions, for punishment, and, I admit, for revenge. I should have killed him and let my Father hunt his soul to oblivion, but I have a bad habit of letting people live. They took him back to the ship.”

“But how does this make you responsible for the peoples’ affliction here?”

“Because in inflicting the despair upon the Necromancer, I must have taught him how to pass it on. He is intelligent and very powerful. I also did not know about the implanted device in his brain that seems to enhance his powers. His only major fault was his pride and belief in his own invulnerability, which is how I took control and escaped.”

Brynnan sat down upon the rock paving the canal’s edge. Feeling beside him in the darkness, he picked up a stone and threw it in the water. A bird protested in loud squawks and a flurry of feathers as it paddled away.

After a period of silence, the Bard resumed speaking. “I did give him an “out,” a chance at redemption. I made it a condition that the despair would lift if he changed his ways and gave up trying to control or manipulate souls.”

“He obviously hasn’t taken it, or there would be no spread of the malaise. Once again, your compassion manifested. You cannot lay the blame on yourself. It was the Necromancer’s choice to cling to evil.”

“But my choice of punishment influenced his mind. By spreading it to Siginak, he was sending me a clear message, which I was too blind to see.”

Alright,” Nijal sighed. “If it makes you feel any better, I‘ll allow you some of the blame. Now can you please stop beating yourself up? If you want a good beating, I can provide it. I can improvise: leather reins from a horse’s bridle are wonderfully painful when slapped against bare flesh. Let’s do something constructive instead—like go to bed and sleep. It’s late; we’ve been in combat, had plentiful sex with the Chief Administrator and each other, and even we Alsar benefit from sleep.”

“You have a point,” replied the Bard. “Anyway, I’ve got to break this pattern.”

“You mean of the Necromancer’s making?”

“No, I mean this pattern of me suddenly doing or thinking something foolish, you pointing it out, me resisting it, you pointing it out again and maybe whacking my ass, and myself finally realizing you were correct and doing something constructive about it.”

“So let’s do something constructive—“ started Nijal.

“—and go to bed,” finished Brynnan.

*    *    *

In their chamber, they stripped off their clothes.

“Are we being surveilled, do you think?” asked the Bard.

“I would think it highly unlikely after Belisarius gave us his word,” Nijal replied.

“In any case, I am going to summon our door guard.”

Brynnan stood in the centre of the room, focusing on his need. The temperature of the air suddenly dropped, becoming chill. A silver mist surrounded Brynnan, but he did not disappear. Instead, something large and dark formed beside him, a beast-shape as tall as his thigh. The mist thinned and disappeared, revealing a tremendous grey-black brindled dog with a shaggy coat and a beard adorning the chin of his broad head.

Nijal smiled in recognition. “Your personal Ghost, Ysbryd! Our faithful companion from when we travelled to ArMor-Ys two years ago. Has he been with your Father in Annwn?”

The dog pushed his head against Nijal’s hip and then licked his hand as Brynnan replied, “In the Shadow Land? Yes. He has been on the Hunt, at the head of the pack, no doubt. I had him at Torrent Mountain with Samir and myself for a time, but his presence scared many people and wasn’t good for diplomatic relations. Besides, he needs his special form of exercise: seeking renegade souls.”

Nijal scratched behind the dog’s ears, then walked over to Brynnan and embraced him from behind. He pressed himself against the Bard’s naked back and, wrapping his arms about his friend’s chest, rested his chin on Brynnan’s bare shoulder.

“I wonder if Ysbryd might aid us in tracking down the Chimaera?” Nijal mused.

“You mean, one supernatural beast against another? Why not? We don’t seem to be getting far with conventional means. Trying to find people with information and questioning them when they are so recalcitrant is a slow method,” Brynnan replied.

“Can you discuss that with your Father when you see him?”

“Yes. I will do that.” Brynnan turned in Nijal’s arms and, embracing him in turn, kissed his mouth. They stayed like that for a short time, exchanging deep kisses, until Nijal led his friend to bed.

*    *    *

In the night, Brynnan dreamed. A massive weight crushed his legs. He was trapped! Struggling awake, he found his legs pinned. The great dog was lying across them.

“Ysbryd, you big ych trwsgl—clumsy ox—get off the bed! You know you aren’t allowed. Go guard the door.”

The dog sighed and stepped down.

*    *    *

Morning, and decisions had to be made.

“I keep thinking about Soren. The more I consider it, the more I think he is involved,” said Nijal.

Brynnan, sipping the hot chai that Nijal had handed him, said, “In the ancient texts, before the word ‘Chimaera’ acquired the meaning it has now of illusion and deception, it was a three-headed fire-breathing beast, with a forward head, a head on its back and one at the end of its tail. It could be that Kuruntu is the somewhat-unwitting Chimaera’s tail, the Necromancer its head and Soren the middle. We know from Master Trader Tajinder that Soren recruited and assigned Kuruntu at the behest of a mysterious ‘supervisor’ who wasn’t Administrator Belisarius.”

“How can we catch him or prove it without revealing ourselves to Ruh-çağıran Natan? Just asking Soren won’t work,” replied Nijal. “Could there be a way to get close enough to deep-read him?”

“I wonder if he has had sexual experiences with men?” mused Brynnan. “It seems like the oldest trick in the ancient scrolls to seduce him, but I could try.”

“Perhaps we can confide a little more in Belisarius,” suggested Nijal. “He wants to experience what it’s like to fuck someone. We could get the three of you together,” said the Guardian.

“What about you, Nijal?”

“I think Soren would be more relaxed without my presence. But I would be close by—and perhaps we could use Ysbryd as a guard in case things got nasty.”

At that moment, there was a soft chime at their chamber door, and a female voice called, “Gentes, I have brought you the morning meal as you asked!”

Brynnan stood suddenly, nearly spilling his chai, for Ysbryd, who had been lying quietly beside him, suddenly rose to his feet and manifested his supernatural abilities. He seemed to grow in size, and, eerily, his feet left the ground so that he was floating in the air. The dog’s eyes glowed white and empty, and his bared teeth appeared longer than any dog’s had a right to be.

He drifted towards the door as it slowly opened.

“Wait, Genita, we are not yet clothed!” called Nijal, an excuse to keep her at the door, while Brynnan, who was already dressed, controlled Ysbryd. Accordingly, Nijal wrapped a towel around his naked body and went to the door.

Meanwhile, Brynnan issued a command in his native tongue, “Ysbryd, cuddio—hide!”

Thankfully obedient, the ghostly dog faded into the Shadow-ways just as Nijal opened the door. The woman came in and placed a tray on the table. She glanced sideways at Nijal’s bare chest, golden skin tone and tousled hair, and half-smiled.

“I hope our simple food will suit your tastes, Gentes,” she said.

“I am sure it will. But have care opening our door. We employ a guard who is quite touchy and tends to react before asking questions. Fortunately for you, he just stepped out.”

The woman paled a little, then bowed acknowledgement and left.

“That was close,” Nijal said to the Bard.

“Yes. Did you read her surface emotions? Was she sneaking in any listening devices? Has the food been poisoned?

Nijal raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Yes, to the first. No to the second. She was busy appreciating my body, and, for the third query—it doesn’t matter if the food is poisoned. You know we both would metabolize it. I think we can break our fast without worry.”

“—Except for Ysbryd. I will call him back after we finish eating. He’s a notorious mooch,” added Brynnan.

“I thought he ate only souls?” said the Guardian.

“No, in addition, he eats rabbits he has hunted and also loves cheese.”

“And you knew duck eggs and cheese are in our meal?” Nijal was lifting the cover from the dish.

“I will save Ysbryd my cheese.”

*    *    *

Nijal and Brynnan took the time to have a brief session of mutual masturbation. It almost felt like a farewell. On the bed, Brynnan opened the deep purple robe he wore to travel to Annwn,  exposing his penis, while Nijal simply dropped his towel. They lay side by side, half facing each other, which allowed them to kiss as they grasped each other’s cocks. Nijal had brought out a bottle of balsam-scented massage oil and applied it; therefore, Brynnan’s cock slid easily back and forth in the Guardian’s fist as he jerked it off, even as his own member stiffened from the Bard’s manipulation.

Brynnan felt pre-cum oozing from the head of Nijal’s penis mixed with the oil on his hand and cock, making it extra slippery. He could feel the muscle of his friend’s member under the smooth skin as he rubbed it back and forth. Their excitement built as the action sped up. Nijal was forcefully fucking Brynnan’s mouth with his tongue, timing it to the rapid movement of his hand. It was a manoeuvre Brynnan couldn’t do, but it turned him on incredibly. He felt shaky as the urge to cum possessed him as if his muscles were only loosely under his control.

“I’m cumming now, lover!” he managed to say, then the pleasure wave took him, flaring down his legs to his toes and spreading along his arms to his fingertips, even engulfing the top of his head. He was dimly aware of Nijal’s ejaculate creaming over his hand before the Guardian sealed their union with another kiss.

*    *    *

Brynnan prepared to travel to the Shadow Land of Annwn to meet with his father. He embraced Nijal. There were more kisses, and the Guardian’s responses were unusually gentle and profound. He had words for Brynnan.

“Be careful, dear friend. The Huntsman, your Father, is very wise, but remember that he is not human in the physical sense. You are half-human. He sees things from a cosmic perspective, and despite everything, he does not put the same values on life as humans do. For him, and to some extent for myself, there is always another turn of the Wheel. But I live among humans constantly, and we have merged many of our values.

“Whatever he asks you to do, test the idea in your mind first. What do you believe? What would Lord Samir, with his pragmatic viewpoint, think? And what would Geraint or I say? Or your other friends, people who care about you.”

“Do you know something I don’t, Nijal?”

“Only that we deal with a very dangerous adversary who once, however briefly, took your soul and controlled it. You are much more powerful now, but how far do the limits of the Necromancer’s powers go? Will he be one step ahead of you? His pride betrayed him last time, but he will have learned from it. How much more cunning can he be?”

How much indeed! Brynnan felt chilled at Nijal’s words. Fore-armed with a new sense of urgency, he prepared to take his leave. He stood in the centre of the room and first summoned Ysbryd. He commanded the dog to guard Nijal in his absence. Then, as the room temperature plummeted and the mist formed, he faded.

Nijal watched and wished he had other Gods to pray to besides Brynnan’s father.

*    *    *

As the Shadow-ways formed around him, Brynnan thought he heard a voice calling his name. Was it his Lord, Samir, trying to reach him? Then the moment passed, and he was in Annwn.

The twilight seemed darker than usual. Sometimes it was bright as on the cusp of sunrise, pervaded with that feeling of imminence that the coming of the sun brings. But now Brynnan noticed early stars in the sky.

He was in a high place. A structure faced him. It seemed like the ruins of a temple, for there were no walls, only stone pillars supporting a domed roof. Shrubs and stunted trees surrounded the place, and Brynnan wove through them to reach the portico. Inside, a stone bench faced a pool filled with clear water, which glowed blue, casting wavering reflections on the dome. In the very centre, surrounded by the pool, was a massive granite table. To Brynnan’s mind and imagination, it screamed ‘human sacrifice.’

“No,” said a familiar voice, which echoed eerily in the granite dome. “We permit no sacrifices here. The only exception is when we sacrifice ourselves to ourselves. Any petitioners can come and talk to me directly.”

King Arawn stood behind the Bard. He was clothed in a familiar dark amethyst robe, similar to Brynnan’s own. Unusually, he wore a crown of some dark metal. It was designed to look like a thorn thicket. Stag’s antlers sprung from either side of his forehead. Brynnan recognized it as part of a winter ceremony in his homeland, dubbed “the Roebuck in the Thicket.” It indeed suggested sacrifice.

The King stepped forward and placed his hands on Brynnan’s shoulders and kissed him formally on either cheek. This was unusual in itself, as the Huntsman typically embraced his son effusively. The Bard’s curiosity was aroused.

“Come, my son, and be seated. We must talk.”

They seated themselves on the stone bench, and Brynnan stayed respectfully silent, waiting for his Father.

Arawn spoke. “When you had sexual relations with the man in your world called Belisarius, you deep-read his mind. In certain circumstances, I can hear you from Annwn, and this was one of them. You came to a conclusion about the identity of our enemy. I say ‘our enemy’ because he threatens the very concept of our realm and what is mine. This is a human who has learned to influence, indeed control, souls. We cannot easily find him because he hides behind a mask of souls—ones he has absorbed from those people he has killed. It is the essence of Evil. I am the Guardian, as well as the Hunter, of souls. Many find their way to my lands after their body’s death and after their souls cross the Great Desert. This is rightly called by some ‘the Island of the Blessed’ and ‘Land of the Ever-Young.’ I’m sure you know of other names for our realm, including the darker ones such as ‘Land of Shadows.’ Some even call it ‘the Wasteland, ruled by a crippled King who guards a treasure.’” Arawn laughed shortly, without humour. “These ones know nothing. It is their own fear that makes them name it so. And, of course, every fabled kingdom must have a treasure, is that not correct? And we do have a treasure.”

Arawn faced Brynnan, and this time he touched his face, tracing the Bard’s closely-bearded jaw with his fingertips.

“That treasure is you, my son! I have longed for you for countless ages. Your humanity and compassion blend with my divinity and make you unique.”

“So you brought me into existence so you could sacrifice me for some glorious cause?” Brynnan replied, looking him in the eye. “Sacrificing what is most precious to you is an ancient trope and was probably popular in the sagas and tales of the times before the Long Dark.”

“Your imagination is delightful, my son, and is the very stuff good Bards are made of. But no. That is not your ultimate purpose. I will not sacrifice you.”

Somewhere inside, Brynnan breathed a sigh of relief.

“But,” continued Arawn, “I will ask you to sacrifice yourself.”

Brynnan felt a flush of heat, then ice cold, wash over his skin as his heart beat faster.

Arawn continued, “I have shocked you, as I intended. I have a serious proposal for you: if your soul left your body, it could easily find the Necromancer, despite his screening of himself. You know him unlike any other, myself included. You must let him absorb or claim your soul—after a suitable struggle, of course—so that you may confront his own. You must find out how the implant works and destroy it. This thing must never be allowed to be used in anyone else’s brain: the danger is too real. It even poses some risk to me. Think what a coup the Ruh-çağıran would have; to possess my soul.”

“He would not survive it,” stated Brynnan.

“No, but it allows him to plan all kinds of mischief.”

“But for me to allow my own soul to roam, my body would have to die again,” said Brynnan. “This is a far distant prospect than taking on my spirit-form and travelling that way, where I am not actually discorporated. This time, I really would have to die.”

“Yes.”

“Again.”

“Yes.”

Brynnan stared at his Father, trying to fathom that complex mind. It was tempting to say, ‘You’re kidding,’ or some such phrase, but joking in this manner was an act Arawn was incapable of doing. Was this something that Nijal had somehow foreseen?

The plan was breathtaking (literally, Brynnan thought) in its scope, but oh, so full of risks. Was it worth it? What would be the consequences if Brynnan failed in overcoming the Necromancer? He could not decide on the spot.

Arawn must have realized this, saying, “This is difficult for you. Know that I would keep your body here, protected, and in stasis until your soul returned. But come, you don’t have to decide at this moment. Let me strengthen you with my spirit, as we have been accustomed to doing.”

The Bard thought about it only briefly before accepting. “Yes, Father. I need your strength. But please take off that crown first. I cannot imagine you sucking my cock while wearing that!”

This time Arawn’s laugh was genuine. He reached up and removed the crown. The stag horns stayed on his temples for brief moments before fading away.

“There. Come with me.”

The King stood and removed his robe, then helped Brynnan with his. He laid both garments on the bench. He took his son’s hand and led him into the glowing pool, which turned out to be only knee-deep. The disturbed water’s rippling light sent overlapping patterns up their naked bodies and over the inside of the dome.

As they reached the wide stone table at the pool’s centre, Brynnan saw several thick, red blankets and sheepskins covering it. He climbed upon it, and Arawn joined him.

The Bard sighed as he rested his head in the crook of Arawn’s shoulder. He lay for a little time, still and quiet, warming into the embrace, before the King kissed him, and this time there was tenderness, and not formality, in it. Brynnan kissed him back, allowing himself to sink into the sensations. His left hand roved down his Father’s chest, brushing his nipples, and down to his groin, where he found a stiffening penis. He stroked it lightly and felt it leap in response.

“May I suck your cock, Father?” he murmured.

“You will please me greatly if you do, my son,” Arawn replied.

So Brynnan moved his way down Arawn’s body, similar to his own in hair pattern and musculature, except that Arawn’s cock was significantly larger, and he was taller than his son. The Bard paused on his way down to suck the nipples, gently clenching them in his teeth, pulling then nursing on them, flicking them with his tongue. Arawn gave a deep grunt of pleasure as he stroked his son’s head. Then Brynnan licked the hair trailing down to the now-hard cock.

He kissed the tip and probed the piss-slit with his tongue, lapping up the flood of pre-cum that formed in response. Now he massaged his Father’s testicles and probed his ass as he licked the long cock-shaft. Finally, he slipped his Father’s penis into his mouth and began to suck.

Arawn’s hips moved in response, straining to push his cock deeper down his son’s throat. Brynnan relaxed to accommodate it, deep-throating him. He could take most of it, long as it was, and let his rippling throat muscles work the shaft even as his tongue swirled against the smooth skin.

Brynnan sucked his father until Arawn said, “Move up here and turn over on your side: I will fuck your ass from behind.”

The Bard obliged. He crooked one leg up to open himself to his Father. Arawn reached down and pulled at the hanging ball sack, then his fingers roamed behind it on the perineal area to the ass hole. The Huntsman then used his copious pre-cum to lubricate the rectal passage, pushing his thumb inside while his fingers gripped his son’s balls. Then Arawn held onto his cock, guiding it to the rectal sweet spot.

He pushed against the sphincter, more pre-cum discharging to moisten the entrance, then the head of Arawn’s cock was inside.

Brynnan grunted in acknowledgement, then said, “Push it all the way in my ass, Father; fuck me: make me cum for you.”

His need was strong now. A peculiarly deep pain that required treatment. Love, lust, fear of death, and fear for his soul. His father held the medicinal potion to cure or alleviate his symptoms. He cried out when Arawn plunged his cock all the way in. He wanted this!

Arawn easily read his son’s desire and proceeded to fuck him thoroughly. Gripping Brynnan’s hip, pulling him onto his rock-hard penis, he pumped it in and out with an abandonment the moment demanded. He knew his son would cum very soon, so he was relentless.

Brynnan bowed his head to his chest and moaned, giving in to the fire raging within him. “I’m going to cum, Father: I can’t stop it!” Then the wave took him, flinging him onto the rocks of the limits of his own capability. He wanted to be fucked forever but was denied by his all-too-human side.

But as he hung limply, pinned, it seemed, on his Father’s unforgiving phallus, Brynnan heard Arawn say, “I am cumming inside you, beloved son. Take my lust for you at this moment; and my semen.”

Arawn came. His hot ejaculate flooded Brynnan’s ass like molten lava in a volcanic pipe, rising rapidly and spilling out onto the landscape of his skin, drenching his ass-cheeks and thigh. Brynnan could barely hold onto his overburdened emotions, and tears poured down his face, even though he tried to control the urge to weep.

Arawn’s arm came around him, and he held his son; just held him. Eventually, the Grey Huntsman said, “You don’t have to decide right now; I will give you three days and then we must make a move before the Necromancer does. If you need to return here sooner, do so. I will know, and I will be waiting for you.”

Brynnan gathered the remnants of his composure. “I will abide by your word, my Father. I see no other option. But first, I want to deal with Soren, who arranged the plot to have me and Nijal killed. He is still a physical danger at every turn.”

“You have Ysbryd?” Arawn asked.

“Yes, Father. Currently, he is guarding Nijal in my absence.”

“Very well. But if the beast is needed elsewhere, do not hesitate to send him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard a voice crying in the Wilderness, as your ancient text puts it. Now let me take you to our home, to Caer Arawn. We will bathe together, and you may rest. Time will go gently on you so that on your return, it will seem as if time herself has been to sleep.”

They arose and crossed the pool again, making the light dance.

*    *    *

At Caer Arawn, Brynnan slept. But his sleep was troubled. The voice he had heard in the Shadow-ways called to him again. He struggled awake and became aware of his surroundings. His Father was seated in an oversized, carved chair, watching him.

“I heard a voice, Father,” he said.

“Yes, one is calling you. I hear it too.”

“Who is it?”

“Listen!”

Brynnan focused on the pathways in the aether. Then he heard it clearly, and a pang of recognition tore through him.

‘Samir, my heart’s love. I hear you now. What ails you?’

‘Brynnan, my lover. Be careful. Your attacker’s voice gets stronger. He is now calling on my mind. The urge to journey to Siginak is almost overwhelming, but I am fighting it!’

‘Fight it with all your strength, dear Lord. I will deal with it soon.’

He listened for a reply, but there was only mind-silence. He looked up at King Arawn. “Father, I must go. You will get your wish as soon as I deal with Strategist Soren: I will come to you. There is no choice now.”

“What changes your mind?” asked Arawn, rising to meet Brynnan as he slipped from his Father’s bed.

“I have just heard from my Lord Samir. The Necromancer targets him!”

*    *    *

To be continued . . .