Col and Andri: The Vanna Stallions

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

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Of Vengeance and Pursuit

Geraint slowly opened his eyes, wincing against an aching head. He realized he had been unconscious but couldn’t remember how. His mind struggled to make sense of his current surroundings. He seemed to be in a cell. The smell of damp stone and a faint but unpleasant miasma hung in the air. He struggled to his feet, mentally checking himself for other injuries. He seemed to be in one piece.

The creaking sound of a gate or door alerted him, and several armed guards entered the space outside the cell. Col was naked between them, and his hands were manacled behind his back. Leg irons and a metal collar further restricted his movements. The young Wanderer’s eyes blazed with defiance as guards fastened the chain on the collar to a metal ring on the stone floor.

Even through his rising anger, Geraint’s heart ached for his young friend: he knew Col detested restraints of any kind. But then he uttered a shout of protest when one of the guards struck Col in the face. The others closed in on him, hitting him with short clubs and kicking him. Col was silent except for gasps and grunts as he was beaten. Then the guards ceased their savage play and stood back.

Another figure entered the chamber, carrying himself with arrogant ease. A rich blend of fabrics in understated hues denoted the man’s status as high-ranking. He spoke to the guards with authority.

“Bring in the other prisoner, Maximo; then we shall see what can be done.”

Maximo, the head guard, bowed his head. “At once, my Lord. He is already prepared.”

Another guard opened the door and called. In moments, Aled was brought in, naked and manacled even as was Col. He did not struggle or resist his captors, and Geraint suspected he was conserving his energy for a more opportune moment.

But Aled, too, was chained to the floor and beaten. Col, less experienced in the ways of cruel men, cried out in protest and struggled in his chains.

The Lord looked on and smiled before turning to face Geraint. “I know these are your friends. How do you feel knowing they, not to mention your precious horses, are in my power?”

“I feel like I will gut you like a butchered pig when I get the chance,” Geraint snarled.

“You have high hopes indeed. Do you know who I am? No? My name is Garth Mellea, a Lord of Hesperon.”

Things fell into place. “You supplied the assassins to Strategist Soren in Siginak. You plotted with him to kill m’Lord Samir in Torrent Mountain and the Warlord’s emissaries in Siginak. Too bad for you those you sent proved incompetent.”

This remark seemed to irritate the Lord, and Geraint took note. He walked a fine line in provoking him, with Col and Aled’s lives at stake.

But Lord Mellea looked puzzled. “They are justly infamous for their effectiveness by those who have used them or knew of their victims. But we sent a party to kill your Lord, and they disappeared: dead, I presume.”

“When you dance with Death himself, that grim Lord proves the better dancer. He has had much more experience than even your assassins. They made a fatal and final mistake.”

“Riddles! But you and your friends won’t escape me now. I will send your head to your Warlord when you are finally dead. As a gift.”

“What has he done to you that you try so desperately to harm him?”

“You wouldn’t remember. To you, my son was nothing, but years ago, under our leader Pentayn Tyreth, Hesperon and Torrent Mountain fought. Your Lord Samir’s sword stroke took my son’s life. I vowed revenge, even though it should take me the rest of my life.”

But Geraint shrugged. “Such are the fortunes of war. Sons, brothers, fathers, lovers and husbands die. Fighting comes with that burden, and there’s always someone left behind who vows revenge.”

“You dissociate from the consequences, old Warrior. But you will not remain unaffected for long with your friends at my mercy.”

“Your actions will seal your own death, Garth Mellea,” replied Geraint coldly.

The Lord laughed and beckoned to Maximo, his captain, then whispered in the man’s ear. Maximo left the chamber but almost immediately returned, followed by two men.

These were different from regular guards. They were clothed in the colours of shadows: not pure black, but a range of deepest blues, greys and purples. Their heads and faces were almost completely covered in scarves of the same deep hues that showed only their eyes through narrow slits. Both wore swords, long daggers and throwing knives in baldrics across their chests. Their weapons sported a dull finish matching the colours of their robes.

As assassins, they were almost too obvious. Geraint did not doubt them, but he suspected their weapons and clothing as designed to intimidate, not just conceal. They stood at ease before Lord Mellea, not speaking, but even his guards stood as far from them as they could.

“Here stands your death,” said Mellea with a humourless smile. “Though not immediately, if your two friends do as they are commanded. And a man wants to live, if only for a hand of the sun longer.”

He nodded at the two men, and each moved to stand beside the chained prisoners, long daggers in hand.

Lord Mellea stood before Col, who was chained in a kneeling position. Col’s lip was bruised and cut, with another cut above his swelling left eye. Blood had run down his face from the wound, and he blinked and shook his head to clear it. Other bruises marked his body where the guards had struck him.

Lord Mellea addressed him. “You are called Col, are you not? Well, Col, you are going to suck my cock. You will suck it with all your skill, and you will not bite on pain of the death of your chained partner. My assassin stands ready to cut his throat if you fail to please me. My other assassin will cut yours and kill Geraint if you attempt to bite me.”

Col looked up at him defiantly. “You will kill us anyway.”

“Yes, but hope remains, does it not? In the period I allow you, anything may happen. A spirit may appear and snatch you out of danger. A horde of rescuers may burst through the door at the last moment. I may suddenly have a change of heart and let you all go . . .”

Col tamped down the rage in his heart. He had to admit that what Garth Mellea said was true. One thing the young Wanderer refused to do was an attempt to mind-call Andri. He would not subject his lover to the anguish he would feel in learning of Col’s circumstances. The same reasoning applied to his Grandmother. But he wondered what would happen if he tried calling on the Lord of the Shadow Lands or on Brynnan. But surely Geraint would have tried already. Meanwhile . . .

Meanwhile, Lord Mellea opened his clothing to reveal his genitals. His cock lay semi-hard in anticipation. It seemed to be of average size, with a slight bend to the left.

“Look at your friend. See if it makes up your mind. Instant death or no? Then suck me.”

Col glanced and recoiled. The assassin assigned to Aled gripped his iron-grey hair, tipping his head back and exposing his throat. Aled seemed oddly compliant even with the long dagger laid against his skin. It looked very sharp and would only take a moment to do its deadly work.  

Col made up his mind. He took the Lord’s cock in his mouth after running his tongue along the shaft. It was awkward for him with his hands manacled behind his back, but he persisted even as his cut mouth throbbed. He sucked, closing his eyes and shutting off his thoughts on what he was doing. “It’s only a cock, and this is just another bully.”

Nevertheless, he worked on it skillfully enough, feeling it engorge and stiffen. He moved his mouth mechanically back and forward as the Lord gripped his loose, curling black hair, aware of his captor’s growing excitement and approaching ejaculation. Then Lord Mellea was cumming in his mouth, but Col refused to swallow, and the thick fluid escaped and dripped to the floor.

The Lord stepped back, straightening his clothes. “It is too bad you failed at the last: you were doing so well.” He glanced over at the assassin standing beside Aled.

“Kill him . . .”

*    *    *

Andri sat up abruptly, torn from sleep. His heart beat in wild palpitations, and his forehead dripped sweat. “It’s just a nightmare.”

He tried to calm his breathing, but the terror persisted. He fumbled for the orb and uncovered it. A pale, green-white light bathed his surroundings. He dressed hurriedly and, bringing the globe with him, left the tent.

A horse whickered softly at him, and he discerned the stallion, Buino, tethered between him and the two wagons. He stopped and petted the horse, breathing more slowly, consciously calming himself. “I mustn’t panic.”

As the door to Eleni’s vardo opened, he heard Kyan’s voice bidding him to enter. Kyan was standing just inside the door, bare-chested, dressed only in loose breeches, and Andri threw himself into his heart-father’s embrace.

“Andri! You are shaking,” said Kyan. “Shh . . .calm down.”

He sat down on the long, padded couch, finding Eleni seated opposite him.

“Andri, spouse of my grandson, I heard you in your dark dream, and I understand your fears. Know that Col is in the heart of the storm, experiencing the winds and the lightning.”

“Do something, Pûridai Eleni,” Andri begged.

“It is not in my power to intervene, only to see. I foretold to Col that trouble would come—“

“Yet you did not stop him from going!”

Eleni shook her head. “It is not up to me, or even you, to restrict Col’s choices. His spirit is free. He extends the same allowance with you, does he not? You chose your path to train to become a Ruithin bard, and Col followed his heart to be with you. We did not restrain him then.”

Andri bowed his head. “You’ve made your point, Grandmother. But what shall I do? I know he’s in trouble, but I can’t reach his mind.”

“He would want to spare you his pain,” said Kyan.

“He should share it! He is my lover, my husband and my friend. We are supposed to rely on each other!”

“I agree,” said Eleni. “Keep trying to reach him. Do not question or demand explanations if you get through to his mind. Just let him know you are there.”

“Here, take this.” Kyan handed him a small cup.

Andri sipped and found the liquor tasted of apples and strong spirits. He slowed his breathing again, consciously projecting calm over his mind as he drank. The young bard could feel his heartbeat slowing down, and a tentative sense of quiet enveloped him. He cast his mind to his lover once more. ‘Col, I love you, and I am with you. Lean on me and take from my strength . . .’

It was as if a veil was torn aside. Suddenly Andri’s mind flooded with Col’s presence; then pain, confusion and fear followed. What did not follow were images of Col’s surroundings, but Andri knew he had found Col at a critical moment.

‘Oh, Spirits of Darkness . . . It’s happening now! NO!’

Col’s mind-voice fell abruptly silent, although his presence remained. Andri felt chilled at his lover’s distress—evidently, something momentous and wrong was happening to someone other than Col, but who else could it have been? Geraint? Aled? The horses? He refused to let his mind dwell on it but instead concentrated on staying strong for his lover.

Eleni took his hand in hers, and he felt its wiry strength. “We will continue to send him our love,” she said softly. “Meanwhile, rest here for what remains of the night. You need your family with you.”

Andri nodded gratefully, holding back tears and unable to speak his thoughts.

*    *    *

“Kill him . . .” Lord Mellea commanded.

Feeling Andri’s presence, Col cried to him, ‘Oh, Spirits of Darkness . . . It’s happening now! NO . . .’

The assassin beside Aled moved with blinding speed. He took one long step and slashed the dagger across the other assassin’s throat. Blood sprayed. As the five guards in the chamber moved to cut him down, the hooded man whirled, almost magically producing his sword. The engagement proved fast and furious. Before the guards’ blades could make contact with him, they died. Maximo was the last to fall, even though he scored a cut on the assassin’s arm. The air reeked with the coppery-salty smell of fresh blood. The chamber resembled a slaughterhouse.

Lord Mellea shouted for the outside guards, even as he scrambled through the door. No one responded.

And now the assassin stepped over bodies until he reached Maximo’s. In very short order, he plucked keys from inside the leather jerkin. First, he freed Aled, then Col. And he spoke for the first time.

“Arm yourselves while I free Geraint,” he said in a very familiar voice.

“Jorge?” said Col incredulously. “Is that really you?”

The assassin briefly tugged down the scarf, revealing the hunter Jorge’s face. Then he slipped the scarf back into place.

Aled smiled faintly and said, “I felt your presence. I had no fear when you held the knife to my throat.”

Geraint stepped out of the cell and immediately grabbed a sword from the body of the nearest guard. He briefly hefted it, checking its weight and balance before grunting in satisfaction.

He embraced Col. “How’s the damage?”

“My nose is sore, but I don’t think it’s broken. I feel like there are boot prints on my kidneys, but I don’t think they’re ruptured. The rest is just cuts and surface bruising.” But there was a hollow look in his eyes.

“I want my clothes; then I am hunting that fiend!” Geraint muttered.

Aled was peering out the door. “No one living that I can see out here. Only bodies. Come on; I’ll show you where our gear is.”

Jorge stepped in front of Aled. “I’ll go first, Aled; you can direct me.”

They crept down the passage until they came to a door. It was unlocked. Jorge stood aside as Aled pushed it open.

The guard stood up abruptly in shock and attempted to draw his blade, but by then, it was too late: his body, impaled by Aled’s sword, collapsed to the floor.

The companions dressed, helping each other. Geraint felt a sense of satisfaction on taking up his own sword again.

Turning to the others, he said, “I want no arguments here: I’ll go after Mellea, and you lot find the stables and ready our horses. If Shade is there, she’ll lead you to Brishind and Col’s Vanna stallions.”

“We should stay together. Three men are not enough to deal with any guards we come across,” said Aled.

Jorge said, “We will come with you, Geraint. I know where Mellea would bolt to; also, we will be less likely to be challenged. The people here recognize the assassins and fear them.”

Col was torn. He wanted to go with Geraint and the others and help slay the renegade Lord, but he also wanted to know that their horses were unharmed.

“Very well,” Geraint agreed. “And if we survive, Jorge will lead us to the stables afterwards.”

“There’s danger either way. Let’s do this.” Aled glanced at Jorge, for they had been lovers.

*    *    *

Navigating the corridors, the four men headed toward Lord Mellea’s living quarters. Occasionally, they encountered hall servants or others.

“Stand aside!” Geraint growled whenever they met anyone, and Jorge would stare at them coldly. Such was the authority in Geraint’s tone and bearing and the pervading fear of the assassin that people made way for them, pressing their bodies against the walls.

Col marvelled. “I must remember this trick.” Following his friends, he felt Andri’s quiet and passive presence and was comforted by it. He pushed away his body’s pain and kept his hand near his sheathed sword, ready to respond against hostile encounters.

They nearly made it to Lord Mellea’s door, but on turning a bend in the corridor, six guards faced them. These had short javelins, which they brandished toward the newcomers.

There was only one tactic: to close rapidly with their enemies before they had a chance to cast their spear-like weapons. One man who did raise his arm to throw met Jorge’s hurled knife head-on. It stuck directly into his forehead. Two guards attempted to use the javelins in the constricted space, but the rest dropped them and drew their swords. By that time, Geraint and Jorge were upon them, followed by Aled and Col.  Again, the fighting was fierce, but the four companions prevailed: the guards made the mistake of bunching together with no room to swing their blades.

Col and Aled switched to their long daggers for the close-up work, and Col was again grateful for Horsemaster Gabrien’s teaching.

At last, it was over. Aled’s cuirass bore a deep cut across the leather, and Geraint had a slash across his cheek. He ignored it. Their opponents were dead, except for one of the guards, and that one was wounded.

The door was locked and barred from the inside. Jorge held a finger to his lips, indicating silence. Meanwhile, Geraint hauled the unfortunate survivor to his feet, causing the man to groan in pain.

“Call to Lord Mellea,” Geraint hissed. “Tell him we and the others are slain. Do this, and we will not kill you. This, I promise.”

The man in Geraint’s grasp seized at the slim chance, for he called weakly, “My Lord! We have been killed, except for myself, but the attackers are dead, including the assassin. Only command me!”

Geraint and his friends waited in silence. Col was beginning to doubt the Lord was there, but eventually, a voice answered suspiciously. “The assassin is dead, you say? And the old man?”

“Both; most definitely dead, my Lord. Would you have proof?”

“Severe the old man’s head. I will see it!”

“Give me some moments, Lord. Neck muscles are tough, and I am hurt.”

“Just do as I say.”

After a short while, Geraint shook the prisoner, and the man called again, gasping in pain.

“It is done, my Lord.”

Lord Mellea responded. “Hold it up to the door.”

“It’s heavy, Lord and my arm is cut. Hurry; I can’t hold it long!”

Geraint pulled the man to the side, and he slumped down, sitting against the wall. The old Warrior silently patted him on the shoulder, then turned to the door. They heard the noise of bars being removed and a bolt sliding back.

The door opened a crack but was stopped by a chain. Geraint briefly saw Mellea’s eyes widen in shock and confusion. The Lord attempted to slam the door, but it was too late: under the combined force from Jorge, Geraint and Col, it burst open. Garth Mellea backed up rapidly, his eyes full of rage and fear.

Jorge pulled aside his scarf to reveal his shaggy grey-brown hair and short beard. His blue eyes stared coldly at the Lord.

“Swigenthonar!”  Garth Mellea sounded both incredulous and desperate. “I thought you all were dead! I ordered your destruction!”

“No, Lord. You followed Pentayn Tireth’s orders to have us killed by treachery after we had served him, and I disposed of his predecessor for him. I wanted your death, but now, I won’t even taint my blade with you. Let Geraint give you payment for the harm you have caused him and his friends.”

Geraint was not one to waste words. He did not believe in prolonging matters when he intended an enemy to die, and he approached the Lord, sword at the ready.

Lord Mellea parried Geraint’s first sword stroke defensively. The two men fought, one in certainty and one in despair. The Lord was no mean swordsman and kept the old Warrior’s blade from immediately taking his life. However, he misjudged one stroke as he swept his arm back to deliver a devastating blow. He never had the chance to complete the move, for Geraint reached and seized him by his full beard while plunging his sword into the man’s gut. Mellea doubled over with a hoarse cry of agony, black blood spewing from his lips and belly as Geraint completed the move and withdrew his blade. Then he stood above his victim, watching him writhe in pain from the fatal stroke.

Suddenly, Jorge knelt down and, despite his comment about not tainting his blade, used his long dagger to deliver the stroke of mercy. Garth Mellea slumped back, lifeless.

“He caused much death and suffering, but, Gods help me, I am not blameless,” admitted Jorge in a low voice to Aled and Geraint, wiping his blade on the Lord’s shirt. “I killed at the orders of unscrupulous men for the wealth they paid me. The last contract I took was for Garron Trey, High Lord of Hesperon’s council, and that was one death too much. He was my partner. I loved Garron, and I killed him. After that, filled with remorse, I took no more contracts and used my deadly skills to help others.” He sighed and turned around, gazing with a stricken look into Aled’s eyes.

Aled placed his hand on Jorge’s shoulder. “Come, my friend, we will speak of this later if you are willing. But now we must get out of here.”

*    *    *

Luck was with them, for they found their way to the stables. Geraint used his bond with Shade and her colt to lead them to the correct building, where they found their horses in good condition. Col was overjoyed to see them safe.

Jorge left them briefly to recover his own horse, Pyotr. They met up in the courtyard. Jorge’s head and face were covered again, and he used his assassin’s authority to get them through the gates.

“They will soon realize that Lord Mellea is dead and that we are fugitives. Ride like the wind for the forest,” said Geraint.

They did so, but before they reached the shelter of the woods, Aled, looking back, cried out, “We are pursued, and they have brought their hounds!”

Trees enclosed them, but there would ultimately be no escape. Col still felt Andri’s passive presence, but now he contacted his lover openly. ‘Andri, ves’tacha, listen to me carefully. Open your shirt and place your right hand over King Arawn’s mark. Bend your thoughts to it and beg his aid. We are pursued in the forest and will be caught unless he can help us!’

Andri’s understanding filled Col’s mind. It seemed only moments later that they rode into a silver mist that obscured the trees. It thickened around them, and an icy wind blew from another world.

“Col!” shouted Geraint, who was sensitive to the young bard’s mind. “What is Andri doing?”

“He has summoned the Grey King’s aid. I asked him to.”

“We are in the Shadow-ways! Gods only know where we might end up. Everyone, keep together!” Geraint pulled Shade to a halt and whistled for Brishind.

The cold wind increased. A loud, roaring sound filled the air.

“Ride!” yelled Col, acting on instinct. He kicked the black Vanna stallion he rode into a canter, clutching the other stallion’s lead rope tightly. He could not see the ground, but he desperately placed his trust in Andri and in King Arawn’s aid. The others followed him, and he thanked the Devleski Day, the Mother Goddess, that they trusted him.

Then the roaring sound receded abruptly, and the mist thinned until only shreds remained. They brought their tired horses to a halt.

“Where are we?” said Aled, puzzled. The woodland no longer surrounded them; they found themselves on a bare, grassy hill.

Geraint said, “Let’s ride to the top and see. Then we need to find a place to rest: we are exhausted, and I’m especially concerned about you two, Col and Aled: you were beaten; I was not.”

A game track in the grass led them up the hill. It was steep, and the horses’ flanks were damp with sweat when they arrived at the summit.

Col, last to arrive, heard the others’ exclamations of amazement. He turned his eyes to look and was shocked. Not too far away was a wide river: a very familiar river.

*    *    *

To be continued . . .