To Redeem His People

Traitor’s Gambit

The Gates of the citadel of Yrys, Cyndyllan’s Hall, lay before Brynnan. He was dressed as Huntsman rather than Bard and rode Rhiannon, his horse, with an upright yet relaxed posture. Behind his saddle, he had strapped the bow of Annwn and a quiver of arrows, and his harp, Mavrenn. The dog Ysbryd trotted at his horse’s side.

Thus the guards recognized him as Brynnan Marec Mavrenn—Brynnan, Servant of Ravens, as he was also known. Yet the guards perceived something uncanny about him, and their greeting was subdued.

“I am come to see the King,” he said, easily.

They opened the gates for Brynnan, and he took Rhiannon and the dog into a vast courtyard. He left Rhiannon in the care of a young stable-lad, telling him to touch nothing, just to water and feed his horse, took up his harp and proceeded into the hall.

The citadel of Yrys was complex, with many passages, but Brynnan knew his way. He sensed where Cyndyllan was currently located—in his chambers. As he walked, he bent his thought upon the Ruithin Priest, Cadwyr, who served in the King’s Hall as a counsellor.

The Priest’s mind voice burst into his consciousness. ‘Brynnan! Where are you?’

‘Approaching the King’s own chambers. Meet with me,’ he sent back.

There were two Warriors on duty outside the chamber door. When they recognized the Bard, one immediately informed Cyndyllan and ushered him in.

The King sat in a comfortable chair with his chieftains; Queen Aerfen, Morven Sea-Lord and Caden of the Blue Lias. They looked at the Bard with keen and discerning glances as he walked in. He bowed deeply to the assembly.

“Brynnan Marec Mavrenn! There was no news of your arrival. When did you get here?” the King exclaimed.

“My King, I have come alone and swiftly, by strange ways. I cannot stay. I come but to speak briefly with you.”

But Queen Aerfen, Warrior woman and Chieftain of the Northern Battle Group, herself stood and offered Brynnan wine in a chased golden goblet. Her look was shrewd as if she guessed there was more to the Bard than seemed.

“Welcome, and drink of this guesting cup.” She observed him as he drank. Then she smiled. “There is something strange about you: different from last time we met. But we are glad to see you, unharmed.”

“But you are dressed as a huntsman, not Bard,” observed Morvan Sea-Lord.

“That is because I am hunting, my Lord. How do things stand with the Invaders in Yrys?”

Cyndyllan answered him. “They came. But they could not enter Yrys, and many of our people outside took to the mountains. The Invaders’ tactics were harsh at first—not even a pretence at diplomacy, unlike previously. Then we discovered their weapons had failed them, and we drove them out.”

“Where do they remain, my King?”

“As far as we can tell, the remnant that stayed has retreated to Lord Nikarkos’ holding, which is under siege from us. Catlin-Cryf’s forces surround it.”

Just at that moment, the Ruithin Preist, Cadwyr, arrived. Morven offered his seat to the man, who quietly took it to avoid interrupting the conversation.

Brynnan inclined his head to the Priest before continuing, “So, my Chieftain, you did not route out that renegade hostage earlier?”

Nikarkos was the hostage that the Warlord Samir had given Cyndyllan in exchange for his wife, Mara, who was of Brynnan’s people. But Nikarkos, although treated with courtesy and given a holding of his own, had worked to undermine and discredit Mara. This had led to her exile and, for Brynnan, a year of torture. Therefore he held much against the hostage Lord.

Queen Aerfen dipped her head in seeming regret, her long, dark red braids tumbling about her shoulders. “We moved against him shortly after you left us last time, but word was that he had fled. Not so, for he has since offered Caer Serth as refuge and base of operations to the Invaders.”

“Let me seek him out,” said Brynnan. “I will be able to go and return shortly, then I must speak with you both, my King and Queen.”

“How can you travel so swiftly?” said Aerfen, wondering.

Cadwyr interrupted, “Our Bard has new powers that I bid you all keep to yourselves. He will explain.” He turned and looked at Brynnan. “But I would speak with you briefly before you go. Accompany me to my chambers if you will.”

“Go swiftly and return as soon as you may,” ordered Cyndyllan.

*    *    *

In Cadwyr’s apartment, Brynnan reached out and touched the Priest’s brow. “Before we discuss anything, let me share with you mind-to-mind what has occurred.

“Very well, my mind is open to you. Sit with me.”

The events, greatly condensed, flowed swiftly from Brynnan’s mind into Cadwyr’s. It was so much quicker to lay the images and knowledge into an accepting mind than to struggle with words. As Ruithin priests, both could share the deep knowledge forbidden to others. Cadwyr was not shocked at Brynnan’s revelation of being the Lord of Annwn’s son, nor at his powers in the Hunt, but he was shaken as Brynnan revealed details of his death.

After, Brynnan clarified, “I cannot reveal the secrets of my soul’s journey in the Desert. That is truly forbidden, but I am eternally grateful that my Father’s mercy reached out to me.”

“Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, do you recall how you gave me the Aelizian Scroll that the Trader, Hazrad, gifted you, and of what it said?”

“I recall it seemed like a prophecy, which I was intent on denying,” Brynnan replied with a grim smile.

“It seems its foretelling of your death has come true.”

Brynnan suddenly swayed as he sat, putting his hand to his head.

“What ails you, my friend?” asked Cadwyr with concern.

“I am not yet accustomed to these journeys. They take a great toll on me.”

“Let me help you, Brynnan.”

“Currently, only the seed of life may restore me. My own Father and Lord Samir restore my soul after each journey.”

“But you need strength now.”

“Yes. Would you help me, my friend? I trust you. And I am prepared.”

Cadwyr stood up and led Brynnan to his bed. The Priest was a tall and lean man, clean-shaven, with white hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He set aside his Priest’s red robe and stripped off the remainder of his clothing before assisting Brynnan to undress. When he saw the branded runes on Brynnan’s chest, he touched them tentatively and gazed in wonder.

“Eternity, Wind and Night,” he said. “Sigils of the soul’s journey. They are indeed powerful, and it seems that they have in truth aided you. But come, let us engage our bodies.”

Brynnan lay on his back on the bed, fixing his eyes on Cadwyr’s. The Priest bent over him, feeling his firm, muscled body and stroking his cock. Then he took Brynnan’s cock into his mouth. His skillful tongue felt hot and moist against the Bard’s flesh, and he surrendered to the sensations. He became aroused, and his cock stiffened into hardness.

Cadwyr’s own cock became erect in response, precum moistening its tip.

“Let me make you harder, my friend,” murmured Brynnan.

Cadwyr knelt by Brynnan’s head, and the Bard half-turned towards him and touched the tip of his tongue to the smooth glans, licking off the precum. He slid his tongue around the cock, which was a handsome member of slightly longer than average, then took it in his mouth all the way. Cadwyr drew a deep breath. Brynnan sucked then released the cock at the Priest’s request.

The Ruithin mounted him, and the Bard slipped his legs over Cadwyr’s shoulders. He sighed as the cock entered his ass, relishing the deep penetration. The Priest increased his stroke until he pumped Brynnan’s ass in a strong rhythm.

“Don’t cum, my friend Brynnan,” he said, breathing deeply. “Conserve your sexual energy for your journey.”

But Cadwyr himself approached ejaculation, and with a low cry, he released his seed into the Bard’s ass. Brynnan restrained his own orgasm with difficulty. They sank into each other’s arms, panting, then Cadwyr touched his partner’s face.

“May my seed restore you until you reach your own Lord again,” he said.

*    *    *

Brynnan came to Caer Serth, set in the mountains, through the Shadow-ways, appearing inside its courts. He winded the Horn that he had been given, summoning the Hounds of Annwn. His senses roamed the keep, but he detected few Invaders. His hounds infiltrated the passageways, driving those they found before them into the courtyard. The Invaders cowered at the sight of the Horseman, for he wore an otherworldly aspect. It seemed that lightning flickered around him and his horse, and Ghost stood huge and threatening.

“Who speaks for you?” Brynnan demanded.

One spoke, “I, Leader Aolon, ask you: call off these creatures. We have heard of you, and we will surrender. Do not let your hounds take us!”

“Did you summon a ship?”

“One has been contacted. Allow us to leave, Lord. We are weaponless.”

“Where are your hostages?”

“They are freed! They left through the postern gates, with more of my men, who are awaiting the ship. There is no reason for you to kill us!”

“Where is the human Lord Nikarkos?” the Huntsman asked.

“He . . . left with the hostages. Only the fort’s servants and we remain.”

“If you are lying to me, Leader Aolon, you are dead,” pronounced Brynnan with implacable finality. Then he called to a man in servant’s livery. “You there, do you know your Lord’s chamber?”

“Yes, Dread Lord,” the man replied fearfully.

“Be quick and fetch me a cloak of his or some other garment he wears. Return immediately, or the Hounds will hunt you.”

The man took off at a run, but nevertheless, the Bard dispatched two of the Hounds to follow him

In a short while, the servant returned, carrying a cloak. At Brynnan’s direction, he cast it down and backed away. The Pack swarmed over it, sniffing.

“Ewch i ddarganfod—go seek,” he commanded the Hounds.

They lifted their muzzles, red eyes glowing, and coursed around the enclosure to gather at the gates.

“Open the gates and surrender this fortress,” Brynnan said harshly to the Leader, Aolon. But the Bard himself did not wait. Hounds and rider simply dissolved into mist, reforming on the other side.

Catlin Cryf’s forces ranged around the walls. However, they had fallen back near the gates as a troopship lifted off into the air. Brynnan knew that it had taken the traitorous Nikarkos. He had a choice: deal with the ground situation, or cast his spirit-form into the ship. But his duty was clear; he could not abandon the Hunt. Regrettably, Nikarkos’ fate had to wait.

But the gates opened, and Catlin Cryf’s forces surged inside to surround the hapless Invaders that remained.

Brynnan sent the Hounds out of sight into the Shadow-ways. Those who had seen him appear had cowered back, and he had no further wish to alarm them. The Hounds could kill by fear alone, and rumour of their dreadful powers was a tale to be whispered on a Winter night when occupants were safe inside croft or hall in front of a blazing fire. Many a solitary traveller dreaded an encounter.

A rider, bolder than the rest, approached him on a large black horse of the ArMynydd breed. Her dark hair was woven in a net of complicated braids, and she wore leather and bronze plate armour with a shoulder cloak of dark green and black battle plaid. Her shield was fastened to her horse’s saddle, and she carried a long sword in hand. As she approached, she attached it to the baldric she wore. Brynnan recognized Catlin Cryf, whom he had met once before.

“Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, as I live and breathe! At first, I thought you were a certain Huntsman . . . but perhaps I was not mistaken,” she said as she regarded him with intelligent and piercing blue eyes.

“I greet you, Chieftain Catlin. It seems your work is done here. The Invaders remaining are surrendering. But we have lost Lord Nikarkos.”

“That dog! Curse him for allying himself with our enemies. A reckoning shall yet come to him.”

“It is also my hope. But you have a choice of slaying these remaining Invaders or letting them summon a ship once more to remove them to their home, their Mothership.”

“I will want to interrogate some of them before I decide. We’ll see how well these Invaders cooperate without their weapons. Will you come with us and share my camp?”

“I must regretfully refuse. I report back to King Cyndyllan and then travel to ArMor-ys.”

“I will not ask you how you travel alone and in such a strange aspect. Powers have been awakened by the chaos these Invaders have brought to our world, as you warned us, Brynnan.” She hesitated. “Before you go, I want to ask after your Warrior-companion, Geraint. Is he well?”

“When last I saw him, which was very recently. I will tell him you asked for him.”

“Thank you, but please remind Geraint of his promise to me when you see him.”

Brynnan almost smiled. Geraint had promised to share her bed when next they met.

*    *    *

Brynnan returned to the hall of Yrys, where he met once more with the King and Queen. He shared the report that Catlin Cryf had entrusted him with.

“Well, that is one more thorn gone from our side,” said Cyndyllan, “but I am distressed that Lord Nikarkos has slipped his collar once more and eludes us. But he has no place left to run, except the Invaders. If they value the troopers we have captured, I will make it a condition of their release to their ship that they return Nikarkos to us.”

They discussed arrangements for a meeting of leaders to resolve the question of the Invaders’ ultimate fate.

“But we will arrange it through the Alsar, who can speak mind-to-mind. Expect Guardians to be assigned to you soon, as they are with King Rhydian and others,” said the Bard.

Then Brynnan told the two High Chieftains of his own travels and abilities without betraying the mysteries of his dual nature. He would save that disclosure for the Grand-Master at ArMor-ys, Neven Tanet.

Presently, they concluded their business. “I must leave you now. But if the Mother-of-All wills, we will meet again before the summer is too far advanced.“

As he took his leave, he contacted the Ruithin Priest, Cadwyr, once more.

‘Will you go now to ArMor-ys?’ Cadwyr sent.

‘First, I will check back at Torrent Mountain to see if the ship with Nikarkos landed there.’

‘Be safe,’ Cadwyr wished him.

Brynnan’s steps took him to the courtyard, where he recovered Rhiannon and Ghost, who had stayed to guard her.

*    *    *

He was again wearied and knew he should have returned to Torrent Mountain through Annwn with his Father’s blessing, but unspecified anxiety gripped him. His passage through the liminal mists further drained his energy, but he arrived safe enough outside the citadel. He bent his mind on Samir’s location and found him at the East Garrison where his warriors had imprisoned the remaining Invaders. Rhiannon brought him to the Warlord’s presence.

“Brynnan!” Samir called out when he saw his Bard. Troops were present around him, but Samir came and embraced his lover fiercely despite them.

“Did you accomplish everything you desired?” the Warlord asked.

“I have not yet visited ArMor-ys. I came back early because—” but their conversation was interrupted by the Invaders’ troop ship that appeared nearby. This was one of the nearly silent ones, but still, as it settled, it caused a wind that blew strongly, kicking up sand.

“I made the Invaders’ Leader call their ship,” said the Warlord. “They have agreed to return to the Mothership and await our consultation with the Ship’s Council when it arrives.”

“I will be glad to see these ones gone,” Brynnan replied.

Men were moving down the ship’s ramp, ready to escort their people who were prisoners on board. But Brynnan’s senses suddenly came alert: something was off. He scanned the Invaders, but the disturbance did not seem from them. However, one of the escorts made a sudden movement. To Brynnan’s horror, he saw that the Invader was, in reality, the traitorous Lord Nikarkos, dressed in guard’s clothing. The man raised an assassin-style crossbow—a restricted weapon—and fired. The bolt took the Warlord high on the right breast below his shoulder. The impact knocked him back, and Samir sank to his knees.

As Geraint rushed to the Warlord’s side, Brynnan was leaping towards Nikarkos. He did not summon the Pack or Ghost but stalked the man, implacable in his cold fury. Nikarkos tried to turn and escape into the ship, but the Invaders themselves held him fast, perhaps appalled that their own safety was jeopardized. Brynnan reached Nikarkos and seized him by the throat. He stared into the eyes of this man who had done so much damage, who had caused Mara’s exile and so much of Brynnan’s own suffering. But, worst of all, Nikarkos had just now harmed his beloved Lord Samir. He took the crossbow from the renegade Lord with his free hand then threw him down on the ground.

“Run,” he suggested.

Nikarkos, disbelieving, looked around, but there was no sympathy for him.

“Let him go!” Brynnan shouted to the men. Then he bent his thought, and Rhiannon leaped up beside him. The Bard mounted and took the bow of Annwn. He did not even duck into the Shadow-realm but patiently strung the bow. He nocked an arrow and sighted along it.

The fleeing man tried to duck behind a wall. Brynnan loosed the arrow, and it flew right through the stones. There was a high-pitched scream of mortal terror, and Nikakrkos staggered backward into view. Even as he was falling, Ysbryd was there. The great dog, huge and horrible to behold, took Nikarkos by the throat, but it was the soul he gripped. The body fell. Dog and soul disappeared.

The Material World snapped into tight focus for Brynnan, and he knew what he must do. He rode Rhiannon up to where Samir still knelt, hand clutching the bolt that protruded from his body, Geraint supporting him.

“Geraint, help me get him up on my horse. I’ll take him to Nijal.”

“Nijal is in Samir’s quarters. I fear the bolt was poisoned. These weapons usually are!”

Geraint and two warriors lifted Samir and helped him up into the saddle. Brynnan shifted behind him and gripped him tightly. He urged Rhiannon into action, and they dissolved into the Shadow-ways, leaving startled and shocked men in their wake.

They materialized on the terrace. Nijal was there with a startled scribe holding a thick ledger. The Guardian immediately assessed the situation and called for a servant, who quickly responded. To the servant’s credit, he did not react to seeing a horse where no horse should be but aided Nijal in helping the Warlord down. They supported him and took him to the bed-chamber.

“Quick, man. You know my room. Fetch my kit. It is on the table!”

The servant took off running, and Brynnan briefly related what happened.

“Calm down, Brynnan. Your Lord will live. The blood! Remember?”

“He has your blood,” Brynnan gasped in realization. “Will it have taken effect yet?”

“I believe so. In that case, Samir will metabolize any poison on the bolt.”

“I’m not dead yet,” Samir said weakly. “Speak to me directly, man!”

Nijal removed Samir’s upper clothing, having to cut away the shirt. Brynnan brought a bowl with hot water boiling on the brazier for cha.

The servant returned, bearing Nijal’s field kit. The surgeon assembled sharp knives, gauze sponges, antiseptic, suture needles, and clamps. Brynnan did not turn away as Nijal made a careful incision and cut out the short bolt. He flushed the wound, and Brynnan sponged up the blood and water. Then Nijal further cleaned, clamped, then stitched it, piling on a thick dressing that would allow the wound to drain. Samir grunted in pain as Brynnan helped him sit, and they wrapped bandages around his chest and shoulder.

“My Bard, you are shaking! I will live. It will be alright.”

“But my Lord, you don’t understand. I took you through the Shadow-ways. My Father had forbidden me. Remember what I told you,” he whispered so that only Samir and Nijal could hear. “After death, your soul will be bound to Annwn. I have taken that choice from you. Forgive me, my Lord.”

Nijal interrupted to pass Samir a cup of liquid. “Drink, Samir; it will alleviate the pain.”

“I think Brynnan needs it more than I.” But he obeyed Nijal and drank all of it.

The Guardian dismissed the servant from the room. “Many thanks, but he needs rest now.” Then he helped Samir strip off the remainder of his clothing. “I want you to sleep.”

“Not unless Brynnan rests with me. Come, my lover. You are weary.”

Brynnan was in no condition to protest. Gratefully he undressed and slipped into the bed beside his Lord.

“Let me hold you—carefully,” Samir murmured to him.

They stretched their bodies in close contact with each other. Brynnan could feel his Lord’s big cock pushing against him.

“You can’t be getting aroused right now, my Lord!” he protested.

“Why not? Did you not tell me enhanced sexuality is part of having Nijal’s blood in me? Press yourself closer so that I may feel your own erection. Move gently against me.”

Nijal said, “I think you are going to heal, my Lord.” He smiled. “When Geraint comes, we will sit together on the terrace, and if you need us, we will be close by.”

Brynnan’s finally felt himself calming. His Lord would live! He sent his thought out first to Geraint to reassure him. Then he touched Rhiannon. The poor horse still stood patiently on the terrace! He put into her mind a picture of her stall and oats. Lots of oats. Rhiannon faded.

He whispered to the Warlord. “Remember I told you about taking Shahin on that ride with me. After death, his soul will be bound to Annwn. As will yours now be. I am sorry.”

“Why, my lover? Did you not tell me it is your Father’s home and your home when your body and soul finally part? Now it will be my soul’s home too. Be comforted. And turn over.”

“My Lord?”

“I want your ass. Lie against me on your side, and let me put my cock inside you. I want you to cum. Only then will I agree to sleep.”

“My Lord,” Brynnan said, “You leave me no choice.” But he was smiling.

*    *    *