To Redeem His People

Wings Of The Storm

Brynnan’s Shadow-spirit, in Raven form, swept his way into the storm. He was unaffected by updrafts or downdrafts, micro-bursts of rain, or lightning flashes. He struck up into the clear sky above the thunderstorm with preternatural speed until it appeared a circling whirlpool of cloud far below. He ascended higher to the upper atmosphere and ducked into the Shadow-ways, where time was warped. From this vast height, many distant storms dotted the planet’s curvature. He headed to one on the cusp of twilight. Here, he hovered below a red halo that briefly appeared above him, followed by a column of scarlet light that flared up from a blue-violet base. The cool plasma fountained around him, bathing him in its tendrils. He absorbed the power of it, feeling as if his wings were suddenly vast beyond recognizing. He turned and plummeted down.

In his spirit mind, he beheld an image of the Warlord Samir. He focused every particle of his being on reaching the man, following Samir’s spirit sign.

Lord Samir was seated on an expansive terrace high above the redoubt on Torrent Mountain. He felt tired, but restless energy still motivated him, for he had recently returned from his successful expedition to Redstone Holding beyond the Scarfell Mountain pass. He had replaced the corrupt ruler there with his own man and installed his chosen troops.

He looked over the terrace wall at a distant storm on the far horizon, seeing tiny flickers of light as lightning flashed within the cloud. Very high above it, there was a sudden flare of red, then it was gone. Samir felt an air of expectancy.

A shadow swept over him, bringing a sudden chill with it. He looked up but saw nothing. But on the wall perched a large Raven. It extended its neck, mantled its wings and uttered bell-like notes. Samir knew that something was not right. He had little experience with the supernatural, yet part of him recognized that this was no ordinary bird.

Into his mind, there formed an image of Brynnan standing before him, speaking, and then words:

‘My beloved Lord, I have found you. My heart yearns for you, but I cannot stay.’ 

“What—? Where are you, my Bard?” Samir spoke aloud.

‘Do not attempt to harm the Raven. It is I. Please, listen to me.’

The mental image faded in Samir’s mind, but the Raven croaked several times. The voice returned, ‘I . . . damn! This is difficult. The Invaders have surface-landing ships. We encountered one at Hesperon. Pentayn Tyreth is dead—by my hand. If you hear voices in your mind, shut them out. No! Not mine. I am giving you warning, my Lord.’

The Raven beat its wings once more, agitated. The mind-voice resumed. ‘If the Invaders come here, do not engage in combat with them. They wear deadly weapons on their wrists which can kill or render one unconscious at a distance. Use subterfuge. Nijal and Geraint and I are alive: we are coming as fast as we may. If you meet us, let it be at Scarfell. I cannot stay, my beloved Lord. May the Mother-of-All speed us to one another’s arms.’

“Wait,” said the Warlord, rising to his feet and holding out a hand to the Raven. “When will I see you; in the flesh, I mean?”

‘Just before the full moon, at Scarfell, if we meet no trouble. Farewell, Samir, my heart.’ 

The Raven launched itself from the high terrace and flew away, heading towards the distant storm. Then it disappeared. Samir was stunned, but he did not doubt that he had heard his beloved’s true voice.

* * *

Brynnan was dimly aware of a rocking motion. He realized it was his body, and his ass was being fucked. He was on his side, one leg bent over Geraint’s hip. Nijal lay behind him, thrusting into him, and Geraint lay before him. He was nuzzled up to the old Warrior’s broad, hairy chest, and Geraint’s equally furry arms were about him. Brynnan could also feel the man’s thick cock pressed against his own; such was the closeness in which he lay.

“He’s coming around, I think, Nijal,” the old Warrior said.

“Hmmm. . .fuck me, Nijal,” Brynnan murmured.

“Yes. Definitely waking up,” reiterated the old Warrior. He leaned in and kissed the Bard, pushing his tongue between the teeth feeling Brynnan’s. The Bard returned the kiss almost quietly, his body still weak from its Guardian Spirit’s long absence.

Nijal increased the strength of his thrusts, and Brynnan moaned. Geraint grasped his friend’s cock and stroked it against his own, pressing his bear-like body as close to Brynnan’s as he could.

“He’s warming up, Nijal.”

Nijal replied, “Yes. Let’s make him cum.”

“I’m working on it,” breathed Geraint, as he jerked off both Brynnan’s cock and his own thick, long shaft. “Going to cum, Hound of Arawn?” He teased.

“I’m cumming, my Keeper. Ah! Nijal, give it to me hard!”

Nijal obliged. “Take my cum now, dear one,” he gasped, thrusting as his cock spasmed. He bit Brynnan’s neck and held the grip with his teeth, mock-growling deep in his throat like a lion.

They rested together for quite a while. Nijal pulled his long riding cloak over their entwined bodies. “You were gone uncommonly long this time.”

“Time means little in the Shadow-ways, but I travelled between storms and found Samir. Let me rest a little longer, and I will tell you how it was after I reached my Lord. I wonder how he is coping after my visit?”

* * *

After the Raven had left, Lord Samir stared pensively over the far vistas extending from the mountainside. He turned and entered his chambers that adjoined the terrace.

A voice spoke to him. “Have you considered what I offered, Samir?”

“It is not the decision of short moments, Leader Elchi. While I was outside, some new thoughts came to me. I need time to integrate them.”

Leader Elchi walked over and passed Lord Samir a cup of wine. Light glinted on his silver bracelet. He was a thin man, shorter than the Warlord. The tanned skin on his beardless face contrasted with his white hair and intelligent blue eyes. His expression was open and honest.

“No rush, friend Samir.” The man laughed. “One could say we have all the time in this world. Our patience is long—as long as the deeps between stars. I will wait.”

* * *

“And so I tried to warn him,” Brynnan finished his explanation to his friends. “It was difficult to maintain a presence that he could see, but he questioned me. I did sense . . .”

“What?” questioned Nijal.

“Something more, but I am not sure. There was no sign of a Watcher’s presence in my Lord’s mind, but it was almost as if there were minds nearby. I wish I could have stayed longer.”

“Give it some time before you do that again, my lad. You do not want to empty yourself completely,” said Geraint.

“Yes, I think I will do that,” Brynnan replied. “But tomorrow, let us set a course for the route to Scarfell. It is my hope he meets us at the pass.”

The three friends sat around their evening fire near their tent. The horses grazed peaceably nearby. Ghost lay at Brynnan’s feet, head on paws, and watched each exchange of speech as if he understood. Brynnan leaned over and scratched behind the dog’s ears.

Nijal looked thoughtful. “It will take us some time to get there. Is this not the region where you fled from Hesperon years ago with an arrow in your back, only to be met by Lord Samir?”

“It is so. Let us hope my Lord can meet us this time. I get a sense that Hesperon was not the only place to see an Invader’s ship land. There might have been many, although I have no word from ArMor-ys.”

“There is another I can contact,” said Nijal. “Eleni of the Wanderer’s, Col’s grandmother,”

“And your old love,” said Geraint, with a smile.

“She is still my love, old as she is now. Sometimes the fact that we Alsar Guardians and humans age at different rates is a blessing, in that it allows us to take a long view, and sometimes it is a curse.”

“But at least we were able to meet her, and you healed her,” Geraint said.

Brynnan looked thoughtful. “I must admit that it is with reluctance that I would visit her in Spirit, though I will do so if necessary, As a Seer, she is very effective, and the prophecies she gave me all came true, in their fashion.” The Bard shivered at the memories.

“I have no doubt you will do it if we need you to,” affirmed Nijal, “but now, let me take a walk in the forest, and I will attempt to reach her mind.”

“Very well, dear friend. Call us if there is need,” Brynnan told him.

After Nijal had left, Brynnan took Mavrenn, his harp, and played softly. The gentle sounds echoed through the trees, letting Nijal know they were there for him.

“Would you try Mavrenn’s power against the Invaders?” asked Geraint.

Brynnan continued playing, his fingers flashing rapidly over the strings. He changed the tune to a battle ballad, a favourite of Geraint’s. “I don’t know. If I had the chance, I would not challenge them directly at first, but if they were present in a group of people, I might play to see how they reacted.”

“I wonder if they are all as aggressive and impulsive as Tekram’s lot?” said Geraint. Then he continued, “I wish I’d been there when you used King Arawn’s bow and spitted him.”

“Trust me, Geraint, it was not pleasant. I thank the Mother that people present did not see the hounds drag the Invaders’ souls away, as I did. Nor did they see me use the bow, as I ducked into the Shadow-ways to do it.”

“Brynnan, I have seen some strange things on the battlefield, ghostly hounds not being the least of them. As have you, I gather,” said Geraint.

“Yes, when I escorted the souls of the dying,” replied Brynnan, his eyes unfocusing for some moments as he gazed into his past. Then he noticed the dog and ceased playing.

“Ysbryd, what is it?” Ysbryd/Ghost had lifted his head and was staring into the forest.

Then Nijal came into the clearing, his cloak rendering him almost invisible among the trees.

“It is done,” he said as he seated himself. “We have spoken mind-to-mind.”

The others waited. Geraint wordlessly passed Nijal a cup of cha from the pot over the fire.

“The Wanderers saw a ship, which flew low overhead, passing to the northwest. They also saw the strange lights in the sky. The Spring Gathering is starting, and many Families have come. I was able to convey the news about the Invaders, and it will be a priority in their tribal discussions.”

“I wish we could have attended the Gathering as we were invited to do. Curse these Invaders,” said Geraint.

“Did Eleni know of Col and Andri?” asked Brynnan.

“Yes. Her grandson is learning to talk to her mind-to-mind. It seems he has inherited her gift of Seeing. As we hoped, Col is assistant to the Master of Horse at the ArMor-ys Redoubt, but they also teach him to manage his newfound gift. He and young Andri are faithful lovers.”

“Gods! I miss that boy, but I am glad he is with Col,” said Geraint with a faraway look in his eyes.

“But you taught Andri well about male love. You taught Col, too. They are lessons that will endure,” said Brynnan reassuringly.

He turned to Nijal. “Was there any word of the Invaders in ArMor-ys?”

“No. Perhaps your confrontation of the Watchers that tried to take over the Grand Master and your minds has put them off—temporarily. But I suspect they will come at some point,” Nijal said thoughtfully. “But be comforted, my friend. I also talked with the minds of my Alsar brothers, and we are keeping watch. The lights in the sky are orbiting spy devices. Already we have disabled some. The old skills are not lost. And that is all my news.”

“That’s comforting to hear. But what would be more comforting right now is what I’d like to give you,” said Geraint with a smile at Nijal.

“Oh? And what is it to be, Incorrigible One?” laughed Nijal.

“Lean back and open your clothes. I advise a simple cocksucking.”

“With you, it’s never simple, old Warrior,” Nijal grinned and opened his breeches, exposing his honey-toned cock.

Geraint took off his bear fur-trimmed cloak and lay down on it with his arm supporting himself and his head over Nijal’s groin. He admired the cock before leaning in to slowly lick it, running his tongue down its length, while Brynnan watched with amusement and interest.

Nijal leaned back against the boulder behind him and sighed. “That feels good, my friend,” he said.

Geraint lipped and sucked the glans, ringing it with his fingers and thumb, slowly massaging it. He ran his tongue in the slit and down to the frenulum, then gently bit the head.

Nijal reacted by moving his hips, striving to thrust his growing cock into Geraint’s mouth.

“Now, now, be patient!” admonished Geraint. Then he sucked the sensitized cock-head. Nijal grunted in approval.

After some more teasing, Geraint took the cock in his mouth, allowing Nijal to thrust it deep, taking it all in. Then he slowly pulled on the cock, sucking but nearly releasing it before he drove his mouth deep over it again.

Nijal looked over at Brynnan. “Come here,” he said.

Brynnan got up and came to sit beside Nijal, who turned and began to kiss him, twining their tongues together. He thrust his tongue in and out, mock-fucking Brynnan’s mouth.

“Release your cock,” Nijal demanded.

Brynnan was only too happy to open his breeches and expose his already-erect cock. Nijal reached a hand to it and began to massage the cock while kissing the Bard.

Geraint sucked in long steady strokes, and Nijal thrust up his hips. The Guardian continued to jerk off Brynnan’s cock and kiss him as Geraint’s mouth moved up and down.

“I’m cumming now, Geraint,” Nijal announced.

As Nijal spasmed, Geraint began to swallow his cum, then he let go of the cock and stroked the last remaining spurts with his hand. He then applied the cum to Brynnan’s cock, lubricating it, and took over massaging the Bard’s cock in turn.

“Cum for me, Brynnan,” he urged. Brynnan watched in fascination as Geraint brought his cock to ejaculation while Nijal kneaded the balls.

“Aaah! That’s so good!” he uttered, closing his eyes.

Geraint licked and cleaned both cocks, being mindful of their sensitivity. Brynnan and Nijal gave each other a final kiss before Nijal drew Geraint close to him and kissed him.

“We are lucky to have you, my skilled friend,” he said to Geraint as he drew away.

* * *

Brynnan did not attempt to journey the Shadow-ways for the next several days, mindful of Nijal and Geraint’s advice. Fortunately, their travelling was uneventful, although the Bard could not help thinking about where else ships may have landed. He resolved to check on King Rhydian of Redmark’s holding and contact the Ruithin Grand-Master at the ArMor-ys Redoubt. Then there was King Cyndyllan’s court. Nijal had contacted Dronnadh at Narib, who reported that they were on guard, but all was so far quiet.

As they rode along a trail, the main thing preoccupying the Bard’s mind was his Lord, Samir. The days passed too slowly for him, and his heart was full of yearning. He was also plagued with misgivings, feeling that he should have done more when his Raven-guardian spirit had visited his lover. But he distracted himself by going over scenarios and contingencies with his two friends.

But finally, he said, feeling frustrated, “We should have a full-on war council at the Torrent Mountain Citadel when we reach it.”

“I am sure Lord Samir will convene the Council of Seven when he hears all our news,” replied Nijal.

“I am glad you destroyed the Invaders’ wrist weapons and that you were not harmed,” Brynnan told Nijal.

“It was a group mind effort with my brother Guardians. The weapons could not have been taken by others as they were keyed to their users. Any attempt of a stranger to activate them would have killed them.”

“And that is probably the least of their weapons. Their ships are probably armed,” mused Brynnan. He was quiet for some moments, then he continued, “I have been thinking for some time. It is fruitless to try and destroy these invaders as we encounter them. They probably are aware of us by now, as the ones at Hesperon will have informed their fellows. We need to fight them at the source.”

“What do you mean?” asked Geraint, frowning. “You don’t mean the Mothership, do you?”

“Yes, I do. And I feel it’s something no spirit can accomplish singly,” replied Brynnan.

Geraint abruptly reined up his horse, Shade, who protested vigorously. “Brynnan, do you mean to tell me that you need to go there in person? That would be insane.”

“It offers the best possibilities if I can but meet with their leaders on the ship,” said Brynnan.

Nijal said, “That would be a grave step indeed. You would be defenceless. You can’t even think of summoning your Father for help, taking Ghost, or using that deadly bow to shoot them. It would not work because the hounds could not come there. And you couldn’t simply withdraw your spirit if the going got tough. And what about Mavrenn? Would you dare take her off-planet? She could be lost forever, as you could be.”

Brynnan held up both hands. “Calm down, my friends. Right now, it exists only in the realm of possibilities. If there is a better way, I will use it. But we must consider all strategies.”

“Right now, let’s think one step at a time. And the next step is getting to Scarfell Pass. But look!” Geraint stood in his stirrups and pointed ahead.

They had just crested a rise in the land. Ahead of them, a snow-capped mountain reared majestically into the clear air, taller than its fellows.

“Scarfell Mountain!” exclaimed the Bard, and his eyes shone in the sunlight, brimming with hope. “May the wind be at our backs, and the distances fall away from our horses’ feet! My Lord Samir will be waiting.”

Their long journey from Torrent Mountain was coming full circle.

* * *