Brynnan: The Alsar Imperative : Chapter 12

The Tower of Mavrenn

Upon the summit of Mount Narib, Nijal, Dronnadh, and Azander worked to save Jorge, the dying hunter. Jorge had taken a sword in the chest from Adelchis, the Senarican assassin, who now lay dead by Azander’s hand.

“We need blood,” said Nijal with unaccustomed emotion. He placed another orb nearby to give them more light and pulled the tubing and blood exchange equipment from his kit.

“You would give him your Alsar blood?” asked Azander. “You know it will change him at the cellular level if his body accepts it.”

“No, not my blood, but yours—and Dronnadh’s. Here, give me your arm, then keep still.”

“I would refuse, except my son shed Jorge’s blood, so I suppose there is a kind of justice in this.” Azander winced slightly as Nijal’s needle pierced his vein.

Samir stood behind them, keeping guard over the insensate bodies of Brynnan and Prince Jehanadir. “Your son! How is that even possible? To my knowledge, you Alsar cannot appear out of thin air, as Adelchis seemed to do. And how did you not know him?”

“He is partly Alsar. But his mother had powers, too. However, it is almost unknown that an Alsar and a human produce offspring.”

“Almost,” said Nijal. “Our Warlord’s second wife, Mara, had a human father from ArMorica and an Alsar mother. Forgive me for speaking of it, Samir, but Azander needs to understand this.”

“You may speak of it,” said Samir heavily. “I have held it deep inside long enough.”

At that moment, Eren, the head priest, entered the tent, followed by a silent and pale Shahin. Eren crossed to Samir’s charges and examined them. “They breathe quietly. We can assume no threat is present.”

The Warlord turned back and looked down at his lover, Brynnan, and the Prince. “I wonder where their spirits are now?”

* * *

Brynnan, carried on the tide of awareness, joined his spirit-body to Jehanadir’s. Their senses encompassed the land, flowing out before them, touching the roots of things and the minds of animals and birds. He knew they had left some great disturbance behind, but their essences were caught in the grip of the Water of Life, which they had consumed, and there was no turning back.

‘Something terrible has recently walked the land,’ sent Jehanadir to Brynnan’s mind. ‘We have just missed it. Can you follow its spoor?’

‘It delves into the Shadow-ways, where we must go. Stay with me now,’ the Bard cautioned.

The quiet fields were bathed in the waning moon’s light, but Brynnan knew the peace was deceptive. He sensed the disturbance and, gripping Jehanadir, sank beneath the land. The Shadow-ways surrounded them.

The passages seemed a long road through a dark forest, with portals between the arched trees. The always-present silver mist wreathed the Bard and the Prince’s astral forms. Then Brynnan felt the wind. It blew out of the darkness, blocking their path to Arawn’s realm.

‘There was no wind before,’ sent Jehanadir.

‘It’s a new phenomenon. Hold tight now; we are about to cross into Annwn ....”’

The wind engulfed them, roaring. Hidden within it was a voice calling out to them, pulling them toward its originating portal. Brynnan resisted it with every iota of his being.

‘I’m being pulled away!’ the Prince’s voice echoed in his mind.

‘A moment more—there!’

Annwn’s strange beauty surrounded them, and the wind ceased. The two men took a moment to orient themselves. Brynnan had become used to travelling bodily to his Father’s kingdom, and having his spirit form manifest again was almost a new experience. To his vision, Jehanadir looked like his human semblance except for the vibrant purple aura that surrounded him. When Brynnan extended his arm, he found it bathed in shifting rainbow light.

Jehanadir reached out a glowing hand. ‘I had forgotten how strange this is. Where do we go from here?’

Before Brynnan could answer, an animal came out of the woodland undergrowth: a white stag. It pawed the ground before them and snorted.

Jehanadir sent, ‘I see the beast’s eyes! They are so strange: blue flares of light in dark hollows. Almost as if ....’

Brynnan could see for himself. He had to focus because his spirit’s vision presented each object in many phases. Trees were simultaneously young saplings and aged, gnarly veterans with great, spreading branches. The branches bore leaves ranging from furled spring buds to mature greenery to autumn fire. But the stag—

‘Father, it is you!’

But the beast’s form persisted. It turned and walked away before stopping and looking back, inviting the two men to follow.

‘Come on,’ Brynnan sent to Jehanadir, holding his hand.

They soon found themselves in a glade. The stag stopped, and its form shimmered, changing rapidly. King Arawn stood before them, the stag’s antlers still gracing his brow. He wore only a simple purple robe, and his eyes, no longer the eyes of death, were a warm, liquid darkness that held them in his gaze.

“We must join our spirit bodies before we go further,” he said. “I would have met you first in the Material Realm and had sex with you. Jehanadir, you especially need my essence, as your physical form must come here for the work that must be done. Your spirit form will be too vulnerable.”

‘Vulnerable to what, Lord King?’ queried Jehanadir.

“My kingdom is not secure,” said the Shadow Lord. “Events have happened in your world which constitute a summoning. Something moves towards us. Come, we shall lie together.”

Arawn’s form shimmered again. He appeared naked, and a glowing aura of icy blue-black fire limned him as he held out his hands to Brynnan and the Prince. They knelt before him as if at worship, and an untamed sexual urge claimed them. Their forms seemed to become more real and solid in the Shadow Realm of Annwn. The Grey Huntsman’s cock stood proud and erect, and both the kneeling men sucked and licked it. Jehanadir lapped at Arawn’s tight ball sack while Brynnan took his Father’s cock deep into his throat, working it with his muscles.

Then Arawn sank to his knees before them, the stag antlers disappearing just before they would have raked Brynnan’s face. Intuitively, the Shadow Lord’s son and the Prince lay on their backs on the short turf covered with tiny, scented purple flowers. Arawn bent over them and kissed their cocks, then stroked each one. His grasp felt firm, and Brynnan felt dripping pre-cum moistening his shaft. When Arawn mounted Brynnan, he was ready. The tide of erotic feeling swept over him as his Father’s cock penetrated his rectal passage, and he surrendered to the intense, thrusting action of the spear of flesh that impaled him. Unexpectedly, Brynnan felt an orgasm claim him, and his cum spilled freely.

Then Arawn turned his attention to the Prince, grasping his ass and pushing his cock inside. Jehanadir groaned. It came to Brynnan’s mind that his Father’s cum could be deadly unless his expressed purpose in fucking someone was to bind them to his realm. He realized Jehanadir’s soul was now caught: it would find its way to Annwn after his death. Brynnan’s one comfort in the thought was that the Prince and Shahin would meet each other, for the Bard had once ridden the Shadow-ways on his horse with the young dancer clinging to his back, inadvertently tying the boy’s soul to Annwn.

Now it was Jehanadir’s turn to cum, and his semen sprayed across his body: a body that now seemed more solid and present, as, Brynnan realized, was his own. Arawn began to ejaculate inside Jehanadir before withdrawing himself from the Prince’s ass and, kneeling over the two men, grasping his cock. Cum sprayed copiously over Brynnan’s loins and chest before the King again blessed Jehanadir with his hot seed.

* * *

In the Material World, Nijal and Dronnadh, with Azander’s aid, still struggled to preserve the old hunter Jorge’s life.

“Is there any improvement?” Azander asked. He had finished giving his blood, but now Dronnadh was connected to Jorge by a needle from the vein on the inside of his arm. Nijal’s hand touched the side of Jorge’s throat.

“I can feel a definite blood pressure now: the transfer works but takes time. If only Jorge does not bleed too much within.” Then the Alsar surgeon took a needle-tipped glass plunger from the towel beside him and injected its contents into the vein in Jorge’s arm. “This should help in blood clotting and stem the internal bleeding.”

Nijal turned to Shahin, who crouched close by. “Come here, lad, and hold this sponge to the wound. The sutures should keep it closed, but it needs to drain.”

Shahin quickly obeyed. Although still pale, his trembling had stopped. Nijal knew that giving the boy tasks would only help ease his nerves.

A cry from Samir turned their attention. “They fade!”

Sure enough, the inert forms of Brynnan and Jehanadir showed a growing insubstantiality. But it was the head priest, Eren, who called it aright. “Their bodies are being summoned—to the Shadow Lord’s kingdom, I trust.”

“Where else would they go?” asked Shahin, alarmed.

“You just had to ask that . . .” muttered Azander.

“Peace!” The Warlord’s stern voice held the group’s attention. “Brynnan told me he might travel bodily to his Father’s kingdom. If he has gone, it stands to reason that Prince Jehanadir would follow. King Arawn has the means to make it safe for him. I, myself, have undergone that summons to Annwn and returned alive, as you see me. Trust that the Prince will return in good health also.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” asked Shahin as tears trickled down his face.

Azander embraced the boy. “We have the hardest task: we wait and hope.”

* * *

Jehanadir stood and looked down at himself. “I feel so different. Am I still alive, or is this my soul?”

“Trust me, you are physically present in this realm,” said the Shadow Lord. “Now you may continue your journey. Follow this track. It will lead you to Mavrenn’s tower.”

“Lord King, can you give us clothing?” Jehanadir asked. “I would not go naked into the presence of a Lady.”

Arawn smiled. “It hardly matters to a soul if you appear in your natural state. You will be fortunate if she conceals her own true self from you and shows you a human form. But I will honour your request, so you may be unashamed to speak with her if she meets you.”

In the space of a breath, the Prince and Brynnan were clothed: Jehanadir in a loose, blood-red robe and Brynnan in an amethyst-coloured one.

“Thank you, Father, for indulging in our vanity,” Brynnan said drily.

“Go now; I shall be within call.” Arawn faded from their sight.

“I will never get used to how he keeps transforming himself,” sighed Jehanadir.

“Trust me: if you visit here again, you will become accustomed. This kingdom shifts with my Father’s thought, and time means little here.”

They continued on the trail. Jehanadir’s human vision drank in his surroundings. “It’s beautiful here, almost beyond belief, and seems peaceful.”

“Annwn is vast and has many regions, both beautiful and terrible. This is Mavrenn’s wood: I am just surprised it does not reflect a battlefield with skulls, broken swords and ravens.”

Just then, the croaking calls of a raven reached them as if on cue. They heard the rasping, sawing sounds of beating wings, and the raven drifted over their heads. Brynnan called to it, and it settled on the Bard’s outstretched arm. An iridescent black eye regarded him as the bird uttered a bell-like note.

“It’s huge. It must weigh heavily on you!” the Prince exclaimed.

“It weighs nothing: it is the soul of a raven who was once alive. Annwn is a haven for them,” said Brynnan. “We must be very close to the tower.” He cast it from his arm, and it flew off.

The trees opened to reveal a tall, round tower of blue-grey stone with a crenellated lookout on its top. More ravens appeared, some circling the building and others perching on the stonework. The walls were thick with ivy, blending the construct into its natural surroundings.

Jehanadir stopped and stared at it. “It is like something from an old tale.”

“ ‘The Lay of the Raven Queen.’ It’s an old ballad. Mavrenn has her own brand of humour,” said the Bard.

“Speaking of which, I did not see your harp before we left. Surely she is not still in your room, unattended?”

“No, my friend,” Brynnan replied. “There is a secure place in the Shadow-ways where I put her in my absence, and this time I called on my Father’s great dog, Ysbryd, to guard her.”

Jehanadir stared at him, then asked, “I see no door into the tower or embrasures. How do we enter it?”

“We don’t. We are waiting to be invited. Mavrenn will appear, or she won’t. I suggest you call her.”

“Wouldn’t she heed you better?”

“Probably, but it’s best to engage her curiosity.”

Jehanadir raised his voice. “Lady Mavrenn, your Servant and I are here to converse with you! Please answer us.”

“A whisper would work just as well,” Brynnan commented amidst a clamouring chorus of ravens.

“Prince Jehanadir of Narib, in the Mortal Realm, and Brynnan, my Servant. Be welcome.”

Just like that, Mavrenn was there before them. She appeared as a tall woman whose beauty was astounding, making her difficult to behold, with long, black untamed hair blowing around her face and body. Her black gown and cloak floated around her in a silent wind that only she could apparently feel. Her aura flickered in pinguid, iridescent colours, like a raven’s feathers in sunlight, and her eyes glowed red.

Jehanadir dropped to one knee. “Great Mavrenn, Warrior Queen and Songstress, I am privileged to hear the beauty of your voice in my own realm. Brynnan serves you well.”

Mavrenn’s expression was thoughtful as she regarded the Prince. “Your words honour me, and I thank you.”

But Brynnan cut to the heart of the matter with unaccustomed frankness. “My Lady, we come with tidings; perhaps you are already aware.”

“We will speak in the tower. Follow me.”

Mavrenn’s form abruptly fragmented, becoming a flock of black birds. They flew towards the tower and disappeared.

“How ...?” said Jehanadir.

“Just take my hand,” replied Brynnan.

Jehanadir did so, and suddenly they were in a dark room lit with numerous candles and small orbs. The room gave the impression of being much larger than the tower could allow. Recessed archways around the curving wall opened into darkness, suggesting portals to other places. However, the floor was rich with layered carpets and cushions in jewel tones, and a slab of purple and green fluorite served as a low table.

Mavrenn sat gracefully upon the pillows behind the table, and she gestured at the Bard and the Prince.

“Be seated, my friends.” Her words were warm, but her expression was grave as she faced them.

“My Lady, Your soul is resplendent and beautiful. Why do you hide away in darkness?” Jehanadir dared to ask.

“My tower is my refuge. But I do not hide. Brynnan will tell you that I travel the breadth of this realm by the Shadow Lord’s grace, greeting new souls who have died in battle. My Bard guides the dead, and while he escorts them to the Dread Portal from whence souls travel, not all reach Annwn, only those King Arawn welcomes or summons. I also travel in dreams and visions, and many warriors lying on the fields of death in the Mortal Realm have dreamed their final dream of me, and my Bard lets them hear my voice.”

“Alas, you would find little appeal in me: the only war my land has seen while I have been alive is when the Invaders from the Stars arrived.”

“But you have fought your own terrible personal battles, and each spring, you go forth to protect your land in your Spring Rite. You are a warrior in spirit, Prince Jehanadir.”

“I thank you for saying so. I did not expect your praise.”

“Not praise, only truth,” said Mavrenn. “And now, we will discuss why you are both present: I am in danger, but you have placed yourselves in its path in coming here.”

“We came to warn you. The Alsar Diviner, Dronnadh, reads the Patterns, and he tells us that the threat is nigh.”

“Do you know what it is?” the Lady asked, tilting her head like a curious raven.

“It is a sinister force ranged against us, but there is an entity, a person behind it,” said Brynnan.

“You speak truly. Events have been put in motion, and there is no avoiding them. There has been a death in your land, Prince Jehanadir, that will bring about a potential cataclysm.”

“My Lady, why have you refused to speak with my Father?” Brynnan asked.

“So you know ...I do not want to draw my Lord Arawn here. He is my benefactor, and I would fight for his realm, this Land of the Blessed and of Shadow. But our enemy targets me, and I am loth to put my Lord at risk. Both of you are in danger yourselves. It would be safest if you left very soon. Tell me, my beloved Servant, have you felt the wind?”

Brynnan was surprised. “Do you refer to the wind that blows through the Shadow ways?”

“I do. It is a wind from the Abyss. Beware its source.”

But, unexpectedly, Brynnan smiled and raised his hand to touch the brands on his breast. “I am not unacquainted with the workings of the Abyss. It contains everything and nothing, and its very nothingness is its power.”

“Yes. You summoned death to yourself. When you came here to die, I grieved for you. But your Father allowed you a rare gift.”

Suddenly, she looked up, gazing through one of the darkened archways in the room. “It draws close. You had better leave now, both of you.”

“No,” stated the Prince, and his violet eyes glowed with an inner resolve. “Brynnan and I came here to be with you. I have drank the Water of Life, and its power flows within me still. Let me read the currents of What-Is-To-Be, even as I read my land.”

“Dear fools. You will most likely perish with me.” But Mavrenn reached out and took their hands.

To Brynnan, her touch felt like an intense tingling, a power current. He was reminded of the Dome in Annwn containing the blue pool where he had died. The water had produced a similar sensation when he had waded through it. Jehanadir bravely did not flinch, though it must have hurt him, being wholly mortal, yet he now was part of Annwn through the gift of Arawn’s semen in his body, so he could bear that touch.

The temperature in the tower room suddenly plunged, and a freezing wind blew. The candles instantly snuffed out, but the orb lights remained, though dimmed. A pallid glow appeared in the archway opposite Mavrenn as though the moonlight had found its way in. A depth to it suggested a far distance, and in that distance appeared a spark, rapidly growing brighter. Then it became like a bolt of red lightning moving so slowly that its branching strikes could be observed in real-time. Brynnan knew he had seen it before: at the Mirror of Souls, when he had last stood before that black lake with his Father.

A grey fog poured from the archway into the room as the thing drew close, and oddly, there was the scent of flowers, but overly ripe and almost rotten, as if the blooms were poisonous. Brynnan felt the energy flow out of him, weakening his body, as he threw a shield around Mavrenn, Jehanadir and himself. The strange scent quickly dissipated.

“Beware! It is the death mist!” Mavrenn whispered.

“Lady?” said Jehanadir, puzzled.

“The clouding of the eyes after death ...It seeks to invade us. Hold on! I will shield as long as I can!” Brynnan cried.

* * *

Shahin knelt beside the old hunter, holding his hand even as his shoulders shook with sobs, which he tried to hold back. “Jorge was telling me stories, trying to distract me,” the boy said. “He was being kind; then that man appeared, and Jorge fought. I thought he was old and stiff, but I swear he moved like a falcon diving to seize its prey. Next thing I see, he is lying on the ground dying ....”

Nijal said, “I understand your grief, boy, but Jorge is still holding on, and I believe your heart’s love will return. But ‘that man’ was also Azander’s son. Your Guardian friend must grieve at some point, too. Be kind to him.”

Shahin turned to face the Alsar Guardian. “Azander! I’m so sorry that you had to—stop him. How did you not suspect, though?”

“It was long ago, and I stopped sensing his essence, his presence in the aether. I thought he was dead, but he was shielding from me. Jorge told me he had known of Adelchis as an assassin, but I did not make the connection—his mother named him differently.”

“May I ask you about her?” said Shahin,

“Her name was Devana, and I thought she was a powerful forest sorceress who held sway over the woodland spirits and worshipped the moon, but human, all the same. But over the long years, I have begun to suspect there was a facet of her personality I did not know. She was always attracted to the dead—animal or human—she found. I couldn’t understand it, and eventually, I left her. She raised our son to manhood, and I had little contact with him. Now it seems my son had inherited part of his mother’s powers, and I suspect her of practicing some dark art. She could summon spirits.” Azander sighed. “I’m sorry to add my burdens to yours, Shahin. Turn your mind from it.”

But Shahin reacted, surprising the rust-haired Guardian. He let go of Jorge’s hand and put himself in Azanders arms, kissing him. “I am sure my dear Jehanadir would give me leave to comfort you: he has changed in recent times and is compassionate.”

“Boy, you are kind to say so. I will not refuse you: I think we both need this comfort.”

Dronnadh touched Azander’s shoulder. “Stay here in the tent. We are guarded, but this night is not over. Events have yet to unfold.” Something in Dronnadh’s eyes warned them that his words should be heeded.

Then Samir came over to them. Unfastening his long cloak, he laid it on the grass. “Azander and the young falcon can rest upon it. Be easy: your actions will in no way disturb those who are here. And if Brynnan and Jehanadir were present, they would join you.”

Azander took Shahin’s hand and pulled him down on the cloak. “Turn your mind and heart to me for this little while.”

The Guardian opened Shahin’s tunic and stripped it off him. Then both continued to undress. Azander framed the young dancer’s face in his hands and kissed his tears. “Stop weeping now, and let us give ourselves to each other.”

Shahin responded and parted his lips when the Azander kissed his mouth. “Take me, please.”

“Yes . . .”

Shahin bent and took Azander’s penis in his mouth as his partner stroked the boy’s head and back. The Guardian let the sucking continue as his cock stiffened, pushing it in and out and gently fucking Shahin’s mouth in response to the actions of the boy’s lips.

“Come up here,” Azander instructed.

He rolled on top of his young lover, pressing his member against Shahin’s engorged one. Pre-cum moistened their cocks as the Alsar rubbed his body against the boy’s while kissing his mouth and nipples. Then he reached down and grasped the young dancer’s firm, rounded buttocks as Shahin raised his hips. His proud cock pushed into the boy’s anal sphincter.

“Let me fuck you.”

“Please, sir . . .” Shahin responded, too overcome to say more. He moaned and writhed against the older man, his ecstasy apparent to the onlookers.

Dronnadh whispered to Samir, “The needs of grief and the proximity of death often bring sexual passion. Their energies are strong. It will help our injured hunter.”

“I have seen it many times after a violent conflict has occurred,” replied the Warlord. “Men who have immersed themselves in death often seek life in this manner to reaffirm their humanity, that they are still alive. Sometimes the survivors engage in rape afterwards, but here, I sense nothing but love.”

“We will need this energy tonight,” said Dronnadh. “If it weren’t for Jorge, I would recommend that we all engage in such a manner.”

“You think there is more trouble to come?”

“I know there is.”

They continued watching as boy and man fucked. Azander was pounding Shahin now, and the young dancer cried out.

“I’m cumming! Please, give me your seed, sir!”

Azander’s whole body tensed as he shot his semen deep into Shahin’s ass. Watching, the Warlord’s resolve strengthened. He would protect them with his life.

* * *

To be continued . . .

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