To Redeem His People

Diviner’s Seed

Harp music rippled through the clearing. The once-rowdy men of the North listened in respectful silence. Brynnan was seated on a bulky pack placed in the centre; his harp, Mavrenn, resting on the horse blanket that covered the ground before him. Also, on the blanket crouched the slave and Diviner, Dronnadh, stripped naked despite the cold, a cloak the only shield against the snow, which, fortunately, had stopped falling.

The Bard had given them a long saga of their homeland featuring the war between their winter god of cold and ice, Nepja, and the forces of the Hero Sóldr.

Geraint muttered to Nijal, “How can he remember all those words? —not that I could understand them.”

“Arne’s men seem pleased, at least. It should smooth our way,” the Guardian replied.

“But how will you deal with their Diviner, Dronnadh?”

“He is offered to us. The polite thing is to accept,” Nijal replied calmly.

Brynnan finished his tale on the harp, and the men gave accolades. Drinking horns were raised, and several men stood and gave short speeches. The Bard accepted their tribute with grace and tact. Men spoke poetry, and again, Brynnan’s skilled hands plied the harp, keeping a soft and measured background tune to their words.

Aldith, the Battle-Master and Dronnadh’s keeper, stood and addressed the gathering. “We have had the nourishment of meat, mead, saga and poetry. Let us give this Skald first use of our slave. It may be that the Diviner can read the semen spilled upon his body and give us his prediction.”

Aldith’s words were greeted with laughter and cheers. The Battle-Master turned to Brynnan. “Do you wish the shelter of your tent, or is your blood hot enough to stay out here? My slave can demonstrate his talents before your companions, or the men may take their turn with him.”

“My harp would not forgive me if I were to freeze my hands further out here if I am to play for you later. Let him suck me off for now. Then after your sport is finished, I will take his ass in our tent. But if I may beg a boon of you, Aldith Battle-Master, let your men not allow him to spill his seed before I take him.”

Aldith laughed and, turning, commanded the Diviner. “Get on your knees and serve this Skald. Give him honour!”

“Yes, Master.” The Diviner glanced up at Brynnan, seeing him closely for the first time. His gaze fastened on the heavy golden torc around the Bard’s neck. Given to Brynnan by his father, King Arawn of the Otherworld, the ends of the torc were fashioned in the shape of two snarling hounds.

 Dronnadh’s expression froze. He shied backwards as if in fear. “The Ravens of Battle fly thick about this one! His soul rides with the Lord of Death and Life. Beware!”

The Battle Master seized Dronnadh’s chain close to his neck collar. “Keep your utterances to finding us game to hunt and seeking out enemies. This one is Skald. Of course the Ravens fly thick about him! Has he not just given us the tale of glorious and bloody battle, fool?”

Brynnan turned to Aldith and said in a low but pleasant voice, “Your slave is your own to deal with; but for myself, I see a man not addled in wits but touched by the God. His wisdom will serve you in good stead if you treat the God with respect. Deities are unpredictable. I, myself, am under geasa imposed by the Gods whom I fear reverently.”

Aldith suddenly looked worried, “It had not much occurred to me. Perhaps I should consult Bertholf, our Master of Runes. If I must placate this God, I will do so.”

Only Brynnan seemed to notice how Dronnadh’s gold and turquoise eyes turned shrewd for a moment as the slave looked at him. Brynnan then felt a gentle probing in his mind. He allowed the thought in and sent acknowledgement and reassurance to the Diviner.

But aloud, he said, “Good Diviner, come show your skill on my cock, if you will, but keep your auguries to yourself. My own Ravens speak to me and tell me tales.” He loosened his breeches and exposed himself to the slave.

“I will suck you, Son of Annwn. My honour to your Sire.”

Brynnan felt a trickle of shock and wondered if Dronnadh could read his mind. Instinctively, he shielded.

“You will come to no harm from me, Brynnan, friend of Nijal. Come, let me pleasure you before these noble gentlemen,” said Dronnadh aloud, as if in answer to his thought.

Then the Diviner knelt on the horse blanket, taking Brynnan’s cock in his hand. It was not as large as Geraint’s girthy cock, but it was above average size, straight and handsome. He licked the cock slowly from the base to the tip while massaging Brynnan’s balls. His cock swiftly stiffened. The Diviner continued licking, then he swirled his tongue around the head, probing into the slit of the cock head to lick the pre-cum gathering there. After doing some fine tongue-work, he took the cock into his mouth, swallowing it and letting it fill his throat. He began to suck on it.

Brynnan sighed in unexpected pleasure. Dronnadh was very skilled. The Bard had guessed as much, knowing that the young-looking man was, in fact, far older than he, being a Guardian like Nijal; he just hadn’t thought that the Diviner would apply himself with any enthusiasm. He was wrong. The man edged him deftly, bringing him to the brink of orgasm several times. Then he slid his tongue down the side of Brynnan’s cock to his balls, where he sucked on them one at a time while using his hand to jerk off the cock. When he took it in his mouth again, swallowing it to the hilt, Brynnan was close to cumming. So far, he hadn’t touched the Diviner, but now he took his hands from under his cloak. He gripped Dronnadh’s unshorn black hair with one hand while feeding him his cock with the other.

“Suck it hard now, Diviner. I am going to cum in your mouth . . .”

Dronnadh sucked the head while Brynnan jerked off into his mouth. “I’m cumming now. Swallow it; swallow it all!”

He threw his head back, panting, as his cock spurted thick jets of semen down the Diviner’s throat. The man swallowed willingly as if relishing each drop.

“Careful now, I’m sensitive,” Brynnan gasped. Then he rested his hands in Dronnadh’s hair. He suddenly felt an empathy with the Diviner, as he himself had been in the position of sex slave and knew what it was like to be forced to serve strangers. But for both their sakes, he held himself aloof and laughed along with Aldith, and the leader Arne, who had joined them.

The gentle probing thought intruded into the Bard’s mind one more time. He sent mind-words back to Dronnadh, ‘Patience, Guardian, we will talk later.’

After Brynnan, several other men used the slave’s oral skills. But in deference to the Bard’s request, they did not fuck his ass; they thought that Brynnan had reserved it for later. In fact, Brynnan used that excuse to get Dronnadh away from his tasks and retire with him to the tent.

The Diviner dressed himself and followed Brynnan. On his way, the Bard signalled Geraint to stay awhile longer while Nijal got up and followed him into their tent. The dog, Ghost, took up position outside. He looked so formidable that no one dared approach.

Inside, the first thing Brynnan did was hand Dronnadh a drink of their medicinal cordial, then a water skin. Dronnadh drank all of it. Then he sat down on the tent floor with a sigh. Nijal dropped to his knees beside him, and they embraced and kissed.

“Do you want to fight them? We can, you know,” Nijal said.

“No, my brother. As you have guessed—or rather Brynnan has guessed, there’s a purpose in my madness. They think of travelling to the Narib Redoubt. They have a mind to sell me to the Red Prince. They know that Narib’s spring Ritual of Divination approaches soon, where Jehanadir reads the soul of his land, assisted by his diviners. I was just unfortunate in my choice of masters.”

“You could have travelled there by yourself,” remarked the Bard.

“Yes, but I would only have my own claim that my skills as a diviner are worthwhile. By becoming a slave to the Men of the Boar, I have a chance to prove myself, and these men will vouch for me. I must join Prince Jehanadir’s diviners.”

“We are travelling there ourselves,” replied Nijal. “I agree that we must confront the Red Prince. This spring, he will have difficulty obtaining or creating the Water of Life, used in his yearly divination of the land. Ah . . . we were responsible for removing the supply chain that brings him water from a certain well. We must attempt to remedy that.”

Then Nijal briefly related the events that occurred with the cult of the Blue People of the Broken Hills and how Brynnan had banished Martya, the Angel of Death.

Dronnadh turned to look closely at Brynnan. “Recently, I have sensed your presence in the aether along with Nijal’s consciousness. We fight a common enemy, I think.”

“We do indeed,” agreed the Bard. “Let us inform you of how things progress with our encounters of the Invaders from the stars.”

Brynnan recounted their recent experiences with the Watcher from the ship, concluding, “So, they can also see through the eyes of the ones they possess and hear their speech. Beware! If I become possessed while in your company, say nothing you don’t want them to hear. And I intend to confront them again—soon!”

Nijal then stroked Dronnadh’s back and shoulders, “But now, my Alsar brother, let me comfort you in the way that we used to do, and let Brynnan join us. He, too, has been in your position and understands the burden you take on yourself.”

“Indeed, Dronnadh, I apologize for forcing that display outside. It was not my intent to humiliate you,” added the Bard.

“It was well-played what you did,” Dronnadh reassured him. “Well-played also was your Warrior Geraint’s challenge to Arne of single-combat. If he had not fought him, all of you would be their prisoners.”

“Or there would have been a large death toll,” Brynnan said. “We have weapons that could cause great harm.”

“I did see into the realm of possibilities when Geraint and Arne fought, and one outcome was the two burial cairns I mentioned,” said the Diviner.

“Yes, that was a timely interruption, my friend,” said Nijal. “It stopped the fight.”

“Still, have care when dealing with these men. They are savage and proud.” Dronnadh shook his head.

Nijal said nothing but removed his clothing and then helped the Diviner undress. Brynnan, too, stripped off his clothes.

“Let us trust Geraint to hold his own once more while we three do our healing,” Brynnan said.

*    *    *

Outside, a lively dice game was progressing. Geraint employed both cunning and tact in his playing, being careful not to win or lose too much either way. He had a small pile of carnelian and turquoise trade rings, used as currency, beside him that he had won. On his debit side, he had offered three healings by Nijal and one praise verse from Brynnan.

Grœnn, one of Arne’s three close companions, shook the dice in an engraved horn cup while stating his wager. “Two trade rings if I lose, and a healing of the aching lump on my shoulder if I win against Geraint’s throw. The rest of you can give me trade rings, except for Bertholf. From him, I want the Strength Rune carved on my knife hilt.” He cast the dice upon the blanket. “Beat that, if you can,” he crowed.

The other three men took their turns, and Geraint threw last. He lost the toss to Grœnn, as did the others.

Grœnn raked in the rings from the pot at the centre, saying to Geraint, “Your healer had better live up to the reputation you have given him!”

“Nijal Silver-hand has great skills as a battle surgeon. He will ease your pains, friend, in the morning,” the old Warrior responded.

“Just now, no doubt, he pleasures himself with the Diviner and heals his own ills. We would go to look but for your fierce hundr on guard there,” Arne rejoined.

“Summon your man and let him refill our drinking horns while I think of my next wager,” Geraint laughed.

*    *    *

In the tent, Nijal, Brynnan and Dronnadh joined their bodies. Nijal had his cock buried in the Diviner’s ass and thrust in a smooth, slow rhythm, wringing moans from his lover. Dronnadh lay on his back, with his legs over Nijal’s golden, muscular shoulders. Brynnan lay behind, with Dronnadh’s body resting on him while he played with the man’s nipples. Then he slid to the Diviner’s side and reached for the erect cock, stroking it while he licked and sucked on the nipples.

The Bard admired Nijal’s Alsar lover. His physique was closer to Brynnan’s own, lithe but muscular. His skin, though tanned, was pale compared to Nijal’s golden hue. And he was handsome, with a fine-drawn lean face, sensual lips framed with a stubble beard. His black body hair made a small, furred patch on his chest, but his underarms and pubes were thick. His eyes burned as blue and gold jewels, like his Alsar partner's, except that Nijal’s eyes were greener.

“Aah . . . it’s been so long since I’ve been with you, Nijal. Fuck me faster,” Dronnadh breathed, and Nijal obliged.

Brynnan reached over and started kissing Dronnadh deeply, opening his mouth, their tongues entwining. The Diviner put his arm behind Brynnan’s head, pulling him close. He sighed, “It’s a long time since I felt love surrounding me. Brynnan, you have a compassionate soul.” He started kissing the Bard again, and Brynnan felt arousal smoulder in his genitals, threatening to erupt into flame.

Nijal fucked him to the point of ejaculation but ringed the Diviner’s cock in his hand, just below the shapely head. His pace picked up, and he thrust harder, his balls slapping wetly against his partner’s ass.

“Cum on my body,” Dronnadh panted.

After a final few deep pushes, Nijal pulled his cock out and, holding it in his fist, jerked off and ejaculated. Cum spurted out, hitting the Diviner’s face, chest and stomach, splashing a pattern of creamy, white pearls.

“Let me see it,” said Dronnadh, leaning upon his elbows to survey his body. After scanning the way the drops fell, he spoke. “I see a journeying as a group, then a parting of ways. One who knows the runes shall accompany us, but I am not sure . . . I think it is Bertholf Gate-Keeper, the Runemaster. It is fortunate I do not See Aldith, my master, with us.”

Brynnan looked askance. “You can see all that in the pattern of your cum?!”

Nijal, stroking his partner’s thighs, said, “Dronnadh is a master of patterns. He is one who can tell how the butterfly’s wing alters air currents. Everything is connected. Every minute action makes ripples in the fabric of causality. If you learn to correlate the patterns with physical manifestations, you become in truth a Diviner.”

“I believe you, Nijal, but still . . . patterns in one’s semen foretelling future events! I would have simply said that from the order of the splashes, Dronnadh was intensely aroused as the first splashes hit his face.” Then Brynnan laughed helplessly and lay down over Dronnadh’s body, proceeding to lick off the cum.

“There, I have re-arranged the pattern and therefore events. Who knows what will happen now?”

Nijal reached over and cuffed the Bard affectionately.

The three men continued their play, with Brynnan fucking Nijal’s ass, until Geraint opened the tent flap and came inside. “That’s an unusually silent guard dog we have in Ghost. Are you sure he’s any good at warning? He just wagged his tail at me.”

Brynnan looked up from the huddled heap of bodies he was part of. “Ghost is very restrained in the Material Realm. I assure you that even his growl would have unforeseen consequences, and his bark stampedes horses. But trust him implicitly. No strangers can get past us while he is on guard. Now come and tell me of events outside.”

“We played dice. I won these—” Geraint held up his store of stone rings strung on a leather thong, “—plus three runes from Bertholf to be carved on our knife hilts.”

“And what of forfeits?” Nijal asked.

“Aye, there are those,” said the old Warrior wryly, “But only four healings from you, Nijal. They are minor—but one is the removal of a shoulder lump if you can do it, and a praise poem, an englyn in your tongue, Brynnan, for Bertholf. I figured you could throw some flattery in there and put him in your debt. Oh, and I also won from Aldith the right to keep Dronnadh with us this night, and maybe tomorrow too. If I dared a bigger wager, I would claim him, but I think that would ultimately cause a fight.”

Nijal shook his head, but he smiled. “I agree. And I suppose three healings are better than wagering your sword or our supplies! We will attend to it first thing tomorrow before any travelling is done.

“But come, make yourself comfortable, and we can give you our news.”

*    *    *

The following day, Geraint paid his debts. Nijal performed his healing on the four men. Three were simple – agues and coughs and one with a rash—this required tea from balsam fir trees and willow, and an ointment for inflammation.

The man with the lump on his shoulder was a slightly different case. The surgeon arranged the instruments for cutting and suturing upon a clean linen cloth and bathed the man’s shoulder with a disinfecting wash. Brynnan assisted by singing a soft Shadow-song to relax the man’s mind and eliminate pain, putting him in a slightly altered state. The surgeon then cut the skin and removed the lump, suturing two blood vessels inside the wound before closing and stitching it. After Nijal had dressed the wound, Brynnan brought the man’s return to full awareness.

Then Brynnan sought out Bertholf Gatekeeper, the Runemaster.

“I owe you a verse,” he said, smiling.

Bertholf searched him with his keen blue-eyed gaze. “And I owe you or your companions three runes. But I sense something about you . . . I think you know of the runes and the scribing of them. I see them on the soundbox of your harp, and no Skald plays his rune-harp without knowing. I would like to talk privately with you.”

Brynnan found his interest stirred. There was something about the Runemaster, whether for ill or good, he could not at this point tell. But he was obligated to find out.

“Then let our groups travel together this day, and we can meet this evening,” offered Brynnan. “The moon is in its dark phase, making the time right for us. Also, then you may scribe the runes you owe us.”

“Do you know which runes you need?”

Shielded from the eyes of others, Brynnan quickly opened his coat and briefly lifted up his black wool shirt, exposing his chest. It was a dangerous chance, and a test.

Bertholf beheld the three branded runes on Brynnan’s skin, and his eyes widened. He raised his hand in a warding sign. 

“Eternity, Wind and Night. Powerful alone, but together they are a force for transformation, the soul’s journey into life and death, and the great unknown. You are a Seeker! Then we must indeed talk. If you are willing, we will invoke rune-magic. I will ask Aldith, keeper of the slave Dronnadh, to lend him to us. The Diviner may be given the blood-runes, powered by the forces of sex and life. Would you agree to this?”

“I will consult those who guard me, Nijal and Geraint. But yes, I am inclined that we meet as you say. I intend to invite an entity that may come into my mind. Until tonight, then.”

As Brynnan walked back to his companions, he considered the risk he would undergo. Tonight he would invoke the Watcher. To control him alone, would the power of the runes be enough?

*    *    *