To Discover His Truth

A Poisoned Arrow

The Bard was troubled. Usually able to live in the present, his current train of thought seemed like a heavy weight that he carried. He talked with his friends, outwardly sociable, but inside, a curious pain filled him.

They had left Redmark, and King Rhydian’s court, several days previously, following the road that would lead to the city of Yrys, the seat of power in ArMor. This was where the Chieftain-King Cyndyllan ruled, holding control over the country.

The way station became visible through a stand of evergreen trees, and they settled in for the night with gratitude. But after sharing a meal with two other fellow travellers and served by the monks who kept the place, they moved to a far table where they could speak undisturbed.

“You are not playing your harp tonight?” said Geraint, who was attuned to Brynnan’s moods from time spent as his keeper. He had seen the Bard in all emotional states from when he had been under the Warlord Samir’s displeasure, before Samir and Brynnan had discovered their love.

“No, old Warrior. To be truthful, there is no joy in me this night. But it will pass.”

Geraint was astute enough not to push, as if he knew of Brynnan’s reluctance to speak in front of Andri. So, they talked of other things: King Rhydian’s generosity in provisioning them and the import of the Black Stone of Redmark. The King had also sent an escort of soldiers with them until they reached the borders of his land. This particularly delighted Geraint as they had much in common, even having friendly sparring matches in the evenings.

“Why don’t I keep Andri company while you and Nijal take a short walk?”

“I can do that, Geraint.” Brynnan forced a smile as he stepped away from the table with Nijal.

They visited the horses first outside at the stable, wrapped in their cloaks against the cold. The Bard stroked Rhiannon’s flanks as he remembered how easy she had been with Arawn as her rider on the fateful winter solstice night. That had been the darkest of nights, in more than one sense, but now a waxing moon rose in the sky, giving limited light.

Nijal waited patiently for Brynnan to unburden himself, but the Bard said only one word: “Eleni.”

Eleni of the Wanderers, Seer and Prophetess. She had given the Bard three prophecies: two had come true. Nijal immediately made the connection.

“You are worried about the third prophecy,” he stated.

“I swore I would put them from my mind, but the third prophecy is the direst of them all; that I would lose someone close to me that I love. The most obvious interpretation is that you, Geraint or Andri will die. There: I have said it.”

“That is a weighty thought. But I still think your initial response to it is the best one. Live your life as if there’s no prophecy. I share your feelings about them. They pose more questions than they answer. There are so many legends in your culture of people who tried unsuccessfully to avoid their fate.”

“I cannot bear the thought of losing any one of you. We have grown to share a rare love.”

Nijal took Brynnan’s hand as they walked. In the shelter of a spreading cedar tree, they kissed. One kiss turned into three and then multiplied.

“I want you now, Nijal,” Brynnan murmured between kisses.

“Let me . . .” the Guardian replied, dropping to his knees.

He pushed aside the Bard’s cloak and unfastened his breeches. Brynnan’s cock was already hard when Nijal brought it out. He grasped it with his hand, saying, “You have not wanted physical love for several days now. I was beginning to worry.”

He placed his mouth over Brynnan’s cock and flicked his tongue around the head while gently massaging the root.

“Mmm, yes . . .” was Brynnan’s response.

Nijal began to suck him in earnest, and the Bard thirsted for it. He ran his hands through the Guardian’s blond mane, murmuring endearments. Nijal paused to lick the shaft and then Brynnan’s testicles, tight and full, before returning to suck his cock all the way down. Then he applied his hand to the root while he sucked the dripping glans. The pre-cum tasted both sweet and salty.

“I’m going to cum in your mouth, my lover,” Brynnan whispered.

Nijal sucked harder, forcing the Bard to ejaculate. It brought an image into Brynnan’s mind of the Horned God sucking him under the oak tree, and Nijal’s ministrations had that same sense of holiness for the sacred act. When they had finished, they embraced each other tightly, as if Nijal sensed the Bard’s need not to let him go.

“It’s alright, dearest friend,” Nijal said in a low voice, and Brynnan sighed.

*    *    *

That night, Brynnan could hear Geraint and Andri having sex in the adjoining alcove. He lay with Nijal, but his sleep was interrupted by thoughts, like whirling stars in a deep sky. He could not rest. Despite Nijal’s comforting words, Brynnan could not help but think of death. He wondered if he would be called on to lead a beloved soul to the gates of the Shadow Realm. He wondered what would happen if he decided to follow the soul. Then he thought of Rhiannon, ridden by Arawn, King of Annwn, came to him. Could Rhiannon follow the footsteps in the silver sand? What if she were the one he would lose? For he loved his horse. Lastly, he thought of the Warlord Samir, his heart’s love, whom he would not abandon.

He drifted into sleep and found himself riding Rhiannon under a glorious evening sky flooded with crimson, tangerine, turquoise and violet hues. They ventured through a plain of purple grass until they reached a forest. Leaf-covered faces peered at him from the edges of the wood, and something very twiggy walked away from him. Then he was in a clearing, and Arawn, King of the Underworld, was there, astride a horse that looked much like Rhiannon. Two of his white hounds accompanied him and the huge, shaggy grey dog he had met on the night of sacrifice.

“Greetings, my son,” said the King.

“I feel lost, my Lord. Do I belong with the dead or with the living?”

King Arawn threw back his head and laughed. The two white hounds bayed, but the shaggy grey beast barked with a sound so deep it shook the earth.

“You have to ask that? You are most certainly alive. You could not cross the threshold and return if it were otherwise.”

Then his expression sobered. “I know what you are worried about: you are concerned that one you love might fall victim to the Hunt if he were to die. But be reassured: I only hunt those who have done their last acts in hate.”

He looked at Brynnan, and there was compassion there. “You would do well to listen to yourself, ‘When in doubt, choose life’ and ‘embrace your fears.’”

“I have indeed said those things. I thank you for reminding me.”

“Besides, who knows how the prophecy will work out. Put it from your mind.”

Arawn turned in his saddle where a short bow and a quiver of arrows were fastened. “Take these, my son, but be careful how you use them. The arrows are deadly and will send their victims directly to this realm to be sport for the Hunt.”

Brynnan took them and fastened them to the back of Rhianon’s saddle. “But we are in the realm of dreams, my Lord. I thank you for your gesture, but I doubt they will aid me in the waking world.”

Arawn merely smiled.

Brynnan moved Rhiannon to stand beside Arawn’s horse, facing its tail so that the two men were closer to one another. The Bard took the King’s hand and kissed it. He seemed to whirl into darkness as he did so, and then he woke up.

Brynnan was convinced the dream was a true sending. This was born out the following morning when Geraint announced, “My sleep was disturbed last night by the baying of hounds. Then a deep sound shook the building. I thought it was an earthquake!”

Nijal responded, “Animals have been known to sense the coming of earthquakes.” But he cast a curious glance at the Bard.

*     *    *

After they broke their fast, Andri approached Brynnan and Geraint with a bemused look on his face. Without preamble, he told them, “The two men who guest here approached me earlier and . . . propositioned me. They were quite explicit. One told me that I have a sweet ass and that both of them would love to fuck it. They offered me gold.”

Geraint frowned with anger. “And what else did they tell you?”

“They proposed we travel together because of their being ‘safety in numbers.’ They told me they are clerics seeking knowledge at Cyndullan’s court. They asked about our business. I told them that it was not polite to inquire and to talk to you. I divulged nothing. Master, what should we do?”

Redness suffused Geraint’s face as he visibly tried to control his temper. “Ignore them. I am tempted to go over and teach them a lesson, but we are trying to keep a low profile. But if we meet them on the road, my sword will answer their questions.”

*    *    *

They prepared to take their leave, and the Bard was about to saddle Rhiannon. The saddle lay over a beam in the stable. Hanging over the adjoining post was a bow and a quiver of arrows. Brynnan felt a wave of heat, then cold wash over his body, but he took the gift, mindful of Arawn’s advice.

Saying farewell to the monks, they set out on the road. There was no sign of the other travellers. The companions made good time near the villages as the occupants took care to clear the road of snow. At one village, they stopped at a building showing a painted board on its outside depicting a sheaf of grain, indicating that the owners sold beer. Geraint was insistent that they rest for a while.

“Your ale is excellent,” Geraint told the lady who served them.

“It’s a special winter beer,” she replied, looking pleased. Then, “Do you travel North? You should know that brigands have been encountered near here. Our menfolk organized a party to clear them out, but some remain.”

“We thank you for the warning,” said Brynnan. “We will take care.”

The party was silent as they rode onward until Andri voiced the thought in their minds. “Those two travellers: do you think they have any connection to these local wolfs’ heads? It would make sense that they could send scouts to the way-houses to pick out likely victims. Or maybe it’s just that I felt very uncomfortable when they propositioned me.”

“No, lad, don’t doubt: trust your instincts. It has saved my life many times. Let us not talk as we travel but listen for any cues,” said Geraint.

“Such as birds who don’t know how to whistle?” Brynnan replied, remembering their previous encounter near Scarfell Pass. “Maybe the ravens will warn us.”

“I don’t want to be captured again.” Worry was engraved on Andri’s face.

“Won’t happen,” said Geraint. “We’d die first.”

“Please! Let’s not speak of death. That’s not how a successful defence is made!”

“Ah, you’re right, Master Bard. A certain amount of bravado helps,” said Geraint, with a grim smile.

So the friends rode with caution. They did not hear any out-of-tune birds or other obvious calls, so they were almost taken by surprise when men in dark robes appeared on the road before them in a forested gully. Brynnan instinctively turned in the saddle and saw men closing in behind. They had bows.

“Damn,” said Geraint.

“The first man who reaches for his weapon will be shot down!” a man called.

“That is one of the strangers that accosted me!” muttered Andri.

“Be still, everyone,” Nijal warned in a low voice.

“Hand over your pack horses, the harp and the boy, and you will go free,” the leader continued.

Brynnan knew that this was a lie; they would be killed, except for Andri. He had to act. But Geraint started to reach for his bow. Immediately, the brigands loosed an arrow. It missed Geraint by a hair’s breadth, but it struck Andri in the arm, and he cried out in pain.

Brynnan summoned the forces in his mind and melted into the Shadow Realm, where a silver plain surrounded him – and Rhiannon! She was with him. Around him, his enemies were but shadows with faintly glowing outlines, as they were still in the material world. Brynnan reached for the bow the King of Annwn had bestowed on him. He strung it. The shadow forms stayed still as if frozen. The bard took an arrow, sought a shadow target and shot the arrow. Unerringly it found its mark in the lead shadow; the others did not appear to move. It was like picking off apples lined up on a wall. One by one, he aimed and shot, and a curious thing happened. They became visible in the Shadow Realm as they fell, looking unlike the usual amorphous glow of a new soul. But they clearly had died.

As Brynnan finally lowered the bow, the brigand’s souls climbed upright. Terror was on their faces. Then the howling started. At first, Brynnan couldn’t tell if it was the men or beasts howling; then it resolved into the baying of hounds. The Bard turned Rhiannon, closed his eyes and pulled them back into the material world. He had no wish to encounter the Hunt when they were in full cry for their prey.

He was in the road, and bodies lay around them. Brynnan half-expected the arrows to disappear into the Shadow Realm, but it was not so.

He looked for his friends. They were there. However, Andri was falling from the saddle, but Nijal caught him. Geraint looked shocked, but he started to dismount.

He saw Brynnan and said, “We were here, and all of a sudden, our attackers were just lying in the road, with arrows sticking in them. You disappeared, and now you reappear further from us in the blink of an eye. What did you just do?”

“Eliminated a threat,” Brynnan replied. Usually, he had felt burdened when he was forced to use deadly force, but he felt an implacable sense of justice served this time. It seemed an alien feeling, but he accepted what he had just done.

But they quickly assisted Nijal, crouched beside Andri, with the lad half-fainting in his arms.

“Quickly! Fetch my kit. I fear the arrow may have been poisoned.”

“Remove the arrow now!” cried Brynnan.

“The wound is not deep; it’s a graze, but Andri is not himself.” Said Nijal as he worked on the arrow,

‘No!’ thought Brynnan, ‘I will not let this be. It can’t end like this.’

He knelt beside Andri as the arrow was freed. “Let me . . .” he demanded of Nijal.

He checked Andri’s pulse: it was very slow. The pupils of his eyes were dilated. Brynnan leaned over and put his mouth over the wound. Nijal started to protest – it was a dangerous medical practice and likely to introduce infection. But Brynnan held up a hand to ward him off. He could taste the poison in the wound, but he tapped into that inner being and drew the poison into himself. His thoughts flashed like lightning along the network of blood vessels inside Andri’s body, reaching the heart in an instant. He made the heartbeat increase as he purged all traces of poison. Then he pulled back.

“You can bind the wound, now,” he said to Nijal.

The Guardian insisted on treating it with a topical ointment to deter infection. The wound was shallow but still required several stitches. Then he bandaged it.

“I don’t know what you just did or what happened to our attackers, but it seems to be working. I am going to put Andri on his horse again.” Nijal turned to Andri. “Can you manage to stay on without help? I can ride behind the saddle and hold onto you if you wish.”

“I can ride,” said Andri bravely. “I won’t be proud – I will let you know if I have difficulty.”

“There’s my lad,” said Geraint approvingly.

“Did any of the men escape?” Brynnan asked.

“Two,” replied Geraint.

“Good. They will spread the tale. I hope it makes others think twice before they approach us,” said the Bard, with grim satisfaction.

“I can’t help feeling that we – and especially Andri – cheated death.” Geraint shook his head.

But Brynnan replied, “Death has not been cheated, but he has been given sport. There will be a successful Hunt this night.”

“Lad, you are beginning to scare me,” said Geraint.

*    *    *