To Redeem His People

The Summoning

Samir, the Warlord, opened his eyes and found himself strapped to a table. He knew he was in an alien place. He recalled being taken into a ship and recalled his lover’s death. Oddly enough, the rage and grief he expected to feel failed to materialize; in fact, he felt emotionally flat.

Leader Ilchi stepped up to the table. “How do you feel, Samir?” he asked pleasantly.

“I feel . . . nothing. You killed my Bard, despite your promise. How many other lies will you tell me?”

“None,” replied Ilchi. “Your Bard was too dangerous to be allowed to live. He was your lover, as I understand the term, was he not?”

 “Why don’t I feel like killing you?” said the Warlord.

“We have implanted a tiny device in your brain. It curbs the emotional responses. It will do you no harm and will not change your thoughts. Indeed, it will enable your rational side to be in control. We have no need to lie to you now, and it’s my hope we can now engage in reasonable discourse.”

Samir now understood.

‘Reasonable discourse’ told him not to challenge Ilchi at this time. His lack of emotions might even lead to a solution to his situation.

“Am I on your mothership?”

“Yes, when you are deemed stable, I will give you a tour. Our home is vast and could take many days to travel—yes, we have matched our time periods to your planet’s rotation. You will find many other similarities I hope you will recognize.”

“I would be unfastened from this table.”

Ilchi touched a pad on the shoulder of his tunic. A man entered.

“We will let you up. A guard will accompany us for now.”

Ilchi was as good as his word. He unfastened the straps, and Samir climbed stiffly from the table. He felt the side of his head and discovered a small shaved spot covered by a dressing.

“Come, friend Samir. We will take food together and talk more. It is my hope we can still discuss an alliance. Our research shows us you are in a position of great influence on your world.”

As they walked a corridor, Samir felt a strange lightness, almost as if he could float. They reached a room with a table, where they sat, and food was served.

“I expected food coming out of the wall in tubes or delivered in a ray from your wristband,” Samir remarked dryly.

Ilchi laughed. “We enjoy the taste of food. In the Long Dark, our gardens and crop fields flourish. I will eventually show them to you. I want you to gain a deeper understanding of us. We are not so different.” Ilchi paused, then looked serious. “But now I wish to inform you of a plan we have put into progress. It concerns your Bard, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn.”

Samir’s eyes narrowed. “What is there to say of him? He is beyond your reach now. Dead is dead.”

“Is it? Our Summoner, the Necromancer Ruh-çağıran Natan, says otherwise. How would you like to speak to Brynnan’s soul?”

Samir frowned. “I have always believed the dead should remain undisturbed. Tampering with a grave to steal its riches or interfere with the dead exacts the most severe penalties in our city-state.”

“But your Bard used inexplicable powers to kill Leader Tekram and several of his men, not to mention what Natan said he did to our Mnemotechs - Brynnan’s ‘Watchers.’ Our chief Summoner believes powers of the soul were used. Marec Mavrenn must have told you of them.”

“Interrogate me, Leader Ilchi. You will see we had limited time to talk. In fact, you interrupted us.”

“Still, we will investigate. Our Necromancer and his fellow Summoners have been dropped off on your world. I don’t understand these things, but he will find the Bard’s tomb and summon the soul. He will gain knowledge.”

Samir knew that some practitioners on his world worked in such a way that they contacted ancestors as part of their spiritual practices. This was different. It was a rape of the dead. He sincerely hoped the Summoners would fail.

“I can’t stop you, Leader Ilchi, but know if I were on planet, I would give my life to prevent it.”

“Strong words, Samir. But I think you will know differently when our Necromancer returns bearing words from the man you loved.”

*    *    *

From his observation post in the trees, Geraint continued his watch. He was convinced there was a purpose to his waiting but did not know what form it would take.

The fox-fire glow on the tumulus, Brynnan’s tomb, was invisible in daylight. Geraint heard a raven croak, and he could not help the leap of hope in his heart. A large black bird glided onto the tomb. More ravens arrived. Suddenly there were nine birds on the Mound and more in the trees. There were a few croaks and calls, but most were eerily silent.

Geraint shivered and recalled  Brynnan’s title—Marec Mavrenn—Servant of Ravens. The old Warrior remembered battlefields where the ravens had gathered for the dead.

He heard the neigh of a horse. He reached in his pack and retrieved his bow as two riders entered the clearing. They stopped at its edge and dismounted. The taller rider called out to Geraint and held his hands clear of his weapons.

“Geraint, it is I, Kyros of the Deieros!”

Geraint stepped out. “Come, and bring your horses into the trees, out of sight.”

Kyros and his young lover, Orion, approached the old Warrior.

“What brings you?” Geraint asked them.

“The knowledge that there may be enemies about. We would keep watch with you. I know what it is like to lose one’s erômenos. After the death of my erômenos, Sixten, you brought your boy Andri to my tent and rescued me from my despair. I am in your debt. I owe Brynnan, too, for his forgiveness after I raped him, along with my brothers. Please allow us to stay.”

“I have already disposed of two would-be grave robbers. But more enemies may come. Stay until nightfall. Then we will see.”

Kyros raised his fist in a Warrior’s salute. But Orion asked, “What is the meaning of the ravens? Surely they can’t sense fallen prey—“

“Boy,” said Kyros sharply, “Have a care of how you speak!”

“Forgive me, my erastês.” Orion flushed.

“In battle, the ravens would gather around the Bard,” mused Geraint. “Maybe a spirit of sorts continues on. Brynnan conducted the souls of dying warriors to freedom. Maybe his own soul needs such care: but I am not knowledgeable on these things.”

“You are so troubled, my friend. Is there nothing we can do?” said Kyros sympathetically.

Orion tugged his lover’s sleeve. “What about taking a lesson from what Geraint did for you when he shared his erômenos, Andri, with you? I would be willing to submit to him if you agreed, my erastês.”

“Boy, I will agree if Geraint accepts.” He turned to the old Warrior. “Take Orion; he is prepared for you. I will stand watch.”

Geraint looked up and appraised the youth. He saw a young man with the promise of strength to come, fair-skinned, with brown hair in unruly curls. However, what attracted Geraint most was the warmth in his hazel eyes.

“Why not?” he said. “The Good Spirits know that I could use the comfort of a young man.”

“Then choose your place, and I will guard you and keep watch,” said Kyros.

Geraint took Orion a little deeper into the trees, where the youth laid down his cloak for them upon the soft pine needle carpet. He stripped off his clothing with practiced skill, all the while looking Geraint in the eyes, with a half-smile on his face. Geraint looked at the lad’s developing muscles and smooth skin: a peach ripe for the plucking. He thought back to when Andri had served Kyros and had given his ass to him. At that time, Brynnan had demonstrated his gratitude to Geraint in their daily ritual by sucking the old Warrior’s cock while Andri had his ass fucked by Kyros. He blinked away the moisture in his eyes.

Geraint’s own disrobing drew a gasp from Orion when the old Warrior’s big cock was revealed: thick and mushroom-headed, with a slight upcurve. It was an intimidating weapon. Kyros hid a smile before turning back to watch the clearing. He had seen it once before when the Bard had sucked it in his presence.

Orion knelt on the cloak at Geraint’s feet and kissed his way up the old Warrior’s legs to his groin. He licked the pendulous ball sack and sucked each ball into his mouth. Then he kissed and licked his way along the cock’s shaft. The boy drew back to watch in wonder as the cock stiffened until it thrust out, proudly erect. Glancing up at Geraint, Orion’s eyes asked permission. Geraint took his cock in hand and played it against the boy’s lips while the youth licked it at every chance. Then the old Warrior fed his member into Orion’s willing mouth.

The youth could not take the whole cock in his throat, but he tried bravely and Geraint did not force him. Kyros had a handsome cock, although nowhere near as large as Geraint’s. Finally, Geraint told the boy to lie facing him, and he obeyed. They kissed each other while Orion ran his hands over Geraint’s furry body. Kyros had brought lube, and the boy offered it to the old Warrior, who used it liberally. There was relief in Orion’s expression at this; Geraint almost smiled.

Geraint could see a trace of nervousness in the youth’s eyes as the old Warrior’s cock probed Orion’s ass.

“Relax, lad. I have taken many virgins who managed my cock, including my Andri’s young lover, and they did not suffer for it. I will go slow with you until you’re comfortable.”

Orion nodded in gratitude. Geraint used his fingers to work the boy’s ass and massage his prostate. The boy gasped and relaxed his rectal muscles. Geraint chose that moment to push the large head inside, then he held still. Orion took some deep breaths before he nodded at Geraint to continue. The old Warrior did so. He carefully watched the boy’s face, reading his every expression. Finally, he began to move slowly in and out. Orion moaned.

“Quietly now, lad. We don’t want to alert enemies we are here. Just breathe and take it. I’m going to give it all to you.”

He was as good as his word as he began to pump back and forth, his stroke deepening and the rhythm increasing. Geraint could tell the boy wanted it now. Then he steadied his rhythm in a fast stroke, one hand massaging the boy’s cock. He felt the orgasm building up, so he slowed. Orion almost cried out in protest but restrained himself. Geraint edged both the youth and himself three more times before telling the lad he was cumming. The old Warrior’s big hand squeezed the boy’s cock as he ejaculated, feeling its silky hardness. He gave several strokes then Orion came, spilling his seed over his chest and stomach. Then Geraint embraced and kissed the boy, feeling his young, muscular arms clasping him back. The old Warrior sighed in repletion.

“Thank you, young man. I needed that more than I realized.” He turned to Kyros. “You have a fine lad and a promising warrior too. He overcame his fear of me and accepted what I gave him with grace. Your training does you credit.”

He took Orion through the trees, carrying his bow and arrows, to the far side of the waterfall pool, where they briefly swam. Then they returned and dressed.

The ravens in the clearing remained quiet and unalarmed.

*    *    *

The Lord of the Wild Hunt rode with his pack of hounds, the white Ci Annwn. They ranged far over the purple grass of the plain. A successful hunt of souls found them returning to Caer Arawn, the King’s holding.

The Lord strode into the feasting hall. Servants approached and tended to him, taking his hunting garb of green and silver, bringing bowls of water for washing and dressing him in a robe the colour of amethyst. Finally, the Lord approached a dais with two thrones.

The King sat there. “How went the Hunt, my Son?” he said, as Brynnan seated himself, taking a proffered goblet of golden wine from a servant. The great, grey dog that had accompanied him lay at his feet.

“It went well, my Father. I chose the souls of two grave robbers who would desecrate the dead, and I hunted them both in the Material World. It was not difficult for me to cross the boundary, which leads me to a question.”

“Speak, my son.”

“How far do our boundaries extend?”

King Arawn raised an eyebrow and smiled. “In Realms that bear living beings. We do not hunt in the Great Desert—it is the pathway to all realms, including those where we do not go, as I will explain at a later time.”

“But how far can we travel?” Brynnan persisted.

“Anywhere bound by the arms of the Mother-of-All, within her sphere of influence, where humans exist. But I know why you ask. Take heart: all things are possible where desire leads you. You will come into your own yet.”

“But my body—“

“Remains in its sleep. It is incorrupt. I have made it so.”

“But is that not interfering outside the scope of your duties, my Father?”

“No, don’t forget you have two natures from your heritage: the corporeal and the incorporeal. I have a piece of advice for you.”

“Yes, Father?”

“I understand your heart’s desire. Don’t let your preconceptions rule you, but be open to all things. There will be a path for you.”

A voice interrupted their conversation as a woman approached them. She was of exceptional beauty, with a cloud of dark hair and a purple gown.

“It is cold in our tomb, but at least it is not dark, thanks to your gift of light, O King. But silent, oh so silent.” Her eyes shone like rubies as she looked at Arawn.

“Mavrenn, I give you leave to sing this night in the Mortal World while you await your deliverance.”

“I would not be separated more from my servant.”

The King gazed at her. “He is only your servant in the Mortal World. Here, he is simply my son and out of your hands.”

Mavrenn bowed to Arawn in acknowledgement. “But of course, my Lord King. I meant no claim on him here. I shall go wait in my tower. I shall sing this night in the Material World even if my Ravens are the only ones who hear.”

After she had left, Arawn turned to his son. “Brynnan, be not troubled. Let us go to my chamber. I shall give you my comfort.” He reached over and gently stroked his son’s face.

“Yes, my Father. I would like that.”

The King arose, taking his son’s hand, and they left the hall.

*    *    *

Evening descended on the clearing at Scarfell Pass. The ravens flew from the Mound to join their fellows in the pine trees as they conversed briefly in harsh croaking voices. The tomb began to glow with its green fire. It cast no light on its surroundings, illuminating only itself. Geraint had warned Kyros and Orion about the new phenomenon, but still, it unsettled them.

“But we will still stay, if you will it,” Kyros told the old Warrior.

“Are you sure? You may experience stranger things than this. Whatever happens, you mustn’t react. We need no attention on us.”

“It will test our mettle,” stated Kyros simply.

They waited as the sky darkened and the waning moon arose. There was no wind, and the only sounds were the night noises of some forest creatures going about their business. A fox trotted across the clearing but made no sign it sensed the two men and the youth. A night bird called.

The men were almost lulled into complacency when they faintly heard a harp playing. Orion gripped Kyros’ shoulder, and Geraint shivered. He knew that sound, even though the tune was unfamiliar. Then the playing shifted into the song of ‘The Warrior and the Raven,’ as Brynnan used to play it. He whispered hoarsely, “The Bard! He is trapped in the Mound!”

The old Warrior would have started forward, but Kyros and Orion gripped him, preventing him.

“Think, man!” Kyros hissed. He has been in the tomb for five days! He is not alive.”

“I have to free him!”

“Use your head. You told us not to react if anything strange happened. And this is strange!”

Geraint ceased struggling, but he breathed heavily. “I don’t know . . . wait! I’m being a fool.”

He bent his mind towards the Presence in the tomb but found no trace of a human mind. Only an image of the harp, playing by itself, came to him. Was he unable to sense it? He then bent his mind towards Nijal, forming an image of how he had last seen him. He remembered Nijal’s voice and tried to speak mind-words to him. He had no clue if what he tried was right.

But he did receive an answer. It was not words, but more the feeling of Nijal standing right next to him. If he shut his eyes, he could almost swear it was so. There was a message for him, and he realized the meaning entered straight into his consciousness, without spoken words.

‘It is I, Nijal. I hear you. Relax your mind and picture what you see and sense.’

Geraint sent him an image of Kyros and Orion, the glowing tomb in the clearing and the sound of a harp playing. Then he got the sense that Nijal understood.

‘Do not approach the tomb. This phenomenon is not of Brynnan.’ Nijal projected.

This was reinforced by a sense of deep reluctance to move closer on Geraint’s part.

‘Stay: I will watch with you for a time.’ Nijal’s presence reassured Geraint.

So they stayed, hidden in the trees. The harp abruptly fell silent. A new sound came, a strange sound like sheeting snow blowing over frozen ground.

A silver object drifted into the clearing. It had no wheels but hovered off the ground. It stopped, and several human forms climbed out from an opening in its side.

Invaders! Geraint signalled Kyros and Orion to be very still. He felt sure they would be sensed and fired upon.

But a cool wave flooded his mind instead. It was Nijal. ‘I am shielding you,’ he sent.

The lead Invader approached the Mound. He was tall and thin, bareheaded except for a circlet and his hair flowed black and straight. He wore no mask. He was clad in some kind of armour, with a strange breastplate upon his chest, and Geraint recognized bones on it. 

His fellows positioned themselves at four points around the tomb. The leader opened his arms and began to chant, joined by the voices of the others. A low throbbing sounded as counterpoint. It seemed to go on for a long time, but finally, the sounds abruptly ceased, and the leader spoke out loud, the words recognizable.

“Come forth, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, Bard of the Ruithin, formerly known as Shadow. I summon your soul. Appear before me. I bind you with the circle of sɨrdɨk and χaraŋa.”

Silence reigned. Geraint thought nothing would happen, but then an icy chill descended. Frost formed upon the Mound and the surrounding mossy ground. The sense of shielding in Geraint’s mind grew more potent, and he hoped Kyros and Orion were similarly protected.

A shimmering form materialized outside the Mound. It coalesced, and Geraint saw Brynnan. In his mind, he heard the Bard’s voice, hollow and unemotional.

‘Who summons this soul?’ the form asked.

“It is I, Ruh-çağıran Natan, Necromancer and your Master. I bid you come into me and be subject to my mind.”

‘Where do you take me? I am bound here.’

“Not so, o soul. Inside my mind, you will be trapped until I release you into an empty mind onboard our Mothership, our home. There, you will serve me and disclose all your secret knowledge. Nothing shall be hidden from me. Now come, I adjure thee.”

The soul seemed to look around. As his gaze passed over where Geraint lay hidden, the old Warrior heard no words, but a sudden pulse of love flooded him. He almost gasped aloud.

‘You command me; I come,’ said Brynnan’s soul to the Necromancer. He stepped forward. Necromancer and Soul embraced, and suddenly, only the Necromancer stood there.

Then the ravens started to cry out in loud croaks. They swept out of the trees towards the five men in the clearing.

“Do not fire!” called out Ruh-çağıran Natan, “They are spirit-birds! You will only feed them!”

The men hurried back to the hovering vehicle. They climbed in and the door sealed. Geraint watched in dismay and saw the vehicle move away up the trail and rapidly disappear.

“They have taken his soul!” Geraint cried out, distraught. But another voice came into his mind, clearer now: the presence of Nijal.

‘We Alsar can track him. Do not fear.’

“But Ghost wasn’t even with him. They were always together,” the old Warrior whispered. And to Nijal, he thought, ‘It was Brynnan. He let me know. He did not speak to me, but I felt his love pierce me like an arrow.’

Kyros looked at Geraint in wonder. “What just happened?”

The old Warrior tried his best to explain to them. He ended with, “That Necromancer has taken Brynnan’s soul and made him subject to his will. I fear he is truly lost.”

But Kyros had words for him. “In our beliefs, we know that no one can summon a soul’s obedience against its will. The soul’s very nature precludes it. These Invaders, these so-called Necromancers, have deluded themselves. If the soul of Brynnan truly went with them, it was by design. I am convinced of this. And look! The Mound still glows with foxfire. There are forces still at work. Take heart.”

Kyros put his hands on Geraint’s shoulders, and Geraint bowed his head. “Thank you, friend Kyros. I will put hope in your words. All these things are beyond me anyway. I am just a soldier who fights what he can see.”

“You are far more than that! Your courage is greater than mine. You are a pillar of strength for us.”

Then Nijal’s words, fainter now, came into the old Warrior’s mind, ‘Geraint, take Kyros and Orion and sleep now; they are right about the soul. The Ravens are keeping watch. And know that Brynnan loves you still.’

Geraint put his arms around Kyros and his boy and led them deeper in the forest towards the tent.

*    *    *

In the Shadow-realm of Annwn, King Arawn sat upon his throne with the great dog, Ysbryd, at his feet. He bent his thought upon his son.

“It begins,” he said.

*    *    *