To Discover His Truth

Of Feathers and Snow

The track descended from the long pass through the mountains. This brought great relief to the small group of travellers upon the trail. They did not travel the heights – those ranged as towering, white-clad peaks above the pass, giving the place a sense of brooding imminence as if anything could happen.

But that did not dampen the spirits of Brynnan and Andri. They rode abreast of each other, and Brynnan caught shy but loving glances from Andri that made the Bard smile. A few nights earlier, the Bard and the young singer had made love, where Andri was permitted to take Brynnan’s ass for the first time. Brynnan felt a warmth in his loins at the memory of it.

Andri had been aroused and eager but shy and afraid of doing it wrong. Brynnan encouraged him, “Start by doing the things to me that you enjoyed most when we have taken your own ass, lad.”

“You were the first man to do that to me. I will never forget it or Lord Samir’s lesson.”

Brynnan’s heart’s love, the Warlord Samir, had demonstrated ass fucking to Andri by performing it on the Bard.

“Hmm… “ Brynnan was non-committal, for Warlord had been unintentionally rough with him.

“Don’t worry; I won’t slap you,” Andri assured him solemnly as if reading his mind.

But their lovemaking had started tenderly. Brynnan and Andri sat beside each other and exchanged deep kisses before doing some mutual sucking. When Andri was ready to penetrate his partner, Brynnan had laid back facing him. Andri knelt between Brynnan’s legs and lubed his hand before playing with his partner’s anal passage. Then he slowly introduced his cock into the Bard’s ass, and Brynnan kept his comments to a minimum, except to encourage him.

“You are nearly there. Just push past the first constriction and pause. Get your bearings.”

Andri’s brow furrowed in concentration, but he won his way in. His look of relief nearly made the Bard smile. Andri paused again, then persisted until his cock was rooted to the hilt in Brynnan’s ass.

“You can move now,” Brynnan said.

“I don’t want to hurt you….”

“You won’t. Keep going.”

“It feels so incredible. Hot and tight.” Andri’s tone held a touch of wonder.

“You’re doing just fine. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

And so it went, with Andri being reluctant to hurt Brynnan. The Bard encouraged him until finally, the boy found his rhythm and began to fuck Brynnan properly. Andri cried out aloud when he shot his load, and Brynnan clasped the young singer in his arms. Afterwards, Andri insisted on sucking Brynnan’s cock to ejaculation. Drained, they both fell asleep curled together.

The memory continued to warm Brynnan’s heart as they rode the snowy trail, and he was sure, from Andri’s glances, that the youth was recalling the same event.

The trail steepened.

“Snap out of it, you two moon-pups. Watch where your horses are going,” Geraint’s voice interrupted Brynnan’s train of thought.

Brynnan laughed out loud, “You are right to remind us, old Warrior. And you are too kind. My Lord Samir would surely discipline me for such a dangerous lapse of attention.”

“Just so you remember it, Bard, or it will be me cutting the willow branches next time,” Geraint grumbled, referring to Andri’s deserved beating with willow wands back at the camp of the Wanderers.

*    *    *

They eventually reached an area where sloped land changed into a small, scooped bowl, surrounded by trees, which presented a broad camp area. Indeed, there was room for a much larger encampment. Stones arranged in circles on the ground attested to its use. The trail turned to pasture with dried grass rising through the snow, so Nijal called a halt to set camp for the night, and they turned out the horses to graze.

Over the trees, ravens called. Several flew overhead, their wings making a whipsaw sound. Brynnan called a raven-greeting to them, and one bird peeled away from the flock to circle them. It croaked loudly three times, then left to join its fellows.

“People are coming up the trail,” Brynnan announced.

“The raven told you that?” Geraint sounded skeptical.

“No, I just recognize the ravens’ flight patterns. We had better be aware. Wait… I will go and look.”

“You are not leaving this group by yourself again,” Geraint admonished.

“I don’t need to.”

The Bard shed his cloak and coat. Leaping up, he took hold of the lower branch of the large pine tree that towered above him. Brynnan swung his body up with ease and climbed high in the tree. He looked out over the trail. Trees obscured part of it, but he spotted a group of people, some riding, some walking, and a baggage train of ponies. Satisfied, he let himself down the tree and rejoined his friends.

“I don’t think there is cause for alarm. It appears to be a small caravan – no wagons, just pack ponies. There are some riders who I imagine would be the guards. Let us go about our business to appear non-threatening. I don’t feel like hiding. They may give us news.”

They continued to set up their own camp under the trees. Nijal brought their horses in and hobbled them, tying Shade to a long rope to graze so that she would not challenge the arriving horses.

Very shortly, the first riders appeared in the clearing. Two guards approached. They did not draw their swords – a good sign. Geraint continued laying a fire, and Nijal, Andri and Brynnan stayed seated, apparently unconcerned at the visitors.

The guards conversed with them, informing them that the approaching caravan was led by a trader named Hazrad. After assurances of mutual peace, the guards returned to the goods train. Shortly, the newcomers arrived and set up tents. All their baggage was stored on the pony packs, and Brynnan assumed they would be compact high-value goods. Wagons would have transported bulkier goods, but this route was too rough, hence the ponies.

Once the camps had been set, a young man approached the companions.

“My name is Fahd. My father, Hazrad, is leading this caravan and wishes to invite you to his tent. We would share news with you and perhaps interest you in our goods; unless you also have things to trade?”

Nijal answered, “The only things we have to share are our Bard’s harp music and his tales. But, come, Fahd. I know your father. Tell him that Nijal Silver-Hand is here, and we will visit him.”

Fahd bowed and left for his father’s tent.

Geraint looked curiously at Nijal. “Is it safe to treat with these traders? What do you know about them?”

“I know Hazrad, and he is an honourable man, a scholar who travels in search of esoteric knowledge and deals in the same.”

Brynnan mused, “I wonder what his purpose is travelling this forsaken route? We did not encounter any fortresses or people of note. We avoided the tribes of the high plains, but perhaps there are peoples whose learning attracts this trader. Unless you count the Blue People of the death cult.” 

Brynnan purposely did not invoke the name of the Angel. But Geraint put in, “Even a death cult needs supplies of one sort or another to thrive. I have traded battle spoils with people stranger than that.”

They met with Hazrad in front of his tent. Nijal and the scholar clasped each other’s arms in greeting before Hazrad introduced them to the other traders and handlers. Then he invited them to sit inside his pavilion. Once seated on an exotic rug, Fahd served them a potent, spicy liquor in small bowls of coloured glass and flatbreads with a ground bean dip before he withdrew to sit behind his father.

They resembled each other, father and son. Hazrad was an ascetic-looking man, clean-shaven, with weathered, tanned skin drawn over the chiselled bone structure of his face. His profile was hawk-like, and his eyes a liquid dark brown. Their soft expression belied the man’s intelligence and shrewd wit. He wore an open face veil and a long striped robe, unornamented save for a wavy flame-like jewelled dagger thrust in his blue leather belt. His son, Fahd, was handsome, maybe a few years older than Andri. He wore his dark brown hair in numerous thin braids that were further fastened with a red leather tie at the back of his neck.

They exchanged pleasantries and comments of the coming winter before the talk turned to more consequential things. Hazrad announced he had come from the Narib Redoubt, governed by a prince, Jehanadir, and his council.

“May we know of your next destination, Hazrad?” inquired Nijal.

“I am heading down the trail through the Broken Hills to trade with the Blue Men of the Caves. I have done so before. Do you know of them?”

Brynnan felt shocked. He reined in his tongue and left the speaking to Nijal, but Hazrad must have caught some change of expression on his face, for he glanced sharply at the Bard.

But Nijal did not hesitate to reply. “We encountered them on the trail to this place. It was not exactly a happy meeting. What do you have that they could possibly want? – If you wish to tell.”

“Only to you and your friends, Silver-Hand.” Here, Hazrad smiled as if at some joke. “But do not repeat it – anywhere,” he cautioned. He seemed to think a moment before he continued to speak, “We trade them silver – silver salts to be more exact, and in return, they give us water.”

“It seems like a poor exchange – silver for water,” remarked Geraint.

“Not so, for the water they give us is special. It comes from a well deep within their caves. This water we will take back to the Red Prince. From it, through alchemical means, they make the Water of Life that is used in their Spring Ritual of Awakening.”

Brynnan exclaimed, “The Water of Death more like!” He vividly recalled the well in the cavern where he had encountered the Angel of Death herself. He found it abhorrent. “I trust you drink none of it yourselves!”

Hazrad shook his head. “It is beyond my desire to tamper with such a substance. The Red Prince, Jehanadir, is so named because of his dark red hair, but his skin also has a bluish cast. The Ritual of Awakening allows him to connect with the roots of his lands, it is said, and he can foretell the richness of the crops to come or even threats to his land.”

“And you trade him some silver salts also,” stated Nijal.

Hazrad raised his eyebrows, “Why, yes,” he said.

Nijal turned to Brynnan, “Thus it is explained. The Cult drinks water from the well mixed with silver salts. Then every day, they ride out to expose themselves to the sun. Over time, their skin turns blue in imitation of the one they worship.”

Nijal addressed Hazrad again, “You trade in a danger greater than you know, my friend. The Blue Men support a great evil. Especially when they lured one of our own into their caves. Be very careful.”

Hazrad bent his head in thought. “They took one of you? In my past dealings with them, I have caught no indication of evil. Indeed, they offer a service to passing travellers. If anyone has a very ill person among their group, they may leave them in the care of the Blue Men for healing. They have the reputation of being benevolent, like monks that operate the roadside waystations beyond these mountains.”

Brynnan half-whispered, “Tamiz… he was bait for me. They offer the dying to their White Goddess….”

Nijal lay an understanding hand on Brynnan’s arm.

But Geraint frowned, “It is said that the trader cares not about the uses to which his goods are put. I would not insult you, Hazrad, you have shown us nothing but hospitality, and we have shared bread and salt with you, but I must ask you if you knew that they prey on other people – or only ones with special talents as the case may be.”

Surprisingly, it was Brynnan who protested. “The one they serve is not strictly evil. This Being is a manifestation of part of the cycle of existence. It is only when one seeks to go beyond one’s allotted station, at the expense of others, that the danger occurs.”

Brynnan explained to Hazrad some of the details of his captivity, and the merchant seemed perturbed. They discussed the issue further for some time without reaching any definite conclusion. Hazrad said he would think on the matter.

Later, outside in the cold night air, the Bard and the young singer joined the other traders and handlers around a substantial fire. Seeking to distract himself, Brynnan offered to play his harp for them and tell them tales. The people of the camp accepted gladly. When Hazrad joined them later, with Geraint and Nijal, he was silent but listened intently to the songs. Tales assumed the value of gold to travellers, especially in the long, dark winter evenings. In Brynnan’s own country, when one was requested to ‘shorten the road,’ it meant to tell a tale.

So men listened as Brynnan sang them ballads, both tragic and heroic. The bowl in the mountains in which they were encamped formed a natural acoustic chamber and amplified the beautiful tones of the harp. And when Andri sang with Brynnan, their blended voices held their listeners spellbound.

At last, Brynnan drew his songs to a close. He was about to head to their tent with Andri when Fahd drew near them.

“I wish to speak with you,” he told Brynnan.

“Anything you say to me can be said in front of Andri.” He took hold of Andri’s hand.

Fahd looked at them both, and understanding seemed to dawn on him. “Oh,” he exclaimed.

“So come walk with us and talk. How did Nijal and Geraint make out with your father?”

“That is the thing I wish to ask you. My father, I think, is of the mind not to trade with the blue Cave-Dwellers. Are they as evil as you say?”

“I believe they are misguided. Who is to say truly what is in each one’s heart? They are living people. Blood flows in their veins, and they breathe; a soul dwells within each one of them. They have no business allying themselves with Death. They seek to appease what is inevitable. They feed a power that would usurp life out of turn. I cannot hold with that.”

“Perhaps if I alone went and delivered the silver in exchange for their water, then no one else would be at risk.”

“You are not hearing me, young man,” said Brynnan sternly. “Our Warrior, Geraint would say you need to be cured with willow sticks.”

“Here comes Geraint and Nijal,” noted Andri, under his breath.

As the others caught up to them, Brynnan said, “Nijal, Fahd wants to know what would happen if he went alone to the Cave Dwellers.”

Nijal looked at Fahd, and his eyes were shadowed, “You would perish,” he said shortly. “Go back to your father, and put these plans from your mind. There are others to whom you could trade the silver salts – skilled potters perhaps, who use the Raku technique.”

Fahd looked down and sighed, “Very well. I will take heed of your words.”

*    *    *

In the deep of night, Brynnan was not surprised to be awakened by a distraught Hazrad, accompanied by a guard.

“My son has disappeared, with his horse and one of the pack ponies,” he exclaimed.

“Let me guess, the pack with the silver is missing,” Brynnan replied, dressing in haste. “Nijal, come with me. Geraint, I beg you to stay and look after Andri.”

“Not a chance, lad. I am sworn to protect you!”

Brynnan gripped Geraint’s shoulders, “You don’t understand! You, and anyone who ventures with you, would be in mortal peril. There are powerful and unseen forces at work here, and I don’t have time to explain.”

“You are not haring off into the night, all the way back on the trail,” Geraint insisted.

“Fahd will not have gone far yet. If we do not delay, we can catch him. Myst and Rhiannon are swiftest!”

Nijal joined in, “He speaks truly, Geraint and Hazrad. Let us two go now –“

“And I need the wind silk cloak, Geraint. It is warmest, in case Fahd succumbs to the cold.”

Geraint was highly reluctant to see them leave, but he knew that Nijal could protect the Bard if needed.

Nijal and Brynnan swiftly collected their horses, not even waiting to saddle them. They took only an orb and a flask of cordial. Thankfully the waning moon lit the trail as the horses, sure-footed, sped along. It was not difficult to see Fahd’s horse tracks and the pony accompanying him.

*    *    *

The pack pony, wild-eyed and trembling, cowered in the shelter of a rock face. Just beyond, the bodies of horse and man lay stretched in the snow, and over them hovered a shimmering light. Gradually, it assumed a winged form.

Myst and Rhiannon both shied and reared in terror, and the two men slid from their horses.

“Stay back, Nijal,” cried Brynnan as he walked towards the apparition. He could not tend to the fallen until he dealt with what opposed them. There was no time to enter a deep trance state; the Bard spread his arms, palms facing outward, bent his mind into manifesting. A thin, glowing thread slowly snaked from the winged form. It split into two streams, each one reaching an outspread hand. Two feathers materialized in Brynnan’s grip.

“Martya, Angel of Death, kneel before me,” he called. “You are in my realm now, the Realm of Life. This is not your place, and you have violated the pact.”

“Do I now call you Master?” the Being mocked.

Brynnan did not immediately reply. He began to hum in a deep tone, and the ghost notes sounded, a high-pitched flute-like sound that multiplied and resonated with itself. The white streams of energy continued to flow into his hands, and feathers reproduced in his grip.

Martya began to beat her wings, and smaller feathers flew like large snowflakes into the night. The Being sank to his/her knees.

“Enough, Master!” he/she screamed, “I yield!”

Brynnan did not stop but continued his strange song. Now feathers whirled around the apparition, obscuring it. A sudden wind sprang up; a fierce gust blew them high into the air. Brynnan loosed the feathers in his grip, all save one, and this one did not disintegrate into nothingness. But the Being did, soundlessly. A dying wail would have been a nice touch, Brynnan was to reflect afterward, but it did not happen. In the end, all that remained was falling snow – and a single white feather.

Brynnan tucked the feather into his hair and threw himself on his knees beside Fahd’s still form. He refused to accept that the youth was dead – but the body was very cold.

Nijal, who had been kneeling beside the prostrate horse all this time, arose. He picked up Fahd in his arms, carrying him easily to the sheltered overhang at the side of the trail. Brynnan laid down his black, fur-trimmed cloak, and Nijal placed Fahd onto it. 

“He needs life inside him,” said Brynnan tersely, “Help me, Nijal.”

“I cannot give him my blood, but I can give him something else,” said Nijal.

Together, they swiftly stripped Fahd of his clothing. Nijal undressed and clasped Fahd’s back to share his body heat. But he did more than that: he took his erect penis and pushed it into Fahd’s rear, thrusting his hips back and forth, fucking the young man. Brynnan also undressed and embraced Fahd from the front. At the same time, he pulled Nijal’s cloak and the wind silk cloak over their prone bodies. Brynnan found his own cock stiffening, and there was an intense urge upon him to perform a life-affirming act.

“Join me!” Nijal demanded of Brynnan. The Bard did not stop to wonder what he did, but he sought where Nijal’s penis pumped into the youth. With some manipulation, Brynnan squeezed his own hard cock alongside Nijal’s, and amazingly it fit into the tight ass. He moved his hips counterpoint to Nijal so that Fahd was receiving a double-fucking. Nijal’s cock felt like a hot iron against his penis. The friction brought unbearable excitement, but he held off ejaculating.

In the midst of all this, Fahd regained consciousness. His sudden intake of breath alerted his rescuers, and they were quick to reassure him.

“You are alive; you will be well. Let us rest in you and accept our heat.”

The revived youth’s first words were, “Don’t stop!”

But in time, both men came in the youth’s ass. What virtue lay in his own cum was probably just the heat of it, but Brynnan knew that Nijal’s cum was both beneficial and potent.

By the time Hazrad, Geraint, Andri and a guard appeared, Brynnan and Nijal were on their way back, with Fahd on his now-revived horse. The pack pony followed them.

“Fahd will recover, but he is perilously cold. Let him stay in our tent this night, and we will all keep him warm,” Nijal told a grateful Hazrad.

*    *    *

“What is in your hair?” a curious Andri asked Brynnan later in the tent.

“Just a feather. Nothing special. Doubtless, a snow-goose, passing overhead, shed it.