To Redeem His People

Of Mind And Body

“Do you think I have become insane?” Brynnan asked Geraint.

The three companions and the dog, Ysbryd/Ghost, sat around a morning fire. Several days had passed since Brynnan’s adventure on the mountain of Cadair Annwn, but it was still visible in the far distance as a tripartite, snow-clad peak to their north.

Geraint looked surprised. “Contradictory, devious, headstrong, reckless, cunning, compassionate and ruthless maybe; but not insane. Why do you ask?”

“He’s thinking of the mountain legend,” said Nijal, who sat sharpening his curved sword with a whetstone. “It says that one who spends the night by the lake dies or becomes insane or is given the gift of poetry and prophecy. I think that our Bard is already a poet and, yes, even a prophet at times—hold on, Brynnan—I know you detest prophecy as a rule, but sometimes your prescience betrays you. So, I think he is a poet. Possibly an insane one?”

“Perhaps you are dead . . .” mused Geraint, “You can journey to the Shadow Realm, as you did on the mountain.”

Brynnan threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’m an insane, dead poet!” he muttered. “I’m sorry I asked!”

“Why did you ask?” inquired Nijal.

“Seriously, I think a form of insanity, or at least, dissociation from the rational mind, might help me when I engage with the Watcher. He is probing at my mind again. I feel it like a spreading poison.”

“We must do something!” exclaimed Nijal. “Why he has chosen your mind, I don’t know . . . unless many minds are being targeted. It’s a frightful thought. They could fight this war with us before they even land on our world.”

“I am not yet strong enough to cast my consciousness easily to the Watcher, even as I feel him now, so I ask your assistance, friend Nijal, in the way we have previously done- by you fucking me. Geraint, you, too, can help. If I have trouble coming back, take your hand and trace the runes on my chest.”

“I don’t understand it, lad, but of course, I’ll do it. You get the hot water; I will get a squeeze bottle, then let’s do a quick clean-out.”

“Leave a little hot water for me. I’ll gather more snow for the pot, too,” said Nijal.

Geraint assisted the Bard to wash, even in the cold morning air. After, Brynnan stood shivering beside the fire while Geraint towelled him off.

“I thank you, my Keeper,” said Brynnan, in a formal manner, bowing his head to the old Warrior.

Geraint just grinned and slapped the Bard’s naked butt cheek before heading to the tent. As they settled inside, the dog, Ghost, poked his massive head through the tent flap, only to be firmly shooed outside to keep guard.

Brynnan lay naked on the bedding with Nijal, stripped, beside him. Geraint remained dressed but did open his breeches, exposing his cock.

“Might as well shoot two rabbits with one arrow,” he quipped, stroking himself.

The Bard obliged by licking Geraint’s heavy and growing cock. He crouched on all fours while Nijal slicked his ass with lubricant and worked his thumb inside his partner’s rectal passage with one hand while stimulating his own cock with the other. He bent over and kissed Brynnan’s bullwhip scars before straightening up to push his cock inside the Bard's ass.

Geraint fucked his mouth with increasing force. His pendulous balls slapped against Brynnan's neck. Then, with a roaring groan, he ejaculated, spilling cum into his lover’s mouth and throat.

By unspoken agreement, both men flipped the Bard onto his back. Brynnan bent his knees up to allow the Guardian deeper penetration and submitted his body to Nijal’s will. Geraint jerked Brynnan’s penis while the Guardian fiercely pounded his cock into Brynnan’s ass, then urged him to cum with him. Both men cried out in abandon, and Nijal gasped out, “Now!”

As semen spilled over Geraint's hand, Brynnan opened himself to the Watcher’s insistent demand, and immediately his conscious mind was cast from his body. It felt like a deadly barbed bolas of whirling thoughts hooking into his consciousness.

‘Do not resist me, Shadow,’ the Watcher’s thoughts intruded. He used the name Brynnan had given him in their previous encounter. ‘Give me control.’

But Brynnan asked, ‘What do you want with me?’

‘We seek only harmony and understanding. When we come, you will welcome us. We bring you and your people great benefits.’

‘Why my mind?’ Brynnan persisted.

‘We sense a nexus of power within you. You connect to and can influence others in positions of power and control. Spread our message of peace.’ The force behind the Watcher’s mind beat against the Bard relentlessly.

‘Who else in my world knows your message?’

‘Surrender. We will lead you to those that know,” the Watcher’s mind insisted.

‘Do you speak through them? I would listen.’

‘Others share the message with them. Give in to me now, Shadow. You will not be harmed if you comply.’

‘Yes. I will carry the message.’

Brynnan surrendered. As before, there was a fragmenting, a loss of identity. He had no awareness because there was no ‘he.’  There was no struggle to recall himself totally, but as knowledge started to return, he let the voice become part of a new self while he grasped at an identity.

‘We are Shadow.’ The thought filled Brynnan’s mind with a firm conviction.

As he returned to a sense of self, his impression of his surroundings clarified. He was inside the starship, and he saw the Watcher in the embrace of the machine. Only now he was aware of many other Watchers equally in the grip of the strange devices.

He felt a stirring of alarm on the part of the Watcher, who then cast the Bard’s spirit-form away from him. Brynnan hovered in blackness, not sure where to go. Then a searing, burning pain exploded within him.

Abruptly, he was back in the tent with Geraint and Nijal, who was tightly embracing his naked body while Geraint stroked his chest. The runes branded there burned.

“We are Shadow . . .” he said aloud.

Geraint started. “Bry—”

“Do not call his name! He is Shadow,” Nijal interrupted the old Warrior. “Do not speak!”

Geraint looked confused, but he said nothing.

But Brynnan said, “We can see you. We have a message of peace and understanding . . . we—damn!”

At that moment, the dog, Ghost, intruded head and shoulders into the tent and nipped Brynnan’s leg. Two spots of blood showed. Brynnan closed his eyes and shook his head, panting for breath. Then he abruptly stared up at the tent roof. Nijal tightened his hold on the Bard.

“The Watcher is gone, thank the Mother-of-All!” he said, with a sense of profound relief.

“Rather, thank the dog. What happened?” said Nijal.

Brynnan recounted the events. “I let him into my mind,” he finished. “By dissociating, I was able to keep a semblance of awareness. Nijal, you were right. There are other Watchers, and others are being targeted.”

“I suspected as much. But be comforted in one thing. This Invader cannot get into the mind of the Guardians, as we have an alien makeup in our very core. They target humans along known neural pathways. You are of both Alsar and human blood, so they can affect you but not totally control you. We have learned important information this day. No wonder they tried to target the mind of the Ruithin Grand Master. According to this Invader’s telling, Neven-Tanet is also a nexus. This new knowledge will give us a clue in whom to look for an infected mind.”

“I will have to become ‘Shadow,’ the fragmented identity, when we do encounter one so afflicted. I still need to seek a way to trap the Watchers, who now, it seems, can see through their victims' eyes.”

“You will gain more experience and be able to regain your own mind without suffering a dog bite on every occasion. Our new companion already proves his worth!”

“Come on, my lad, sit up. Take a swig of this . . .” Geraint handed Brynnan a flask of the strong Cordial that Nijal kept in his kit before wrapping the Bard with his wind silk cloak. “You should let me treat that bite.”

“Not necessary, old friend. It won’t become infected, and it cannot harm me—you or another mortal, on the other hand, might suffer untold harm. Ghost is a ‘ci Annwn,’ a dog of the underworld.”

*    *    *

“One is coming,” Nijal announced.

The day had turned grey, with snow threatening. They travelled closer to the mountains on their west hand, where tree-filled ravines and forest could be found. The route was rougher but provided more opportunity for shelter than the open grassland of the plateau.

“One what?” Geraint wrinkled his brow.

“A group of people are approaching. One is with them, a man who is familiar to my mind. Let us be on our guard.”

“Is this one a friend or enemy?” asked the old Warrior.

“A friend. There will be no need for us to acknowledge each other openly, but I am not sure about those who accompany him.”

“We’ll take our cue from you, Nijal. I had better make sure that Ghost does not react to them. His otherworldly aspect will be terrifying if invoked,” Brynnan warned.

Just in case of a confrontation, Nijal and Geraint loosened their swords, and Brynnan checked his bow and quiver of arrows—a deadly gift from Arawn, King of Annwn, his father. In a short time, they perceived riders aiming to intercept them.

The riders appeared as bearded, shaggy men: tall, muscular and big-boned. They wore their hair long, some in braids, browns, blonds and reds. They bristled with weapons: javelins, axes, swords and long knives. Animal skins and fur cloaked them. Woollen clothing covered them – hood, tunic,  breeches with leg wrappings, and boots of leather and felt. Some carried bronze and steel helmets. Brynnan noticed that their horses were of a shorter, rangier breed than the Ar Mynydd mountain beasts of his own people, indicating that they were from afar.

The only man with black hair rode in their midst. Brynnan thought his age might be close to his own until he caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes, and he started in surprise. They were an intense blue rimmed with gold and had an ageless quality, like Nijal’s eyes. Another difference that marked him was that he wore a heavy collar attached to a chain held by another man. Brynnan did not doubt that the black-haired stranger was of Nijal’s race—another Alsar Guardian. Probing, Brynnan could feel the man’s mind. Why then was he bound?

The strangers pulled up and regarded the three companions. They spoke among each other in a Northern tongue which the Bard knew well, but when their leader, a big man with red-gold hair and beard, turned to them to address Geraint, who he assumed commanded Brynnan’s group, they spoke in the Traders’ tongue, a common speech.

“Are you on the road of Peace or War?” the red-gold giant asked Geraint

“Whatever you choose of us,” answered Geraint with seeming carelessness. “If you lead these men, I will gladly cross swords with you.”

“It would be a shame to kill you too easily—excepting that our Diviner could foretell what the future will  be when I cut you open by examining your entrails.” The man pointed to the black-haired prisoner.

“Ask your Diviner what the outcome of our contest will be before we fight if you are not sure,” Geraint sneered.

“Hah! I will forego foreknowledge,” said the man, stung. “Either you will put me to shame by fighting one as aged as yourself, or you are a father of many battles. If you think you can match me, let us have a trial of strength!”

Brynnan and Nijal exchanged looks at this display of bravado, but they trusted Geraint’s instincts.

“Gladly,” said the old Warrior, dismounting and drawing his sword, even as the other man did.

“I am Arne of the Seventh Wave.”

“And I am Geraint, right-hand of the Warlord of Torrent Mountain.”

The others dismounted, forming a circle about the two men. The man holding the chain pulled the Diviner from his horse and roughly made him kneel at his feet in the snow.

Geraint and Arne cast their cloaks from their shoulders and faced each other. Without further hesitation or taunts, they closed. Sword rang on sword. Both fought on the offence, seeking an opening within each other’s guard. Neither bore a shield, and Brynnan knew that if Geraint had the opportunity, he would seize his opponent’s beard and gut him. But they seemed evenly matched. What the leader, Arne, had in size was equalled by Geraint’s strength and cunning. The fight continued until both men were breathing heavily. Arne tried to push his perceived advantage, but Geraint would simply not give ground.

Snow started to fall. Each man blinked it away from his eyes. Then the Diviner suddenly called out, “I see two cairns standing in this space where ravens will feast!”

He was cuffed into silence by the man holding the chain. But it was enough to give the two warriors pause. They stepped back and stared at one another, and the tension in the air thrummed like a taught wire. Then, simultaneously, they both lowered their swords.

“If we persist, Nepja will beat both of us,” said Arne with a great laugh.

“Yes, let us cheat your Diviner of his words. It is said that the winter cold is greater than any one man,” responded Geraint.

They sheathed their swords and embraced. Some ritual seemed to have been accomplished. Brynnan breathed a sigh of relief. The Bard might be a son of the other realm; still, Geraint was a master of combat in the Material World, and the Bard was grateful, understanding that the old Warrior’s seeming recklessness had been a game of tact.

“Let us make way to the gully yonder where there are trees and combine our camps this night,” said Arne, pulling his fur cloak about himself. “But first, stay a little and let this worthless slave eat his words!”

The Diviner was dragged over and again made to kneel in the snow.

“He is named Dronnadh, and he will serve us here and now.” So saying, Arne fished beneath his cloak and tunic and unfastened his breeches, pulling out a substantial cock.

Geraint did likewise. Arne and his men commented with appreciation as the old Warrior’s cock grew hard and swelled in size and girth. The unfortunate slave obediently took Arne’s cock in his mouth first while holding Geraint’s cock, and began to suck.

Brynnan turned his eyes to Nijal, feeling appalled. “Nijal . . .”

Nijal replied in a low voice. “Hush, Brynnan, Dronnadh knows what he is about. Have you not yourself chosen to play the subservient role when occasion demands?”

Brynnan thought back to his choices with the Brotherhood of Deieros and the King of Redstone Holding, where he was forced to act as a sex slave. He accepted Nijal’s words. “I hope his plan is a good one, that’s all,” he commented.

“Dronnadh and I are close. I trust his judgement. Meanwhile, you keep an eye on Ghost, lest he interferes.”  

The dog stood close to Brynnan’s side, and his hackles were raised. Brynnan stroked his head and whispered, “Heddwych—peace, ci Arawn.”

The Diviner now switched from Arne’s cock to Geraint’s. He seemed skilled in sucking and playing with both men’s balls. Arne was the first to cum, gripping Dronnadh’s hair with both hands as he thrust himself into the man’s mouth. Geraint followed soon after, having no desire, perhaps, to prolong matters, standing as he was in swirling snow.

*    *    *

They camped in the shelter of the trees bordering the gully. Its location provided ample firewood for several fires. The companions, Arne and three of his men, sat at a fire under a tree. The branches high above cleared the space of snow.

Geraint began the introductions. “This is Brynnan, Skald and Bard of the Ninth Wave. He is skilled in both saga and song, and this is Nijal. We are the Bard’s protectors, as befits his rank in ArMor-ys.”

“Hail and well met, Brynnan of the Ninth Wave! I am of the Seventh Wave of overwhelming force, but the Ninth Wave is a path to the underworld, fitting in a Skald and Seer. And my three companions are mighty fighters and trusty men.”

“Here is Grœnn, Tree of Strength—” He indicated the brown-haired man on his left, dressed in green wool, with a leather chest harness sporting two daggers. The man put on a fierce expression, and Brynnan hid a smile.

“And here is Bertholf, Gate-Keeper. He is a master of the Runes. He is wise in the ways of the Hidden Knowledge.” Bertholf was grey-haired with keen blue eyes and wore a wolf fur cape, with the wolf’s head lying over his hood. He nodded his head briefly, but his gaze was fixed on Brynnan.

“And finally, here is Aldith Battle Master, and keeper of the slave Dronnadh, the Diviner.” He indicated an older warrior on his right, with greying blond hair and black clothing.

Aldith gripped the chain attached to Dronnadh’s neck. The Diviner crouched behind his master, his black wool cloak tightly wrapped around him. His eyes were cast down in apparent subservience.

“But I must ask about your hundr,” said Arne. “Never have I laid eyes on a living dog so huge. He is like unto our Garm of ancient legend, a beast of the underworld.”

This was uncomfortably close to the truth, and Brynnan hastened to explain, “He is a war dog, but his nature is gentle unless aroused. He is a gift from my Father.”

“Your sire must breed some mighty hounds. Would that we had some such as he,” laughed Arne.

“One day, you may meet them,” said the Bard enigmatically, but he smiled politely.

A potent drink was passed around, and the talk grew more animated among the men seated around the fires.

The slave-master Aldith addressed Brynnan. “Master skald, we would hear a tale from you. We would not take the gift without payment. My slave here is at your disposal. He is our plaything when we are not employing his other services, and he is also skilled at taking cock in his ass or mouth.”

Brynnan nodded graciously. “No payment is needed, friend Aldith. A skald does not grudge his services. I will play my harp for you and tell a tale from your legends at your request.”

“I am surprised you know of them!”

“It is the duty of the trained skald to know the songs of many peoples,” Brynnan replied.

 “Take no offence at my words, but you seem young for such knowledge.”

“I have been in training since I was a child. But come, I think I will take you up on your generous offer after all. I will give you songs, then we; then sample the body of your slave.”

Aldith turned and called to one of the men at another fire. “Geir, put down your drinking horn. I have a task for you. Take this slave and have him cleaned up. He will serve our friends after their skald gifts us with song.”

Brynnan reached for his harp. He had to play well. Dronnadh had been offered to serve them with his body, and the Bard intended that he and Nijal and Geraint take full advantage of it. Perhaps there would be a way to buy the Diviner, but the cost would be high.

*    *    *