Brynnan and the Sea Raiders

The Pact

The Skáld introduced himself to the court of King Eirik Eikinskjald. He named himself simply Hrafnsgaldr, Raven’s Magic. When asked why, he told the King, “I listen to the discourse of ravens on the battlefield. Valr unda, the falcon of wounds, has much to relate.”

King Eirik was tall, with greying red-blond hair, braided and tied back, while his beard flowed free and unadorned. He was well into middle age but carried the bearing of a warrior.

He looked at this unknown and disturbing skáld. The man, still young, dressed in clothing more suited to a hunter than a poet.

Eirik replied to the man. “And what do the hrafnar relate to you?”

“Stories of conflict. Bloody fields where ravens feast. I have a tale to tell of one of your high lords. I come fresh from events that would seem to stretch belief, but no untruth crosses my lips. Would you hear it?”

“What Lord of mine do you have news of?”

“Your battle chieftain, rider of the sea-steed Einheri, Jarl Falke.”

“And its importance?”

“Jarl Falke took a blót, one destined to be a blood sacrifice, in a raid. It began a chain of events that ultimately caused his death.”

King Eirik gripped the arms of his chair. “Dead? How do you know this?”

“I was there,” the skald replied calmly.

“Impossible! He is still raiding across the sea! You would have had to fly to get here so quickly.”

The skáld shrugged. It was an eloquent gesture.

“Will you hear it or not? If you do, I will show you proof of my words.”

The King’s nobles offered their various opinions, but most wanted to hear what this strange skáld should say, if only out of curiosity.

“Very well, I will hear it, but I shall expect your proof.”

“That is easily done, Lord King. I call this tale ‘Falke’s Blót.’

He told the tale well, employing the much-loved kennings and alliterative style. But the subject matter was grim and told how Falke found a man who could talk to the dead, but the captive somehow evaded the first attempt at being sacrificed. He was offered to the Sea God but was stolen by one Jarl Arne of the longship Mjothvitnir. This angered the Powers and cheated the Lord of Death, who used the Wild Hunt to terrify and confuse the raiding warriors. Falke then challenged the Warlord who commanded the defenders. They fought ferociously, but the Jarl’s anger mastered him, and he fell, killed by the Warlord. His soul was forfeit, taken by the Hunt.

There was silence afterwards as men pondered this awful fate.

King Eirik leaned forward pensively in his chair, chin resting on one hand. “Well told, but a dark tale indeed. And the Einheri to be burned, as would be fitting. But I cannot reconcile the timeline. Show me your proof, if you can.”

They were interrupted by King Eirik’s wife. “Be most careful, my Lord. You do not know who this skáld will bring in to support his story!”

“Your wife is astute, but I bring in no one who does not belong here. Prepare yourselves.”

Brynnan noticed men of Eirik’s guard gripping their sword hilts. He stood still and focused.

A hollow, booming sound came from the great doors to the hall, but no one dared open them. The sound repeated itself.

“Will you deny your guests your hospitality?”

“What is out there that makes such sounds?”

“Only those who witnessed the slaying of Falke: men of the Fleet. No strangers are among them. Surely you may recognize some.”

King Eirik mastered himself. “Open the doors!” he shouted.

His guard hastened to obey. They wrested the doors open, but instead of the light of orbs, only blackness filled the entranceway, and the guard stepped back. Cold air roiled towards them in a wave, and the darkness itself seemed to spread into the great hall. Whispering began, but not from the assembled nobles.

“What is this?” shouted Eirik and stood, spilling his drinking horn.

“Those that can corroborate my tale,” replied the skáld. “For although Jarl Falke named me Hrafn, Raven, that is not my name.”

Then he turned to the shadows crowding the hall. “Jarl Falke Rammr-hond, come forth! I, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, call you.”

The whisperings grew louder, and the shadows revealed a grey form. As it came closer, it became more clearly a man’s shape and then the fully realized shape of Falke. His body bore the terrible wounds of his death, and his blue-grey countenance was drawn and harrowed.

People in the hall made the sign of the hammer and other protective invocations. 

“Hrafnsgaldr indeed!” said Eirik.

“You may question him,” said Brynnan. “I will give him his voice. The soul retains its earthly memory as long as it is bound to this realm.”

King Eirik faced the apparition, which gradually appeared more solid and real.

“You are no draugr, are you? Can you understand me, Falke? Who took your life?”

The soul’s voice echoed as it whispered,  ‘A mighty Warlord took my life when we faced each other in combat.’

“When was this?”

The soul did not reply.

“Time has little meaning to a soul,” said Brynnan.

The King clarified his question.

“The sun has travelled across the sky, but the moon still rises in the house of the Swan,” the ghost replied.

“He means ‘yesterday,’” said Brynnan helpfully.

“And how can you travel so fast, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, unless you are also a vætre, a spirit being?”

“Perhaps I am.”

King Eirik turned back to the soul of Falke. “What weregild do you require to satisfy your honour. Do you require this man’s life or that of the Warlord who killed you?”

‘There will be no weregild,’ whispered the soul. ‘I made the challenge; it was to the death. Do not under any circumstances endeavour to kill this man. He will take your soul instead. He was my chosen blót, my sacrifice. I attempted twice, but still he returned alive.’

The King shivered. “What will be your fate, Falke, my once-friend?”

‘I am doomed to take part in the Hunt. We fly across the sky with the Hunter’s hounds, seeking stray souls. I will do this until the Hunter chooses to release me.’

There were murmurs of dismay among the assembly at the mention of the Hunt. The people of the Northlands knew of only one; Oden’s Jakt. A slow terror spread in the hall as the King and his people realized what had come among them. 

Then the darkness shifted, and pieces detached, assuming the forms of other dead raiders. The susurration of their faint voices filled the open space, whispering, striving to be heard. Each tried to speak the manner of their death, and some called people in the hall by their name. Panic threatened to seize the entire assembly as, very faintly, hounds could be heard.

“Make them stop!” the King cried out. He was usually a brave and ruthless man, but the legends had long portrayed the horror and devastation that the Hunt, led by the blue-cloaked Hrafnagud, could bring.

Brynnan  called out to the ghostly assembly, “Silence your voices and await me at the haugr.”

Instantly, the ghosts winked out as if they had never been in Eirik’s hall. Brynnan could have dismissed them silently, but he required his power to be seen and heard. He needed the people’s fear to establish his demands.

All eyes were turned upon him.

“What do you want, Hunter’s son, that even the dead obey?” the King asked.

“I come to tell you to cease your raids and your designs of conquest upon our coastlands. The Warlord that slew Falke has given you his final response in force of arms. From now on, when your raiders approach our shores, the Hunt will greet them, and the Black One, a terror from the sea, will come to your ships.

King Eirik’s eyes assumed a cunning expression. “There are other Gods that have been our allies . . .”

“If you mean the elemental Gods of Wind and Sea, you have lost their favour. The realms have been sundered, and they can no longer accept your sacrifices. You have one chance. We will welcome your traders if they come peacefully. You have many goods that others desire, and you can gain what you desire by exchanging goods, not by plunder and enforced enslavement. Now, what say you? Do you persist and invoke the maelstrom, or do you want to rethink your position?”

The King shut his eyes and bowed his head, swallowing the bitter truth that he had no choice.

“If we acquiesce, what of my fellow kings in these lands?”

“They will be given the same choice and the same opportunities. Delegates will come soon to your shores, and you can hammer out your trade agreements together.”

“Who are you that leaders of the city-states and the Hunter himself listens to you?” the King asked in wonder.

“I am just the Huntsman’s son and the Servant of Ravens.”

“Then I will have to accept your terms,” Eirik replied heavily. “This new way will be hard for us, and some will dissent and maybe go against me, but I cannot afford to release that terror on the land.”

“Dissenters will see reason in short order. I am a patient man, but those I serve are not.”

Then the King looked deeply into Brynnan’s dark eyes. “And is there any hope for my old friend Falke, or is he eternally doomed?”

Brynnan paused before answering. “There is always hope,” he replied.

*    *    *

He rode alone and in starlight to the burial grounds where the haugr, or barrows, were raised. He took the way over land, not the almost-instantaneous Shadow-ways. Rhiannon tossed her head as she cantered, her swift hoofs disdaining the ground. The Hunt was both a duty and a burden, but these solitary rides among clouds made it worthwhile somehow. The sense of freedom was all-encompassing. But the burial mounds were waiting, with the Host of the Dead, the hounds, and King Arawn himself.

They met and embraced, with Brynnan feeling that quiet love his father always gave him.

The Shadow Lord said to Brynnan, “Wind the horn and call the hounds. We continue our ride. Let the Hunt be seen in all parts of this land. I will bend time and use the swift tracks, the old pathways of the elven hosts of legend. People will long remember the sounds of our passing.”

Riding their grey horses side-by-side, Brynnan and his father took the Hunt on a remarkable sweep of the raiders’ land. Time passed in a blur of wind, hounds, ghosts and the frightened wails of those beholding the Hunt, but eventually, Arawn declared an end.

After dismissing the Host to the Shadow-ways, they returned to Annwn, arriving at Arawn’s own great hall. There, servants took the horses and brought Arawn and Brynnan water for washing and robes to change into from their hunting apparel. The King greeted his courtiers but led Brynnan to his private rooms, where they relaxed with cups of the green, summer-fragrant wine.

Brynnan was pensive, lost in his thoughts. “Will the Northmen hold to the pact, Father? I have negotiated peace agreements more than a few times in my life, but never with the responsibility of wielding such potential coercive power. It is difficult for me. Force has never been my style.”

King Arawn glanced keenly at his son before replying, “Lord Samir’s people have responded time and time again, and the raiders have been undaunted. But you have seen and experienced for yourself the destruction and suffering brought upon their victims. You were raped and, ultimately, sacrificed. I am said to be impartial, but I hunt those who do evil. Human politics does not concern me.

“But you, my son . . .you have become a precious gift to me. I have ruled for countless ages, but never being able to share my own burdens or thoughts or, yes, even dreams. Gods have them; did you know?” Arawn paused and sipped his wine, then put down the glass.

“But come, my son. Now we will share something else that is precious to us, something that will renew our souls. Gods have them, too: the eternal part of us. Otherwise, how could Gods die and get resurrected?” Arawn laughed, a warm and rich sound.

He approached Brynnan and took him in his arms. They kissed, with Brynnan feeling his tension flow away. Arawn stripped Brynnan’s amethyst-coloured robe from him and then removed his own. Naked, they stood, bodies pressed close together, and the King’s kisses had a hunger to them. Usually a gentle lover with his son, now his seeking hands roved over Brynnan’s body urgently, and his cock stiffened rapidly, pushing against his son’s thigh and stomach.

Brynnan responded by kneeling on the lush carpet to kiss his father’s balls. He licked their fullness, then sucked a testicle into his mouth, pulling at it before switching to the other. He felt the skin tighten under his tongue. Arawn’s penis nudged insistently against his face, and presently Brynnan took it in his mouth. He tasted pre-cum.

Sucking his father’s cock wholly absorbed him, giving him intense pleasure. Eventually, Arawn took him to the bed, and they lay together, Brynnan on his stomach.

“Take me now, Father. Fuck me hard,” Brynnan whispered.

Arawn spread his son’s ass cheeks and rimmed him skillfully, eliciting moans from him. But the Shadow Lord’s need was on him, and he positioned himself over Brynnan’s ass, then pushed his cock into his son’s asshole. He leaned on his arms and repeatedly thrust, feeling the rectal passage’s heat and tightness gripping him.

As Arawn fucked him, Brynnan twisted his upper body and half-turned so his father could kiss him. Their mouths met, and they entwined their tongues, sharing the moistness and the warm breath.

Arawn reached down and massaged his son’s penis. It was a handsome cock, not quite as big as his father’s. Being jerked off and fucked simultaneously drove Brynnan to surrender himself utterly.

The Shadow Lord’s strokes increased in speed, and Brynnan’s body was shaken by the force of his thrusts.

“Are you ready for my cum inside you?” Arawn asked.

“Always!” Brynnan replied, and the King laughed.

The Huntsman’s son cried out as Arawn increased his pace, pounding him into utter submission.

“Give me your cum, please, Father!”

“Take it, my favoured offspring. Take it deep in your ass. Take in my energy; drink in my power . . .”

Arawn gritted his teeth and gave a loud cry as his cum spurted into his son’s ass. Brynnan seized the coverlets, clenching them tightly as the force of his own simultaneous orgasm ripped through him.

The King turned him over and licked his son’s cock clean, mindful of its sensitivity, as Brynnan gently stroked his father’s long black hair.

Arawn moved up to embrace him. They lay silently for a time, but Brynnan’s mind surged with thoughts.

“My Father, it seems you give me greater challenges each time we meet. I am becoming more aware of the consequences of our hunt in the mortal realm.”

“As is natural. You are learning.”

“But to what end? I remember when I died, and while you preserved my body, my soul traversed the Desert and came to Annwn. I remember the hunt I led and the intoxication of sweeping across the skies. When I regained my life and my body, I found that both body and soul could travel the Shadow-ways. Now I am capable of fading from my lover, Samir’s arms at a thought, as long as I wear the torc you exchanged with me.”

Brynnan fingered the gold collar around his neck, with its open ends at the front wrought in the shape of hounds. Arawn wore Brynnan’s own torc with its raven’s heads.

“Eventually, you will be able to travel bodily to Annwn without needing the torc’s power,” Arawn told him solemnly.

“For what purpose, my Father?”

“As to that, if you must question me for the answer, you are not yet ready to accept it. I disclosed my reason earlier, yet perhaps you did not understand.”

Brynnan sought within his mind, but Arawn’s motivation remained a complex puzzle to him.

“And you caused the brands to form on my flesh at the stone of Seren; of sigils which can summon the Void.”

“You are the Master Bard, my son. Your mind is trained to look at patterns. Seek your answer within. One day it will be clear to you. But now, put your questions aside. This is a time for renewal of your spirit’s energies. Perhaps I need to fuck you again.”

Arawn leaned in and kissed him. They made love again, languorously but thoroughly, and although Brynnan suspected it was his father’s design to silence his questions, he did not object.

*    *    *

When Brynnan returned to the Warlord’s encampment at Esterhaven, he found that several days had passed, and the troops were preparing to return. Some of the more severely wounded would travel later, after healing, and a contingency of the soldiers would stay in case raiders came once more. But Brynnan’s report of the Hunt’s success rendered this unnecessary. He gave the pertinent details only to Lord Samir and was vague with Geraint.

“Riding some spectral Hunt, involving the souls of the dead, seems too strange for this old soldier,” Geraint remarked.

“And gods with enormous cocks aren’t?” Brynnan smiled at him.

“That’s different; it’s relevant, and besides, you and I experienced it together. But the Hunt is designed to disrupt men’s notions of self-importance and send us back to our primitive fears of the dark.”

“That’s very astute of you, old Warrior. But that’s one adventure we won’t have to share.”

Later that evening, Brynnan found himself alone with the Warlord. They discussed Brynnan’s harrowing ride.

“My beloved, of all I experienced on this Hunt, one scene stands out to me.”

Samir sat beside Brynnan, taking his hand in his larger, sword-calloused one. He examined his lover’s long fingers, trained to the harp strings, and raised the hand, touching his lips to its open palm.

“Speak, my Bard,” Samir said when Brynnan’s silence stretched.

“It was night, and we traversed the seas, fairly high up, when a glow in the darkness captured my attention. We descended, and I saw a sight which struck my heart. It was the Einheri, Falke’s ship. In flames. The fire was massive, enough to startle the gods. I was saddened; I don’t know why. She was an amazing vessel, born to ride the waves with grace and power. But she was built for war and delivered much suffering to victims all along the coast. Not only was it the place of my doom—my blood was painted on her carved runes—but I also served aboard her. A young raider taught me many things, and I came to know the Einheri well. Ships have a life of their own, and to see her burn for Falke’s funeral pyre was . . .” Brynnan stopped and swallowed, trying to hold back the emotions that gripped him.

“I understand, beloved. Fewer ships will be built like Einheri if the pact you negotiated is successful. We shall see more fat-bellied trading vessels—with merchants in them, not raiders. But I can almost see this ship through your eyes.”

Samir drew Brynnan close and kissed him, then continued in a series of kisses.

“My lover, I am so troubled. These powers I am developing . . .” Brynnan began.

“Won’t come between us,” finished Samir. “Changes come to us all, but put aside any regrets. You remain at the core, Brynnan, the man I love like my own heart.

“But consider,” Samir continued, “we have recovered our missing friend, Geraint, and the raiders are unlikely to trouble our shores for an indefinite time to come.”

Brynnan felt a surge of love for this stern and uncompromising man. The Warlord was always himself, a man who made the difficult choices and lived with them. Brynnan felt he could do no less.

Samir swept him into a tight embrace and pulled him to the bed. Wordlessly they made love, with his lover doing things to Brynnan that drove him wild. After sucking his cock and testicles, Samir put him on his back to enter him, so they could look into each other’s eyes. Brynnan came first, broken down into surrender by the Warlord’s insistent pounding. Samir followed soon after, cumming inside his lover’s ass. They collapsed into each other’s arms, spent.

“Soon, Brynnan, we will ride back to Torrent Mountain, where you can play Mavrenn, your wondrous harp, for me once again. Perhaps, for a time, I do not have to risk you.

Brynnan replied, “And Geraint can stay out of trouble for a while. If he can.”

“You won’t miss the Hounds of Annwn?” Samir quipped with a smile.

“I have a feeling I will see them again, probably sooner than I think.”

“And that,” said Samir, “is one more challenge we will face together when it comes.”

Brynnan kissed his lover’s hand.

*    *    *

The end