Brynnan and the Sea Raiders

The Host of the Dead

Bodies lay on the ground, and the stench of blood and other fluids would have pervaded the air if it had not been for a wind from the sea. The raiders were a strong and determined force who lived and practiced their violent urges. In addition, they were tall people dedicated to their physical prowess and battle skills. This time, however, they had met a foe that matched them.

In the raid upon Esterhaven, the Warlord Samir’s warriors were not only holding their ground but slowly gaining the upper hand. The raiders’ victims were too often unskilled fighters and townspeople or farmers. Now the sea-warriors faced a hardened battle force. Still, casualties mounted on both sides. The raiders did not believe in surrender, and a cornered foe is most deadly.

But then, a terrifying event occurred that turned the tide. At first, the distant baying of hunting hounds pervaded the air. The wind assumed voices: its wailing real, and the unnerved raiders swore they heard their dead fellows. A sea mist drifted in, and the voices increased until it seemed that the dead were standing next to the living, calling their names. Then the raiders saw them: ghostly semblances of their brother warriors who had died during the conflict, some with dreadful wounds.

A Rider appeared among the gathering host of the dead. His horse, grey like the mist, seemed to tread the air just above the ground, and its mane and tail blew like torn banners. The Rider, clad in a dark blue cloak, wielded a bow whose arrows collected the souls of dead warriors, joining them to his dread procession. And some of the raiders recognized him.

“Fjölkunnigr-Hrafn” they cried out. “Falke’s blót has returned from the sea!” and, “It is the captive that talks to the dead!”

But others hearkened to their own darker legends. “It is Oden’s jakt! The God hunts!” they said.

The sea raiders fought on, but some lost heart, believing themselves doomed, and thus were more easily slain. One who continued fighting, wreaking a deadly accounting, was the Jarl, Falke, first among the Chieftains. That he heard the cries of his men mentioning Hrafn’s name galled him. His heart was filled with fury that Arne had deceived him and somehow gotten hold of Hrafn for himself. Had the Mjothvitnir followed his ship, Einheri, into the fog of the Forbidden Island and picked up Falke’s blót, his blood sacrifice, out of the sea?

He sought the leader of the men they fought: a man as tall and powerful as himself and a fierce warrior. Somehow, he felt that this Warlord was to blame. And then he spotted him, mounted on a mighty and restless warhorse.

Falke roared a challenge. “Face me, man-to-man! Come down from your beast!”

The Warlord Samir heard him and responded. Samir knew that this would be a pivotal fight. The surviving raiders would see that to attack from horseback would be a weakness, so he dismounted, sword at the ready, and turned to meet Falke.

They clashed like two stallions, each determined to dominate and crush the other. Neither used a shield: they managed their weapons two-handed for maximum force. Blade rang on blade, and men watching wondered how they did not break each other’s arms with the power of their blows.

Geraint stood ready at Samir’s back, eyes alert for any who would seek to stab his Lord in a cowardly attack or otherwise interfere. At first, he was alone, but then men of the Brotherhood of Deieros quickly arrived and fended back the raiders.

As Falke and the Warlord sought to cut and drain each other’s life, the clash of steel on steel intermixed with the ghostly voices in the wind and the eerie yelling of unseen hounds. The unholy cacophony played on the fear of those present despite their resolve, but the two men fighting with deadly intent focused only on each other.

Inevitably, an ending came. Whatever advantage Samir possessed won him through. Perhaps it was Falke’s over-eagerness for the kill; perhaps his hate clouded his judgement, but there came a moment when he struck too eagerly, opening his guard, and the Warlord struck. His great, two-handed stroke was unstoppable. Falke took Samir’s sword in his side, under his ribs, and went down. The Warlord freed his blade and plunged it into his enemy’s heart as he lay on the ground, pinning the raider chieftain with all his strength until the light died from Falke’s eyes.

The dread Rider appeared beside the fallen warrior. He dismounted and knelt by the body, even as Samir still leaned, panting, on his sword. Black-feathered birds gathered thickly around the tableau: ravens, drawn by the promise of a feast or something more.

Even as men watched, a white, translucent form rose from the body: Falke’s soul. The Rider stood calmly as the soul drew away from the body through the air, but then he took his bow, strung an arrow and released it. It pierced the white, fleeing form as the baying of hounds grew louder. Then it seemed that Falke’s ghost joined the spectres following the Hunter. At that, many sea raiders threw down their weapons and ran.

*    *    *

Brynnan walked among the dead and dying. Medics from Samir’s forces tended his own men, but the raiders were not so lucky. The fight was over, and the surviving raiders had for once chosen to withdraw. They were allowed to take the bodies of their dead with them. Alefr, the Chieftain of the Second Ship, he of the dragon tattoo, had Falke’s body taken back to his vessel. Brynnan mused that Falke’s great Drakkar, the Einheri, had not long to live. Her men would sail to a safer shore, and there the ship would be burned, along with her master, in a ritual ceremony reserved for great chieftains. There would be sacrifices, and her remaining crew would be apportioned to the surviving ships.

He heard a low moan. Seeing a body move, he went to look. It was a raider, and Brynnan sensed his approaching death. He recognized Arvid, the young man appointed Brynnan’s teacher on board the Einheri, with whom he had shared an intense sexual relationship.

Shocked, Brynnan knelt, and sorrow washed over him. Not for the first time, he reflected on men’s desire to harm one another. He took hold of Arvid’s hand.

“It is I, Hrafn, who is with you. Rest in me, and I will bring you peace,” he said, using his Father’s words.

Arvid’s eyes opened. He was beyond speaking, but his gaze clung to Brynnan’s. The youth tried to squeeze the hand that clasped his, but his strength was so faint.

“You will not be alone. We will walk the path to the Gate, you and I, and I will set you safely on your journey. A destination yet awaits you. Let go of your burden and come with me.”

A rattle sounded in Arvid’s laboured breathing. He sighed deeply, the body seeking air perhaps, but in any case, as he continued to gaze at Brynnan, life left him.

Brynnan transitioned to those Shadow-ways that led to the Gate. Arvid’s soul followed him, its shape still resembling the youth he had been. Brynnan allowed his spirit form to hold the soul’s hand and led it on the pathway to the Portal. The mists solidified as the Gate manifested. He touched it, and it opened, revealing the grove of white trees with the Desert beyond.

The soul did not hesitate, unlike Falke’s cousin, Aelgud had done, but stepped through, still looking at Brynnan. Then it moved away and began to walk forward to the horizon’s promise of a sunrise. The Portal shut, and Brynnan turned back. He came to himself, still kneeling beside the body.

With mild surprise, a voice beside him said, “Why, Brynnan, you are crying!” 

Lord Samir crouched beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, not ungently.

Another voice, Geraint’s, said. “He has a soft heart, m’Lord.”

Samir responded, “Not so soft when it’s needed. He has a deadly aim with that bow and hunts relentlessly.”

“But not without compassion,” Brynnan murmured. He thought of Einheri’s Helmsman, Geir, whose lover Arvid had been. If he had survived the conflict, he would be missing the young raider tonight. But that was war.

Looking around, he saw knots of men. The medics were still collecting the wounded to take them to a designated place, and the people of Esterhaven assisted. But near them, on the low branches of trees, ravens perched. They were silent for once.

Geraint said, “We knew where to find you. We just looked where the ravens were thickest. Are you done here? You’ve been out for ages. It’s getting dark.”

“Come, my lover,” said Samir, drawing Brynnan to his feet, “I have done all I can do here, and so have you. They have a room for us where we can bathe and eat. War councils can wait. The needs of the body and spirit come first.”

The three men walked back to the settlement.

*    *    *

It did indeed feel good to bathe in hot, fresh water with soap. Brynnan sighed as he wrapped a towel around his waist. He looked forward to the welcome interlude and delayed breaking the news that his role as Hunter was not yet over.

They were quartered in a wealthy merchant’s residence, and servants had provided them with food and drink. Geraint had spread word that they were not to be disturbed, not even by Lord Samir’s troop leaders and advisors, not even if the raiders returned.

Brynnan walked into a richly appointed bedroom. The bed was enormous. Samir waited for him, seated on the divan with a cup. He also wore nothing but a towel. Geraint was naked, and his heavy phallus hung free over pendulous, hairy balls, drawing Brynnan’s eye.

Geraint grinned at him. “Not quite as big as a god’s, but it does the trick, eh? Tell me, is your father’s—”

“No. It’s large but human-proportioned. My Father hasn’t got such a big ego as Aegir’s family does, either.”

Samir raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? The gods you encountered have outsized cocks?”

“Impossibly big,” put in Geraint. “But . . .not totally impossible,” he added.

Samir just shook his head, knowing his friend well. Then he looked at Brynnan. “How do you feel, dear heart?”

“Unutterably weary, but not more than you, my lover,” he replied.

“Would you rather go and see your Father for healing, now that you wear your torc once more?” asked Geraint.

“No, I just want us to be together right now.” Brynnan turned to Samir, “And my Lord, how I have missed you!”

“It hasn’t been easy, knowing I sent you into certain danger. But you found our dear friend, incorrigible as he is.” Samir stood up and took Brynnan’s hand, leading him to the bed.

“You two get started; I will just finish this excellent mead. Seems a few barrels washed up on shore,” Geraint said, raising his cup.

Brynnan felt an intoxicating familiarity whenever the Warlord embraced him and felt their bodies touching. He ran his hand over his lover’s broad chest, with its light thatch of greying hair. Samir’s abs were solid, too, and their firmness reminded Brynnan of the hard daily workouts his lover subjected himself to. It paid off, helping Samir survive such conflicts as he had fought with Falke and come out victorious. Brynnan knew what a thin edge could be: the difference between life and death.

He kissed his Lord’s nipples, briefly resting his head on Samir’s breast before licking and sucking them. They hardened under his lips. Samir put his hand beneath Brynnan’s face and turned it to his, kissing him deeply. Caught up in their kissing, Brynnan slowly felt his erection rising. Without looking, he ran his hand down to Samir’s magnificent cock and felt its hardness.

Before he could suggest servicing his Lord’s penis, Samir forestalled him, “Lie back, and let me suck your cock.”

Brynnan was content to do so. Part of him wanted to physically love his Lord with unrestrained passion; the other part was exhausted from spending his spirit’s energy on the dying. So it was with a sense of deep surrender that he accepted Samir’s cocksucking. The Warlord gripped Brynnan’s ass cheeks and pulled his cock against his face, taking it in his mouth.

Geraint sauntered over and whispered to Brynnan, “Do you want to get fucked like the gods?”

The Warlord’s lover smiled, then opened his mouth to receive Geraint’s kisses. He was worked over thoroughly by the two men, their passion slow and natural. They sucked his cock, taking turns; they rimmed and edged him and sucked and licked his nipples.

Samir paid particular attention to his lover’s testicles, knowing how Brynnan enjoyed the feeling as each one was taken into the Warlord’s mouth.

“Ah! My heart’s love, you’ll make me cum if you keep that up,” Brynnan groaned.

“What do you think, old Warrior?” said Samir to his friend. Do I keep sucking his balls?”

“I’d say ‘yes,’ but switch and plunge your cock into him while he’s still cumming.”

“I don’t want to take his cum too soon.”

Geraint then laughed shortly. “You’d be surprised at this one’s capacity for cumming multiple times, though the circumstances were less than ideal. When we were given the Guardian Nijal’s blood, he warned us about increased sexual enjoyment, and it’s true. Especially with our lad, here.”

So Samir continued licking on Brynnan’s tight and full ball sack while Geraint sucked his cock; the two older men occasionally pausing to kiss each other.

Then Samir switched to Brynnan’s cock, with Geraint shifting position to take the Warlord’s cock in his mouth, giving it the same attention he had developed for the Snow King. While not as giant as the cocks of Aegir and his family, Samir’s was exceptionally large. However, Brynnan had always managed to accommodate it after the initial few times he had been fucked by the Warlord.

As Samir deep-throated his cock, the Hunter’s son felt that sense of merging into two worlds as his father’s cocksucking came to mind also. He felt the renewal of his spirit as his orgasm approached.

“May I cum now, my Lord? The urge is strong.”

“Mmm . . .cum into my mouth, my beloved.”

Brynnan felt his orgasm like a fireball hurtling towards the earth. There was no holding back now. A devastating yet profoundly ecstatic feeling flowed over his whole body as he ejaculated into his lover’s mouth. Cum pumped out in hot spurts, taking a seemingly long time to subside.

But before it did, he suddenly felt the Warlord’s rigid cock pushing into his ass. He cried out; so intense and erotic were the new sensations of his ass being fucked while he was still cumming.

This time, Samir did not go slow. He fucked his lover hard, pounding into him, giving rein to his own pent-up desire. His close encounter with death that day made him crave and appreciate this life-fulfilling act, the reminder that he could have great pleasure, or at least a deep release, even after a close brush with death. His own orgasm was not long in following Brynnan’s, and he cried out triumphantly as his cum flooded his lover’s rectal passage.

Recovering, he turned to Geraint and grinned. “Think you can make him cum now? He’s yours.”

Undaunted, Geraint replied, “I’ll just have to employ my special skills.”

Samir slapped Brynnan’s ass as he withdrew, then rolled his lover to his back and kissed him with surprising tenderness after that hard fuck.

“Is it alright with you, lad?” Geraint asked as he positioned himself between Brynnan’s legs and hoisted the Bard’s buttocks upon his thighs.

“Geraint, after such immersion in death as today, I only want life to have some meaning and joy. Please go ahead.”

Samir settled back against the head of the bed, holding Brynnan’s upper body against his chest as Geraint pushed his cock into his friend’s well-lubricated ass. As he fucked the Shadow Lord’s son with deep strokes, each one pausing as his cock’s hilt was buried, Samir bent his head to bite and kiss his beloved’s neck and shoulder. Thus Brynnan was possessed once more by both his older lovers.

Geraint fucked him with an enhanced skill, reminding Brynnan of the night the old Warrior had won him at the Snow King’s holding. Caught between the two men he loved, the Hunter’s son felt another orgasm approaching.

He cried out wordlessly and ejaculated yet again as his semen cast its droplets over his belly.

Geraint continued fucking him, his hypnotic strokes gradually increasing until Brynnan begged the old Warrior for his cum. Geraint obliged.

*    *    *

Lying in each other’s arms, Brynnan slept for a while, feeling Geraint’s hairy body against his back while he rested his head on Samir’s chest. Perhaps it was an illusion, but he felt safe.

When he woke, he thought about his father’s promise to accompany him on the Hunt. Before he could speak to his Lord, Samir, aware of Brynnan’s restlessness, forestalled him.

“You are reluctant to tell me you must leave again. I already know. There is unfinished business. I, too, must convene with my war leaders.”

“I must Hunt again, this time at the source. More than one king in the Northern lands sends out his warships to raid, but I learned from the raiders that King Eirik Eikinskjald, in particular, has ideas about conquering other lands, not just raiding. His chief man was Jarl Falke. He will not be happy,” said Brynnan.

Samir held his lover tighter. “Well, that piece is taken off the board; even his soul was taken by your arrow. What happens to it?”

“It remains part of my retinue in the Hunt until I dismiss it. I have plans for the Hunt in the Winter Lands tonight.”

“Well, I need you back here afterwards. Purely selfish reasons, but we must not allow them to swerve us from our purpose. The raids must be stopped.”

“My Father will join me on this hunt. I’d tell you not to worry, my beloved, but that would be foolish. When my father is involved, all bets are off.”

Geraint’s voice behind him joined in. “We have not yet debriefed. Brynnan and I will have a tale to tell you that you’ll scarce believe, and even then, I can only disclose some of it. Much, even I don’t understand. King Arawn is secretive, but mayhap you can ask him yourself.”

Brynnan’s sense of duty overcame his desire to indulge himself with his lovers all night, and he arose, bathed and dressed in the dark hunting clothes. He rigged the silver horn over one shoulder. It would soon be time to summon the hounds.

His parting with his Lord Samir and Geraint was brief but intense. As he left the chamber, he clamped down on his emotions and walked out into the cool night air. The sea wind had lessened, thankfully, but was still brisk. Brynnan drew in a lungful of the air with its salty tang and the faint overtones of death.

He closed his eyes, focused and called. Almost immediately, Rhiannon, his horse and Ysbryd, the cí Annwn, materialized from the Shadow-ways where they had been awaiting him. He greeted them and mounted.

Departing the settlement, he observed where a great pyre was under construction to receive the bodies of the slain. He would leave them to their rites. He was a Bard and Ruithin priest, but more than the dead had a claim on his time.

At the shore, waves rolled in with a crashing cacophony of sound. He looked out over the sea, shimmering beneath a blanket of wavering stars and focused on Annwn.

*    *    *

The Wild Hunt traversed the skies, led by the dread Lord of Shadows and his son. The waves glistened far beneath them. The souls of those raiders slain in the battle followed them. The host’s wailing voices blended with the insistent and hungry crying of the hounds. Ravens accompanied them in their spirit forms: these were not natural birds.

Brynnan let his mind accept the situation. He did not challenge or confront his own conceptions but rode in the here-and-now, accepting all that happened to him in this most strange ride. Undercurrents of power flowed within him, greatly expanding his awareness. He knew when they closed on the remains of Falke’s fleet as it left the Esterhaven coastline behind, seeking an island where they could mourn their losses and prepare to burn the great ship, Einheri, with the body of its Lord and those who would choose to follow him.

Brynnan sent to his father, ‘Let us go lower, over the ships. Let them hear their dead companions one last time!’

King Arawn acknowledged his son’s request, and they turned their horses toward the ships. They swept low, just above the masts, so the crews beheld a sight that froze the marrow of their bones. Some, recognizing the phantoms which called and beckoned to them, refused to hide and bravely answered back, but others saw only portents of their own deaths and sought to cower underneath the canvas tenting.

The Hunt hovered above the Einheri. The crew seemed much sparser now. At the stern, a grim cargo of bodies lay, wrapped in old sailcloth.

Brynnan spotted Geir, the Helmsman, who faced them boldly, looking, perhaps, for the soul of his young lover, Arvid. But Arvid’s soul was not there, having been freed by Brynnan to journey to its own unique destiny.

The hunt moved on, passing over the Mjothvitnir. Brynnan noted its Chieftain and captain, Arne, who had survived. Geraint had told Brynnan that Arne faced an uncertain future as a man who stole a sacrifice meant for the gods. He had brought the Wild Hunt down upon his crew and compromised his reputation to become classed as ergi, unmanly, by those who did not know of the Sea-King Aegir‘s realm and their sexual practices. He was fated to lose the Mjothvitnir and go into exile, or worse.

But now, as the Hunt soared higher and headed for the Shadow-ways, the Hunter’s son considered their imminent destination: the Winter Lands and the realm of King Eirik Eikinskjald. Brynnan hoped it would be the last stop in his encounter with the sea raiders.

*    *    *

To be continued . . .