To Redeem His People

“He shall stand before those from Beyond the Stars. The burden of his people will be laid on him, and he shall suffer greatly for them. Death stands beside him, and he shall be welcomed into that kingdom through the persecution of the Strangers. But through Death, he shall triumph.” 
–Aelizian Scroll, First Age, copy

This is the beginning of the Third Branch of Brynnan’s tale. If you wish to find more of his story, of events that went before, please read the first book, To Take Away His Voice, and the second book, To Discover His Truth, in Gaydemon Stories.

The Game

On the third day out from the ArMor-ys Redoubt,  Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, the Alsar Guardian Nijal, and the old Warrior, Geraint, encountered the great horse herd that roamed the high plateau.

This was the ArMynydd herd, the hardy mountain breed of Brynnan’s people. The beasts showed no fear of the three men, and they realized why when they encountered mounted horse-herders among them. Brynnan and his companions were greeted with courtesy and invited to share an evening camp with the herders.

“I am Gleddyf Hir, chief herdsman. We twenty men are tasked with bringing the herd to the lowlands for the winter. Welcome!”

After introductions, Geraint asked, “You are ‘Long Sword’ in the trader’s tongue?” He had learned to roughly speak Brynnan’s language. “I see no sword upon you…” he probed.

The chief herder guffawed, “That is because I am clothed,” he said, patting his crotch.

“Walked into that one, didn’t I? Well, if they call you ‘Gleddyf Hir, then you can call me Geraint Gleddyf Fawr, Great Sword.”

“Ho, a contest, is it?” said the man.

The other men shouted for a demonstration, and there was much laughter. One herdsman produced a pair of dice. Geraint and Gleddyf Hir tossed to see who would go first. The herder won.

He grinned and opened his breeches, grasping his half-hard cock, proceeding to stroke it until it reached its full extension. It was indeed long.

The men whistled in appreciation and clapped. “Now you!” they called. “Beat that!”

“I will do just that!” cried Geraint, pulling out his own cock. He seized it in his fist and jerked it vigorously. There was sudden silence as the men watched it grow in size.

Geraint’s penis was of noticeable girth: weighty, with a slight upward curve and a broad, mushroom-shaped head. The veins on the shaft stood out.

Someone gave an appreciative whistle. “The desire of mares!” called one man.

“The envy of stallions!” called another.

Nijal, usually a serious man, bent forward, his head on his knees, shoulders silently shaking with suppressed mirth.

Brynnan shook his head and groaned, “I can’t take you anywhere, old Warrior.”

But the men shouted, “Gleddyf’s prick is longer, but the old man’s is thicker. Who will be our judge?”

Geraint said, “Ask our Bard. He is Ruithin, a priest and judge and a man of honour. He will not lie to you.”

Gleddyf said hurriedly, “We did not know you are Ruithin, Lord. Please forgive our jest!”

“Do not be alarmed! I will be your judge. Gleddyf and Geraint, present arms, if you please.”

Both contenders seized their cocks for the Bard’s inspection. Brynnan paused before deciding, entering into the spirit of the game.

“Both are fine specimens. But we need one more criterion. Who among you has the fairest cock?”

There was a shouting of names, and several other men brought out their penises and stroked them to hardness, comparing them, with some continuing to ejaculation.

Then one older herder called, “What about the Wanderer who has joined us? Where is he?”

“Fetch him, fetch him!” Was the enthusiastic response.

Men returned in a very short time, escorting a dark-haired youth. He was handsome, bare-headed, with flashing dark eyes and light brown skin. The young man’s eyes widened when he saw the three companions sitting with the herders, but he did not speak.

The others explained the game to him. The young man looked at Geraint, who smiled encouragingly.

“Very well,” the youth said. “I am not afraid to contend with stallions!”

He stood before them near the fire and exposed his own cock. It was already hard. It was not as long as Gleddyf Hir’s nor as thick as Geraint’s, but it was handsome. Straight and dusky, of good size, the skin was smooth like brown satin, and the head was well-shaped. A glowing drop of pre-cum hung at the tip. The youth stood spread-legged, hips forward, and looked proudly at the herders.

Brynnan walked over and ran a finger down the cock, eliciting a spasm from it. He dipped the tip of his finger in the drop of pre-cum and rubbed it between forefinger and thumb.

“There is no doubt to me who here has the fairest cock. I declare this young man wins the contest!”

There were cheers and no dissension. It was an astute choice. The herders were not offended, and neither could they accuse the Bard of favouritism.

“A prize for the winner!” they cheered.

Brynnan said, politically, “You, Master Horse-keeper, you may choose what the prize shall be.”

It was agreed, and Gleddyf paused before saying, “I declare that our young Wanderer shall choose between Geraint and me to couple with. So far, we have been denied his charms.”

Brynnan stepped in before the young man was forced to choose. “Let us again use the dice. The highest number of both wins Gleddyf, and the lowest will be for Geraint here.”

The young man himself was given the dice to toss. He shook them in his cupped hands and cast them on the ground before the fire. Brynnan pointed to a young herder to read the numbers.

“It comes to five,” he announced. The low number wins it!”

There was more laughter and commiserating slaps on the back for Gleddyf Hir, but all agreed honour and fairness had been maintained, and they applauded the Bard’s judgement.

The young Wanderer came and seated himself beside the old Warrior, who put an arm about his shoulders.

Then cups of fermented mare’s milk were shared out, along with food—primarily dried meat. After their game, the herders were relaxed and in good humour, inclined to make the visitors most welcome. The newcomers’ horses were much praised.

When the three companions retired to their tent, the young man accompanied them. No sooner than he was inside, Geraint embraced him, planting a fierce kiss on his mouth.

“Col, you young scoundrel, how did you find your way here from the plains?”

“I enquired of my dad how to come to this land. And yes, my family was all well when I left. Then I was lost until I began to have dreams guiding me. I was going to travel the sea-road, but the dreams brought me this way. I heard your voice, Brynnan, and it was Grandmother Eleni who told me I must come. But where is Andri?” He looked pained.

“Fear not, Andri is alive, and he is well,” Brynnan hastened to say. “He is at the Ruithin College of the ArMor-Ys Redoubt. I placed him with the Master of Music, and Andri asked to stay. He knows that he could draw trouble down on us again because of his youth and beauty. But don’t worry, Col. He is expecting you.”

“He is? Thank the Mother-of-All. I swore I would find him. I should have accompanied you—”

“But your family needed you more, so soon after Eleni’s recovery,” put in Nijal. “Now, I shall be able to let her know you are safe.”

“How can you do that?” Col’s brows furrowed.

“As part of her healing, I gave her of my blood. It bears an agent that links our minds,” assured Nijal. “Don’t ask how!”

“Does Andri still wear the harness I put on him?” said Col anxiously.

“He does. His heart is still pledged to you, Col,” said Geraint.

“But what about you, Geraint? He loves you, too.”

“He was my apprentice, and yes, I love him greatly. But I am just an old Warrior who is bound to other services – to m’Lord Samir and to look after Brynnan by the Warlord’s command. A young hawk needs to fly and find his own territory. You two can fly together.”

“But what place is there for me at ArMor-ys? I have no Ruithin talents. Will they let me stay?”

Brynnan put his arm around the youth. “You may not have the potential of a bard or scholar, but I know one thing you are excellent at—horses! There is a need for skilled horse tenders. It may not be a high station, but it would keep you with Andri. You would also be accepted as his heart’s love, and would be able to share his chamber. I can see to that.”

“How?”

“I shall send you with a message to the Ruithin Grand Master, Neven-Tanet. I will recommend you as assistant to the Master of Horse there. I will give you other messages also, but they must be ones kept in your mind, not written.”

“I shall never remember!”

“Trust me, you will remember. I shall give the words to you mind-to-mind. The Grand Master will see you if you mention my name to the Ruithin you meet.”

“I can’t wait to see Andri again. I miss him so much. I miss you all as well. And your lessons, Geraint.” Col grinned, remembering how Geraint had taught him to pleasure Andri sexually.

Geraint cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, young man, I only taught you how to please Andri with your mouth and him, you. We never did cover ass fucking in a practical sense. I only talked to you about it. You will be happy to know that Andri has learned to fuck ass himself – he earned the right by saving Brynnan’s life. But what about you, lad? Have you yet taken your first man in this way?”

“No, even though we met up with others of the tribe before I left. I had no desire to be with anyone else.” He looked shyly at Geraint. “But I still have to claim my prize.”

“Yes, lad. I am lucky that the dice you threw favoured me.”

“I am a very lucky player,” said Col, but there was a wicked glint in his eye. “I think your Bard knew what he was doing when he suggested the dice. But seriously, Geraint. Will you teach me this night what I need to know, to please Andri?”

Geraint cast an appraising eye at Col. “Let me get my gear. I will take you to the fire, and we will fetch some hot water.”

Later, in the tent, Geraint laid out his plan. “Col, I will fuck you first. I know I am large, but I can be gentle. You need to know just how it feels before you take ass yourself. After I am finished with you—and I won’t let you cum, mind—you will fuck Brynnan. He is more accommodating than I or Nijal.”

“I suppose I am,” sighed Brynnan, recalling the number of times in their journey that he had been taken by strangers, not always with consent, either.

“I will stand guard for us and give you three more space in the tent. Come, kiss me, Col.”

Col wrapped his arms around the Guardian and opened his mouth to him, who embraced the young Wanderer and kissed him, plunging his tongue into Col’s willing mouth. “If I am not too sore, perhaps I can entice you to fuck me yourself, or I can service you in other ways when you return?”

“That is a thought that will keep me warm. Until I return, then!” Nijal smiled and left the tent, seizing his cloak and sword.

Col turned to Brynnan and the old Warrior and removed his clothing. They, in turn, stripped also. They lay on the bedding with cloaks roughly pulled over their bodies to keep out the cold. Both Brynnan and Geraint caressed the young Wanderer, and Brynnan briefly sucked his cock, then urged him to turn over.

Freshly prepped as Col was, Brynnan had no hesitation about rimming him, teasing the youth’s anus with his tongue. Col sighed in pleasure. Geraint moved in front so that Col could reach his large, thick cock and suck it, bringing the old Warrior to new stiffness. Then Geraint moved to take Brynnan’s place. The Bard passed him the bottle of lubricant, and Geraint poured some onto his cock, rubbing it until it was slick. He then worked some lotion into Col’s ass until he was moaning.

The old Warrior spread the lad’s ass cheeks and rubbed his cock over the opening. “Are you ready for me, lad? Relax and breathe how I have taught you to do. I will go slow and pause at each stage until you can take my cock in.”

He grasped his hefty member with one hand and pushed the head against Col’s rectum. It began to penetrate slowly, and Col gasped.

“Easy, easy, lad,” said Geraint. “You can take it. Just breathe.”

He pushed a little more, then paused. Working in this way with great patience, he slowly persisted until the glans of his cock entered Col’s ass.

“Let me know when you are ready for me to continue,” he told the youth.

Brynnan was impressed with Geraint’s restraint. The old Warrior was not by nature the gentlest of lovers, and the Bard knew that he had used Andri—and himself—hard on occasion. Brynnan had come to revel in the enthusiastic thrusting, and he also recalled his own heart’s love, the Warlord Samir, fucking him in a manner that sometimes bordered on brutal.

But Geraint’s prowess and reputation were well-deserved, and he was a master teacher in the sexual arts. Thus, when Col signalled, he pushed on ahead, applying more lubricant as needed. When he was finally deep-seated in the youth’s ass, he began to rock him gently, moving slowly and smoothly in and out. Geraint felt the incredibly arousing heat and tightness of the virgin rectum, squeezing his cock involuntarily, but Col now made no protests of pain. Instead, he moaned softly, taking what Geraint chose to give him. At last, Geraint cautioned him of his imminent ejaculation.

“Col, lad, I am about to come in your ass. Things may get a little rowdier now.”

“Go ahead, please . . .”

Geraint speeded his stroke until he was pumping hard. He seized Col’s long, curling back hair with one hand and his hip with the other. Growling like the bear he was, he shot his load, stabbing into the ass with each burst of cum. Col revelled in it, pushing back against each thrust.

“I am close to cumming myself, Geraint,” Col gasped.

“Shhh . . . shhh,” he hushed the youth, even as he turned him and embraced him in his powerful arms. “Just relax, lad. Save some of that energy for our Bard.”

They lay together for a while, with Brynnan embracing Geraint’s back. The Bard was happy for Geraint. He knew that his friend had been missing Andri, and for him, this act was a reaffirmation, something the young Wanderer could carry on to Andri and share with him. Thus, Geraint would know that whenever Col fucked the young singer, he would pass on the techniques he taught to the boy’s lover. But Geraint was not finished.

“Now, lad. ‘Tis your turn to fuck our Bard.”

Brynnan laughed, feeling an unexpected joy. “In all our time spent at ArMor-Ys, I was getting tired of all the respect and ‘Yes, Marec Mavrenn, no Marec Mavrenn, Lord.’ If only they could hear you, Geraint. You are a draught of cool water on a hot summer day, my dear friend.”

“Then lie down, Brynnan, my lad, and let Col at you. I’ll tell him what to do.”

So, Brynnan prostrated himself, lying face-up. Col lay over him, and they embraced and kissed. Brynnan raised his hips, and Col reared back, his erect penis upthrust. Brynnan raised a leg over Col’s shoulder, making his body more accessible. Col poured lubricant on his cock and hand, stroking his cock before using his fingers to play with the Bard’s ass as Geraint directed him.

“Curl your fingers forward,” said Geraint. “Good. Now you can either insert more fingers or try your cock.”

Col pushed his cock against Brynnan’s rectal passage, and naturally, with less effort than it had taken Geraint to enter Col’s ass, it went in. But Col was still careful, asking Brynnan how it felt and pausing, as Geraint had with him. Brynnan did not ask the boy to rush, although he was more than capable of taking it but let him find his own way, with gentle encouragement from the old Warrior. But presently, Col felt easy enough to thrust inside Brynnan.

“I love seeing your face, Brynnan,” Col told him. “Your eyes are shining. I think this is the way I shall do it to Andri.”

Brynnan smiled and told Col, “You can release your passions, now, Col, my lad. You will not hurt me.”

Col needed no other urging. He laughed with abandon and, seizing Brynnan’s hips, began to ride him hard. “I’m going to make you cum with me,” he told the Bard.

The young Wanderer’s ejaculation took some time as the spasms of joy washed over him. Brynnan, too, let himself go and allowed his cum to splash out unconstrained.

Afterwards, Geraint towelled them off with a damp cloth. “You did well, lad,” he said to Col. “How do you feel now?”

Col just laughed and embraced the Bard, rolling with him in his arms.

Presently, Nijal entered the tent, dropping his cold cloak at the foot of the bedding. “A more contented pack of hounds I’ve seldom seen. It looks like your lessons were well received, Geraint.”

“I am proud of them both,” answered the old Warrior. “How did you fare?”

“I enlightened our herdsman friends about the Invaders coming. I didn’t give them too much information but told them to seek guidance from the Ruithin. I think, however, that they could use some of your songs to reinforce their spirits.”

“I shall do that,” said Brynnan, sitting up and taking hold of his garments. When he was dressed in his sheepskin coat, he pulled on the wind silk cloak that he wore and left, taking his harp with him.

The fireside gathering welcomed him, and the men looked eagerly at the harp case. Some fifteen men were present, the others being with the herd, watching over the horses. When Brynnan uncased his harp, named Mavrenn, there were comments and murmurs around the circle. The men stared in awe at the beautiful and unique harp. Her satiny purple wood gleamed in the firelight and the bone figurehead of a woman, with ruby eyes, glittered on the pillar. They may not have laid eyes on her before, but they knew her description—and Brynnan’s reputation.

“You are Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, the Servant of Ravens!” said Gleddyf Hir. “Forgive us, Lord, for our rough humour. We didn’t realize.”

“Yes, we would have expected someone a lot older than yourself, Sir, and more solemn and pomp—” the young herder who had read the dice at the game said. Then another cuffed him into silence before he could say something unfortunate.

Brynnan smiled and said, “Please don’t stand on ceremony with me. We were getting on so well before.”

The chief herdsman dared to ask, “Lord, did Col, the Wanderer, claim his prize yet?”

“He did, indeed,” the Bard said, still feeling the warmth of his and Col’s lovemaking. “As you can imagine, Geraint Gleddyf Fawr, with his considerable experience, taught the lad a few new tricks. You can ask them yourselves in the morning, if they have a mind to tell you. But now,” he said, pulling the harp into his shoulder, “What song may I give you? Mavrenn and I shall sing for your pleasure.”

Then the herdsmen, tentatively, began to name songs that Brynnan played for them. His voice and Mavrenn’s blended, and the harp’s strings sounded bright golden tones of surpassing sweetness. Then the requests came easier as the men relaxed. Finally, Brynnan chose songs of his own, singing in the Shadow-style, which eased the men’s hearts and built resolve and feelings of brotherhood.

He left them feeling a task well-accomplished, although he had missed Andri’s deep voice melding with his own. At the tent, he found Col fast asleep, with Geraint and Nijal murmuring softly by the greenish light of the orb they carried.

“All is well, now,” he told them. They asked after you, Geraint, and Col. I told them you both could answer their questions in the morning if you wish. But the boy here seems tired.”

“He insisted on servicing Nijal and sucked him off most competently,” grinned Geraint. “I think it has been an exciting evening for him.”

Geraint took his turn at watch. When he had left the tent, Brynnan let his guard down. “I am feeling somewhat troubled, dear friend,” he said to Nijal.

“What is bothering you?”

“Now it is night; there’s a pawing at my mind, like some insistent dog. I fear the Watcher seeks me out again. And I am not supposed to resist him too hard, according to the Grand Master’s plan.”

“You don’t need your mind invaded tonight. Come rest in my arms, and I will shield your mind for you. Time enough to deal with it tomorrow,”

“Thank you, Nijal. I am relieved. But I have a task I must do. In two days, we will reach the far side of Cadair Annwn, the mountain throne with the Shut Lake at its top. I need to spend the night there—alone.”

“Geraint won’t like it, but I will fend him off. What do you hope to find there?”

“Some help for us, and perhaps a grey ghost, an Ysbryd Llwyd.”

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