Brynnan and the Sea Raiders

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence and rape which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

The Lost One

The cries of captives and wounded rent the air. Many dwellings and outbuildings still smouldered and grey smoke drifted through the village, smelling of charred wood and death.

The raiders still pillaged. They gathered their captives into a common group and then the dread sorting began. Healthy female captives and boys of less than fighting age, destined to become slaves, stood shivering in the cold air as their captors bound them. Some of the more desirable were raped. But those who were still capable of posing a threat, also the elderly and the very young, were marked for death.

Still unbound, a stranger walked among the wounded and dying. Ravens followed him. Occasionally, he knelt at the sides of those whose lives were slipping away. He would become very still. The grim warriors who had caused the destruction, the sea-raiders, made warding signs against the man but made no move to stop him. But eventually, there were no more dying to attend to, and the man stood slowly, hands open and weaponless as the raiders approached him.

Falke Stronghand, the big, blond-haired and bearded chieftain of the First Ship halted in front of the stranger, regarding him. What he saw was a man, still young and in his prime, with dark, almost black, hair which hung just below his shoulders, and the new growth of a beard. His black-lashed eyes were a deep brown,  the gaze penetrating. The stranger had the body of a gymnast, supple, lean and muscular without being bulky.

“You are not a warrior, but a man of magic, perhaps? Give me a reason not to have you slain,” said Falke.

“Surely you don’t need a reason, Chieftain,” said the stranger, speaking the raider’s tongue.

“I don’t, but I want to determine what value you can be to us. I can think of one use. Even though you are not a boy, you are good to look upon.”

The stranger spread his hands in a gesture indicating surrender. “There is not much I can do to stop you.”

“I am curious,” said Falke. “What do you do with the dying? The carrion birds follow you, and you are like the ravens yourself. Do you feed on the spirits of the dying? It would earn you death.”

“No. I ease their way into the Shadow Realm. You have nothing to fear from me, though. I neither curse nor raise the spirits of the dead.”

“Mayhap we have a use for you. My cousin Aelgud was slain in this raid. We will stay three days and conduct the funeral rites at his burning. Can you speed his spirit hence when we drink the Cup of Memory?”

“I can. If the spirit still lingers near its earthly home.”

“I think I will simply call you ‘Hrafn’ after the birds that accompany you. Follow me.”

Two other raiders hailed their Chieftain and joined him. One of them was heavily blood-spattered: it was not his blood. His shaven head bore a tattoo of a serpent-like dragon, whose tail coiled down his neck. He wasn’t quite as tall as Falke but had a powerfully muscular body. Alefr was his name. The other raider walked up close to the now-named Hrafn and clasped his upper arm, feeling the muscle.

“This one is stronger than he looks. Do you spare his life, Falke? He could take Rakki’s place at the oar.“

“Let us go to yonder hall, Vari,” responded Falke to the man. “I have other ideas than putting him to the oar.” 

The two warriors laughed. At the threshold to the unburned hall the raiders had claimed as their camp, they met another raider dragging a boy by the back of his shirt.

“More sport, Falke?” he asked.

“Yes, put your captive back into the slave-pen, Taren, and join us.”

Inside, the raiders had breached a large wine barrel and were in the process of getting drunk. Various scenes of debauchery were in evidence but although Hrafn wanted to turn his eyes away, he made himself observe.

“Here,” said Falke to his men.

They faced a raised platform at the side of the hall. Furs and cloaks had been thrown upon it.

“Let us have some sport while the mood is on me. The time to grieve my cousin will be at his pyre, not now.”

“That’s no child you’re dealing with,” said Alefr. “We should bind his hands at least!”

“I have wrist-shackles,” volunteered Vari. Taren had returned so he and Alefr seized the stranger and stripped off his clothing. Vari was about to shackle his wrists behind his back but Falke intervened.

“Let’s see how he does without them for now. I have asked him to say words at my brother’s funeral pyre. I would take his measure. If he can control himself under our present attentions, then the more likely he is to hold up at the funeral feast.”

Falke then forced the man to his knees, seizing him by his hair.

“Do not try any dark magic on us. Submit and live,” he advised the captive.

“I shall not fight you,” their prisoner replied.

Alefr laughed, “What could you do against the four of us?”

But Falke interjected, “See the brand marks on his chest. Runes that I know not the meaning of, but undoubtedly symbols of power. And he has scars. A sword scar on his stomach from a severe wound, I judge, scars on his throat, and whip scars on his back. He has seen conflict and capture before, I guarantee you. But no matter: let us put him to the test.”

Hrafn was subjected to the hard cocks of the four warriors. They sought his mouth, and he was directed to jerk off two of the warriors with his hands while sucking the third man.  The raiders’ sexual behaviour was crude and rough. Taren came in the prisoner’s mouth but Falke then dragged Hrafn onto the platform, putting him on all fours. The big raider knelt behind him, gripping his captive’s hips tightly as he pushed his large cock into the man’s rectum, then roughly thrusting and pumping until he ejaculated his cum, roaring in satisfaction. Hrafn’s ass was unceremoniously and painfully fucked after that by the other three men.

Three more raiders wandered over to watch before Falke invited them to participate.

“My cousin should have been here to take this one’s ass,” Falke mused. “He moves well. I think he has much experience in being fucked.”

The newcomers took their turns fucking Hrafn, while he was also forced to suck cock as the raider taking him drove his shaft in deep and hard, pounding against him.

One raider exclaimed, “Look! His cock is hard. This one must like our attentions.”

Falke dragged the captive upright by his hair and the man who had exclaimed bent down and began to suck Hrafn’s cock until he ejaculated helplessly.

Eventually, they were done, and one raider even offered their captive wine. He accepted it, but rinsed his mouth and spat.

“Don’t like the taste of my cum?” jeered Taren.

“I‘ve tasted better,” the captive responded.

*    *    *

That night, Hrafn was chained next to where Falke slept, instead of with the other captives in the slave pen. The chain was fastened to an iron collar around his neck and his hands were shackled.

He lay sleepless for time, reflecting on how things had come to be. He had sought out the sea raiders, hoping to become their prisoner. The challenge was in being allowed to live, and Falke’s cousin’s funeral provided an excuse, at least for the next three days. There was no guarantee that he would not be expected to accompany Aelgud into the afterlife, however. The raiders were known to have sacrificed slaves. But he had a contingency plan for that, too. He was no stranger to death.

Two important accoutrements were missing: his harp and the gold torc collar he customarily wore. It was a gift from his father and a key into the Shadow-realm. Lacking both severely reduced his defences.

Then his thoughts turned to his heart’s love, the Warlord of Torrent Mountain, Samir. It had been a hard parting.

*    *    *

“I swore I would not let you go again,” Samir said. “Yet, Gods forbid, I see no alternative.”

“We must find Geraint,” Hrafn/Brynnan responded. “His mind has gone silent to us, yet he is not dead. My Father would have known. He is aware, not just of the souls in his kingdom, but of souls that approach the Desert, such as the ones I lead to the threshold.”

“I should never have allowed him to accompany General Mirza’s expedition to chase the sea raiders back to the coast,” said Samir, chagrined.

“My dear Lord, how do you stop Geraint? He may be old, but he is still a capable fighter even though he is officially retired.” Brynnan laid a hand on his lover’s shoulder.

“That word has no meaning for our friend. But come here, Brynnan. This is our last night before you leave for the coast. I would have you in our bed.”

Brynnan stepped forward into Samir’s arms. They immediately fell to kissing each other, slowly and deeply: allowing the fire inside them to build. The Warlord radiated power, both of personality and physique: he was taller than Brynnan by half a head and broadly muscular with a heavily developed chest, neck, arms and shoulders. Even though his cropped, light brown hair was now mixed with grey, his stomach was still flat and his hips narrow. His body contrasted with Brynnan’s leaner form.

Both men were naked, just having come from bathing. Samir ran his hands over Brynnan’s body, stroking the black, silky hairs on his chest and stomach. His lover shivered. Then the Warlord led him to the bed. They lay down to embrace, and Brynnan moved to suck his Lord’s weighty cock. It was very large but Brynnan had learned to accommodate it without undue difficulty.

Samir made him lie on his back, so he could look his lover in the eyes as they fucked. The Warlord played his cock around Brynnan’s rectal passage, teasing entry, driving him to distraction.

“I beg you take me, my Lord,” Brynnan said with gasping breaths.

“I love it when you beg,” Samir smiled down at his willing victim.

Pouring lubricant onto his cock, Samir pushed the head of it inside the Bard’s body, making him cry out in his desire.

The Warlord moved his hips slowly at first but he wasn’t gentle: each thrust ended in a hard shove, ramming his cock in ever deeper until he reached full penetration. Brynnan met his thrusts eagerly, pushing back. He put one leg over Samir’s shoulder to make himself more accessible. The room was silent except for their paired and heavy breathing: both were too engrossed in the sensations to speak. The Warlord began to thrust faster, thoroughly fucking his lover. As Samir’s hard pounding brought him near his climax, Brynnan sought Samir’s mind.

A necessary intervention, the exchanging of blood by their friend Nijal, allowed Samir now to speak to Brynnan mind-to-mind and share their most intimate thoughts and sensations. Thus it was that Brynnan’s heart beat in rhythm with Samir’s and he felt their souls intertwining.

‘Cum in me,’ Brynnan mentally urged his lover.

‘Cum with me,’ Samir sent back.

They ejaculated simultaneously and Brynnan lost himself in his lover, the two becoming one; the sensations beyond words. They clasped each other, slowly coming down from that high plateau where their love lived.

The only thing missing was Geraint’s presence. He was Samir’s old friend and totally loyal. He had learned to love Brynnan too, and the three frequently shared their bodies. Brynnan knew he had to find him.

In the morning, after a night of sex, Brynnan prepared to leave. Where he was going, Samir could not follow. He left his harp and his golden torc neckpiece behind and stood out on the wide terrace that opened from their apartment. He called his Father and waited.

Presently, a deep chill in the air and a white mist presaged the coming of King Arawn of the underworld. His form materialized from the air, seated on the back of his grey horse. His tall, lean figure, dressed in silver and green huntsman’s gear, with a black cloak, gave him an imposing look. Long, black hair flowed over his shoulders and a trimmed beard shaded his face. His black eyes could impose terror in those souls he hunted, but now his expression was tender as he looked down at Brynnan.

“Are you ready, my son?” Arawn asked.

“Yes, my Father. Let us go.”

“I have located raiders near the Great Estuary. I will take you nearby.”

King Arawn reached down an arm and freed his foot from the stirrup, allowing Brynnan to mount. Immediately the silver mists surrounded them and they entered the Shadow ways. From the doorway, the Warlord watched them go.

*    *    *

Hrafn sighed at the memory. His lover Samir was now almost unreachable. He could have contacted him mind-to-mind, but he might have given himself away to a gifted listener, so it was not worth the risk. He spent the remainder of the night in unsettled sleep.

As the night broached onto the shores of dawn, Falke awoke and hauled him onto the sleeping platform, then freed him from the restraints. He was subjected to a rough ass-fucking from the raider, who forced his captive onto his knees and took him from behind, but afterwards was allowed to go outside for necessities.

He was fed a bowl of boiled grain and assigned to a work detail with the other slaves, salvaging charred wood to build Aelgud’s funeral pyre. This pattern repeated itself for the next two days.

The pyre was finally finished. Aelgud’s body was laid on top, with his weapons and goods.The raiders’ behaviour became wilder as they anticipated the funeral feast. Hrafn could hear the frequent screams of captives, but the raiders left him alone, allowing him to prepare for the ritual to come. Brynnan wondered if he would survive.

*    *    *

To be continued . . .