Brynnan: The Alsar Imperative : Chapter 13

The Primal Song

In the tent, Adelchis, sitting with his arm around Shahin’s shoulders, lifted his head. Simultaneously, Dronnadh stood and faced the open entrance. The scene outside was still bathed in the pale moonlight, but a sense of impending fear spread. Nijal tightened his grasp on Jorge’s hand, and Samir clutched his sword hilt.

A wailing moan split the night air, loud and uncanny. Azander reacted. “My son’s body is out there!” Before anyone could stop him, he ran outside.

Samir followed him, leaving Dronnadh to bar the doorway against Shahin. “Stay here, I tell you. We shall not give it two victims!” the Diviner said.

Azander faced a strange sight. The five Alsar on guard had taken Adelchis’ body to one side of the sacred ground. Now they ringed themselves about it, but a wind circulated about the corpse, driving them back. And now a white form materialized beside the body, crouching over it and wailing. Azander pushed forward, attempting to pierce the wind’s barrier. The white figure lifted its head.

“Devana!” The Alsar Guardian started in shock.

Words echoed in his head, ‘I am taking our son. I will keep him safe from you!’

Before Azander could answer, Dronnadh sent him an urgent thought. ‘Do not answer the spirit. All is not as it seems.’

Devana continued, ‘Yes, I will take him. Then I am coming for your hunter. He attacked my Antarah, who took the name Adelchis to conceal himself from you, my once-mate. But the hunter is dying, and I shall claim his soul also. Then look to your fellows.’

She scooped her arms as if to lift the body but grasped a vaporous man-like form that seemed to spark with flickers of red, holding it in her arms. As Azander stared at her in horror, she changed. Her eyes became clouded, and she grew haggard. From about her, a roiling fog appeared, and the wind died as it spread out in a low ground mist, flowing towards the onlookers.

“Shield!” cried Dronnadh out loud, and the other Alsar guardians raced to the tent, ranging themselves between the terror and its intended victim, throwing their combined mind force into a barrier.

The spirit suddenly paused, growing rigid. Then it faded with the soul of Antarah/Adelchis in its arms. Azander dropped to his knees in despair.

* * *

Red storm light poured through the portal in Mavrenn’s tower room, illuminating the fog that had preceded it. Brynnan shielded himself, Mavrenn and Jehanadir with all his strength but knew it would not be enough. He needed to somehow strike back.

The glowing figure stopped at the threshold and began to change, forming the semblance of an emaciated woman. If Mavrenn was incredibly beautiful, this one was not. Surrounded by a dark red aura, her hair was an untamed black tangle hanging like rags around a face etched with lines of crazed grief, pulling it into a tragic mask. Her eyes were white and opaque, clouded, and seemingly sightless though they still managed to project a focused menace. And they bled. Her robe seemed made of the same dark, grey fog that filled the chamber. She bore pale mauve flowers in her hair, though wilted and dying.

Brynnan had never seen a being like this and struggled for a name. Her very appearance brought to mind a corpse that had undergone tremendous suffering in life. But power and violence emanated from her, aimed at the three in the chamber.

‘Invite me in, Mavrenn. I come to bring you the gift of annihilation, but I think I will offer you a choice: either that or submit to me and come to my realm to dwell there with other souls I have collected.’

“Why would you target me?” Mavrenn answered her. “You are not welcome in my Lord Arawn’s kingdom.”

‘I will replace you. I will put part of my spirit into your Servant’s harp, and he shall sing my songs. King Arawn will bow to me, for I am the Mother of Chaos. Darkness, Pain and Sorrow are my attendants.’

Brynnan was struck by the creature’s knowledge of Mavrenn and himself. He must name her soon at all costs: his shield was beginning to fail.

“What is she?” he asked Mavrenn.

“A spirit of violent death, lacking any compassion,” said Mavrenn shortly.

“My Lady, I can’t hold on much longer. There is one thing I can do, but it risks us all. I do not know what will happen.”

“Do it, my Servant. Only our combined power can stop her.”

Mavrenn’s body became less substantial, changing to a cloud of stars that shimmered with iridescence sparks. Jehanadir looked at her with awe, then cried out, covering his eyes as Mavrenn’s soul manifested its natural form. But Brynnan tamped down his fear and focused. Between his open arms, his harp formed, becoming real and solid. Mavrenn’s soul uttered a sigh, and the harp drew her in. Now she was complete.

Unregarded, tears flowed from Brynnan’s eyes. He spoke almost quietly to the creature in the portal, but his words carried power. “You name yourself “Mother of Chaos,” but I am a son of the Abyss from which the universe was formed and will form again. Now hear the Primal Song.”

Brynnan shut down his own mental shield but maintained it over Jehanadir. Opening himself up to the creature’s malevolent force, his eyes misted, and he felt his life would drain away. He traced the branded sigils on his breast. Then he began to play the harp.

Mavrenn’s tones resonated with combined frequencies far beyond her accustomed range, and the resulting sounds drew her listeners irresistibly. The song pouring forth contained the resonance potential of creation and destruction combined, but the rhythm was a balanced, alternating harmony. The Bard invoked his own soul that had been birthed anew in the eternal Abyss when he had cast himself there, seeking only death.

The Abyss whispered a name as he played, and Brynnan chanted it to the daemon that threatened them all.

“I know you now. Akhlys, I name you. Begone from here before you are subsumed back into the eternal dark.”

The miasmic fog in the chamber roiled up, attempting to fill the space, but was suddenly sucked back into the gateway. Akhlys screamed. However, she had one last ploy. Even as Brynnan watched, she changed into the semblance of a fair woman in white robes.

“You name me wrong, Bard. I am Devana, only a forest spirit who grieved too much for the dead. Surely, I am like you when you lead them to the Gate.”

“Your deceit will not avail you now, Akhlys. And you are nothing like I am.”

The woman’s eyes glowed like dead moons. “You compel me away, but I will await you. Look for me in my realm. Your friend, the old hunter, Jorge, is dying, and I will claim his soul, as I have already claimed the soul of the son I had with the Alsar Guardian. Try to redeem them, and we will see who prevails!”

A wind blew, but this time it blasted into the portal: fog and spirit were sucked away, receding like a lump of dying coal in a fire as it turns black and then to white ash. She was gone.

Brynnan felt utterly emptied as he slumped back among the cushions. Jehanadir immediately moved to him, resting his hands on Brynnan’s shoulders.

“Brynnan! You must summon your Father! You need his help.”

“There is no need,” said a voice behind them, and just like that, the Shadow Lord was there.

“Lord King! Brynnan needs you, and—Mavrenn is gone!” Jehanadir knelt at Arawn’s feet.

Arawn raised him up. “Then let us help my son first.” Arawn gestured, and Brynnan lay stripped naked.

What occurred next was not fucking, but something more profound. Brynnan needed more than Arawn’s essence; he required loving compassion. Jehanadir stretched alongside the King and his son, kissing Brynnan and stroking the silky swirling black hair on his chest and body as he nursed on the Bard’s contracted nipples. Arawn sucked his son’s genitals slowly and deliberately. Thus man and deity worked on the Bard, pouring their love into him. When Arawn knelt between Brynnan’s thighs and plunged his cock into the rectal portal, Brynnan opened his eyes. “My Father,” he whispered.

“Jehanadir is here also,” said Arawn. “The daemon is gone—for now. But let go of your fears and give yourself to me.”

Brynnan raised his arms and grasped the King’s shoulders as Arawn kissed him, thrusting his tongue into the Bard’s mouth.

“I shall take you and give you my seed, then Jehanadir will join with your body likewise.”

The Shadow Lord increased the pace of his strokes, each ending with a hard thrust, jerking Brynnan’s body with its force, while Jehanadir’s hand played with his cock. Arawn watched his son’s face closely, noting his dilated pupils, and the expression of ecstasy that betokened Brynnan’s mind was far from the evil that had assailed them. He judged it time.

“I am cumming inside you, my son. Feel its power as it melds with your being.”

With several final thrusts, Arawn ejaculated, and his hot cum jetted into Brynnan’s anal chute, making him cry out in surrender to his Father.

As Arawn pulled away, he nodded to the Prince. “Now, you also must give him your semen.”

Jehanadir slid his body over his friend’s, rubbing their cocks together, sliding in the pre-cum covered wetness of his flesh. He kissed Brynnan, then sucked his nipples and risked kissing the three sigils branded on the Bard’s breast. He positioned himself between his friend’s knees and lifted Brynnan’s buttocks higher, his tumescent cock seeking entry into the anal sphincter. Once inside, he rested until he felt Brynnan relax, then thrust deep. Jehanadir took his time fucking him, making each stroke count: pushing in and pausing before withdrawing almost completely, only to surge inside again. The very steadiness of his rhythm allowed Brynnan to absorb every pulse of pleasure he could wrest from it until the Prince murmured, “I’m cumming in you now; let yourself go, my dear friend, and cum with me.”

“Yes ....” Brynnan managed through clenched teeth. “I’m cumming now!”

For Jehanadir, his ejaculation felt like the awareness of his land after drinking the Water of Life. Indeed: its effects were still within him, and he responded to every twitch of pleasure, every sigh of Brynnan’s as if it were his own. Their spirits seemed to meld again, even as their bodies pressed tightly together. He clutched the Bard, resting in his arms.

Brynnan stirred and asked Arawn, “My Father, what will become of Mavrenn? Can you again bring her soul back from the harp, letting her spirit remain? She loves your land and swore to protect it from the daemon, giving of herself to do so.”

Arawn considered the matter. “I heard her voice as you played the harp. Truly, the primal sounds have immense power, and I need not caution you on their use. Your encounter with the Abyss has schooled you in unprecedented ways. But now, I will try. There is still much to do. Your friend, Jorge, the old hunter, faces death still, and the daemon seeks to claim him from me. It shall not be so. Now, let us begin.”

Instructed by the Shadow Lord, Brynnan took up the harp and began to play deep thrumming notes that reminded him of the tones heard in the Mother-of-All’s voice, and he knew it was part of Her song. He closed his eyes, letting the experience wash over him. Then he sensed the tones changing, sounding a bell-like clarity like a pure running stream, and felt something leave the harp. He dared to look and saw a coalescing, sparking cloud of stars and knew he beheld Mavrenn’s soul once more. Instinctively, he placed a hand over the harp strings, stilling them. Brynnan returned the instrument to its refuge in the Shadow-ways as the soul continued to form.

He sensed Ysbryd’s presence. The dog wanted to join them, but Brynnan sternly said, ‘No. Guard the harp.’ Sensing the beast’s reluctance, he added, ‘Guard her well; later, there will be cheese.’ A feeling of eagerness projected from Ysbryd’s mind.

Arawn smiled as he overheard. But then he turned to the faintly pulsing cloud.

“Mavrenn, I bid you join us in the form you held before.”

The soul swirled, and the woman stood before them, black robes and hair flying in an unseen breeze. To Jehanadir’s astonishment, the King embraced her.

“Akhlys is gone for now. We have more things to accomplish, and then your Servant must face her on her own ground.“

“My Lord King!” Mavrenn protested. “Can he even find her realm?”

Jehanadir interrupted, “The Water of Life influences me still. When the creature withdrew, I followed her traces, much like I can follow the doings of the animals and creatures in my land when the Water is in me. With the Shadow-Lord’s help, I can give that knowledge to Brynnan.”

Mavrenn bowed her beautiful head. “Very well. I know it must be done. And now, even a soul needs rest.”

Jehanadir looked at her, his eyes filled with longing. “It is so dark in here. I dread to leave you alone with only these blank archways surrounding you. Anything might come through them.”

Mavrenn laughed, and the sound was pure magic. “Not so, Prince. Look!” She waved her arm around the tower chamber. Suddenly the archways cleared, and light flooded in, revealing the realm of Annwn. Each view showed a different aspect: mysterious forests, plains of purple grass, orchards of apple trees, mountains under a twilight sky, and in one portal, a shimmering sea...

“My Lady, I had no idea.”

“As for the blank portal, that is the doorway to the Shadow-ways and only will be rendered secure when my Servant performs the task assigned him. But have hope,” she said, smiling at the Prince, who bowed before her.

“And now,” said the King, “I will transfer Jehanadir’s knowledge to you, Brynnan and send you both back to the Material Realm.”

* * *

The Warlord fretted. He had sworn to protect his friends, but a sword could do little against supernatural forces. Samir feared for Brynnan and Jehanadir but did not speak of it to his companions. Then he sensed a faint voice in his mind. ‘My Lord and Love,’ it said. At that moment, Samir felt the kindling of hope. “Brynnan comes!” he announced.

Shahin cried, “Is my Prince with him?”

“Wait, and we shall see,” Samir replied, but the blurred outline of bodies could already be seen inside the tent.

Shahin moved towards the manifestation, but the priest, Eren, held him back. “Give them space, young hawk,” he said, not unkindly.

They watched as Brynnan and the Prince appeared fully in the flesh. The Bard’s face looked pale and drawn, but Jehanadir seemed lost in wonder.

Dronnadh greeted them. “Prince Jehanadir, you met with Mavrenn!”

“Yes, my Seer. How can you tell? Do you read the Patterns even in Annwn?”
“Only in you, my Prince. All I know is that something wonderful and terrible claimed you both.”

“That is true,” sighed Jehanadir. Then he turned to his companion. “But Brynnan must sit and rest. He has fought such a battle that has drained his strength severely.”

But Samir took his lover in his arms. “I am glad you are back whole. Do as Jehanadir suggests. Here, let us sit together. Rest your head on my shoulder.”

Nijal was all business. He looked up from attending Jorge and reached into his kit. “Drink of this, both of you.”

Samir reached for the bottle and passed it to the Bard. Brynnan sipped sparingly before passing it to Jehanadir.

“The colour comes back into your face,” the Warlord said to Brynnan.

“I will be fine. Something dire has occurred here: I need to know what happened.”

They told him.

If they expected surprise or shock, they were not rewarded. Brynnan’s expression remained grave, yet curiously undisturbed, while Jehanadir listened silently, his arms around Shahin, who clung to him unashamedly.

But it was Azander who said, “I could swear it was Devana, who was once my mate. But even so, she should have passed to the otherworld by now. It has been many years in human terms. My son, Antarah—Adelchis—had my heritage and lived longer than a human’s span. Now you tell me it may have been this terrible daemon who took her form, but it has my son’s soul in its grasp. Even with all his wrongdoing, I still love him and cannot countenance that his soul should be imperilled.”

“I’m afraid this creature, Akhlys, has possessed Devana’s soul also,” said the Bard. “Now listen to our encounter, and you will see that the same threat imperils us all.”

It was Brynnan’s turn to recount his adventures with Jehanadir. He cautioned his listeners that he could not disclose all—many of Annwn’s secrets, including the nature of Mavrenn’s soul, were not to be spoken of. “But I can tell you, in the end, I summoned my harp and drove the entity away by its power and Mavrenn’s.”

“But it is only driven off, not vanquished?” Shahin asked hesitantly. “It said it would return here. Jorge’s life is still in danger from it. I can’t bear the thought of such a creature having him in its grasp.”

“I will track her down,” the Bard said, with a look of iron purpose in his eyes. “And I will go soon.”

Azander protested, “You are already weakened by this exchange. Even if you are the Shadow Lord’s son, how will you withstand her? She holds sway over a dark realm of death and despair by her own telling.”

“I will do what I must, Azander. I will find a way to bar entrance to that place—permanently.”

“My beloved, I trust you, and I know of your resources better than any here, but isn’t there a danger you will be trapped there?” the Warlord asked.

“There is always a risk, my heart’s love. Allow me to do this.”

“I do concur with Arawn, your Father. Go with my blessing,” said Samir, kissing Brynnan’s forehead.

Nijal looked up from his patient. “We will be waiting for you. Count on our aid to renew your spirit when you return.”

And Brynnan faded.

* * *

To be continued . . .

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