Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  Her grip on his hands was like steel and her eyes bored into his. “Please,” she implored.

  Notus could not see her in such pain and nodded, instantly regretting his choice, but was relieved to see her shoulders relax and a glimmer of a smile return to her face.

  “Geraint was my father. Llawela was my great aunt. And the young man you brought into my life,” she shuddered as she released a sigh, building her strength to finally speak the truth, “is my brother.”

  “What?!” Notus rocked back onto his heels and stood up. He could not believe what he was hearing. The boy told him that he did not have parents, let alone a sister. He said that Auntie was a woman who took him in when he was left out as a changeling and raised him out of sight of others. Even Eira had said that she and three others had brutalized the boy when he was younger. What she was saying made no sense and said so.

  “Please listen to me,” begged Eira. “When I was little, my mother had another child, a boy, who she wouldn’t care for because he was too different, too pale. She forced my father to expose him and that was the last I saw of my brother. My mother disappeared one night in the middle of winter shortly afterwards. Her body was never found.

  “Several years later, my father was called away to my Auntie. She was old and needed help, he said, and went every fortnight to stay for a few days before returning to us. No one ever suspected anything. He was the Chief and one of the last remaining relatives Auntie had, so naturally he was thought of as exceptionally kind to go and help her.

  “What no one else saw was that whenever he came home he was always bruised, and not the kind from doing chores, but rather from practicing the sword. He never said anything, keeping his secrets even from me, but he was happy for the first time in a long time.

  “The day he left with my husband Rhys to fight with the King, he told me that should a young man of fair complexion come, I should help him.

  “I never knew until he came this morning to leave the boar. I asked him who he was and he said, ‘I am who Llawela raised. I am who Geraint trained. I am who Notus has made. I am crimbil made Chosen.’”

  Notus gasped, his hazel eyes wide. He could not believe what he was hearing. Everything made sense and fit into the fragments the boy selected to share with him. What he could not fathom was why the boy revealed that he was Chosen. He had been told to keep that secret. Gut turning with a mixture of fear of being found out and anger at the boy, Notus knew he had to see how far the damage extended. “Do you know what he meant by that,” he cautiously inquired.

  Eira shrugged her shoulders, releasing the knot between them and sighed. “I can only imagine that Auntie found him when my father exposed him. I don’t know what could have convinced her to do that, knowing that children like that were best left to the Fay. She must have raised him in secret because everyone knew she lived alone.

  “As to my father fitting into this, I’m not sure, but it somehow feels right. Does he know how to use a sword?” Her brown eyes penetrated.

  “I believe so,” commented Notus, “but I’ve never seen him actually properly use one. He made a wooden sword which shattered against a tree after only a move or two.”

  Her gaze fell back to her hands obviously disturbed by the lack of certainty Notus could give her. “I don’t know what he meant by the rest except that maybe because you found him you chose to take care of him.”

  The tension flooded out of Notus as he breathed a sigh of relief; at least that secret was still a secret. Then he remembered the promise he made not to reveal to the boy his true parentage and family. “Oh, dear God, what have we done?” He sat heavily on the bench beside her.

  “I don’t know, Paul.” Eira took his smaller hand in hers and looked into his eyes. “He can’t know the truth, not if you are taking him away. And even if he were to stay his differences already have others believing him to be the Horned Lord returned. I even thought that at first. Tarian believes him to be her Fairy lord saviour. Huw believes him to be a vengeful being out to destroy the village. My brother would never have a normal life.” Sorrow filled her eyes as she broke contact. “Maybe that’s why Auntie kept him hidden.”

  Silence filled the void. Notus had no answer to give. The boy was now in his care, and the secret pressed upon him ate at him until he realized that it was indeed better this way. Many other Chosen had families they left behind, it was that connection to seeing them be born and die and never being a part of it that drove some of them mad. Others saw it as an injustice and allowed hate to grow within them. Maybe it was just as well.

  The quiet was broken by a commotion outside the roundhouse. They were not the ordinary sounds of a festival in full swing; to his Chosen ears Notus could hear the horses and shouts.

  “What is it?” inquired Eira, noticing the return of tension in her friend, and then she heard it.

  “Stay here.” Notus rose off the bench, causing it to creak and went to the door. Opening it ever so slightly, he witnessed the raiders invading the village. Some villagers fought and lost. Most allowed themselves to be rounded up around the fire. In the midst of it all he saw the cloaked boy and Tarian. Horror-stricken, Notus did not notice Eira standing behind him, viewing the spectacle herself.

  “Bronwen,” she cried, trying to push by her friend to get to her daughter who cowered behind Tarian.

  Grabbing her arms, Notus pushed Eira back into the roundhouse. “You can’t do anything for her right now.” He found terror in her eyes and let go of her. “I’ll go out and get her, but you have to stay here. Who else will take care of Llyr and Beti? Keep them quiet if you can.”

  Eira mutely nodded, knowing that he was right and watched her friend enter a nightmare to save her daughter.

  Chapter XV

  “I said move it!” shouted the brigand atop his horse. His sword jabbed towards the bonfire. The man manoeuvred his steed to shove Tarian towards the fire and she let out a cry as she stumbled forward.

  Still cloaked, the boy caught Tarian. His fear slowly turned to anger and he swung around to face the business end of the sword pointed at his shadowed face.

  “Just try it,” sneered the raider, obviously hoping that the young cowled man would rise to the bait.

  He heard Tarian’s sharp inhalation and noticed her eyes round in relived horror. Dearly wanting to protect her this time, he drew Tarian to his side, hoping that she would draw strength by his proximity. He did not want to go into the throng of people, but he had no choice. Fear did not dominate him as it once had; instead anger boiled, threatening to break the surface. Regardless of what transpired, he silently swore that Tarian would not have to relive that night in the woods and this time he would do anything to stop it.

  Stepping back from the point of the blade, he felt Tarian’s trembling hand on his arm. “

  Come on,” she urged, tugging him towards the fire.

  Turning around, he walked slowly, feeling the hot breath of the horse through the thick fabric of his cloak. This was not the way he wished to be introduced to the villagers. The sight of all the frightened people before him tightened the clamp around his chest.

  He felt Tarian stiffen and freeze as they entered the mass. Following her line of sight he found the reason for her rising panic. Before them, issuing orders from horseback was the man who had nearly killed her daughter and brutally raped her, and beside him was a man in magnificent armour well worn and used. His black eyes showed no feeling. There was neither pleasure nor hatred at the people corralled where they had once danced. His long dark moustache moved every so often, giving directions to Cadwallader.

  The raider who herded them drew his horse away to join in the offensive ring around the villagers.

  More people were being forced from hiding places and brought to the centre. With everyone’s attention upon the marauders, the young man felt somewhat invisible under the cloak and was grateful to Eira for providing it. Glancing down at Tarian he saw Bronwen clutching at her. Eira was nowhere to be seen; maybe
they had not checked her roundhouse yet.

  Gazing into the dark, he saw Notus silently emerge from the Eira’s home. He did not know what his Chooser was going to do, but something had to be done. Bringing his attention back to the immediate threat, he saw the one who had raped Tarian scan the crowd only to land his eyes upon the girl. At first he seemed confused and then surprise followed by a dangerous smile forming on his lips.

  A whimper escaped Tarian and she tried to burrow closer under the cloak to her once saviour. He allowed her, his arm coming around her in a protective embrace. His eyes locked on the one that got away.

  The horseman’s smile turned into a grin that did not match his eyes as he leaned over to the other man, whispering something. The once expressionless face moved, eyebrow rising as cold eyes locked onto Tarian. With a simple nod, Tarian’s tormentor swung his horse around and cantered it to a stop before the young man and the two girls. One other horseman joined Cadwallader, making a formidable sight of potential violence.

  Feeling the heaviness of fear and anger constrained around his chest, partly due to Tarian’s grip, his jaw tightened.

  “When I say so, take Bronwen and run.” His whisper was barely audible and he hoped Tarian heard him.

  “I believe you have something of mine,” stated Cadwallader, plainly, when he arrived.

  Tarian whimpered.

  Cadwallader’s face clouded over menacingly when no answer was given. Before it could be stopped, the marauder sidled his horse closer and seized the girl away by her hair. Tarian screamed as she was ripped away and then tossed to the other man who leaned over his horse to hold his knife at her throat. Both men smiled savagely.

  The motion of tearing the girl away from him caused the cloak to flap, unbalancing the hood to slip down his shoulders. Exposed in front of all the villagers and the raiders, he only focused on the men in front of him and how to free Tarian. The only pleasure he received was a flicker of fear on Cadwallader’s face before it turned into hard hatred.

  Any last remnants of fear he held were consumed in the anger he felt, his eyes locked onto Cadwallader’s but fully aware of the other raider holding Tarian. The promise of violence flashed in his crimson eyes. Nothing existed but the four of them. The world faded into the background, leaving the gasping of the Gods name on villagers’ lips to slip into the night.

  He could not bring himself to look at Tarian. Her fear and supplication on her face would unnerve him and bring forward his own fear. There was only what he needed to do to keep her safe and for that he needed a sword, and to procure one he had to take it.

  Time stretched out and focused upon the moment. Peripherally, he could see the hilt of a sword sheathed at the opposite side of the man who held Tarian by knifepoint. Not wishing to place Tarian in more danger, he knew he had to use his Chosen gifts and move faster than they could expect. Course of action chosen he stated dangerously, for their ears only. “Let her go. You do not want to do this again.”

  “Do you think that you can stop us?” mocked Cadwallader. Boisterous laughter rang in the silence. “Here? Among all these sheep? I don’t think so.”

  Tarian sobbed as the sharp knife pressed into her skin, allowing a trickle of blood down the pale smoothness of her neck. The smell of it rocked the young man, driving his need to shed blood. The men underestimating their foe were not prepared for the coil of violent fury unleashed.

  Time halted. Even the buzzing of insects stopped in mid-flight. The sound of beating hearts slowed to near death as he stepped between the pulsations. Grasping the knife hand of Tarian’s raider before the man could even comprehend the move, he pulled the knife hand roughly away before any more damage could be done to Tarian and hoped that Tarian had the wherewithal to grab Bronwen and run like he had suggested. He did not dare look to see if that was the case. His only focus was on retrieving that sword.

  Surprised, the raider cried out in pain as his shoulder audibly popped, causing him to drop the knife. Unbalanced by the tall pale spectre, he could do nothing as his sword was unsheathed and then sheathed in his chest. The last sights before death took him were red malevolent eyes.

  The boy stepped into the next beat.

  He tossed the newly made corpse down to the ground, the blood smell driving him to exact further justice from those who would harm the peaceful people of the village. Yanking the sword from the body, he switched hands to his dominant left.

  Pandemonium reigned as others took up the fight against the marauders. There was nothing but a buzz of noise as he allowed Geraint’s training to take over. Metal clanged and sparked against metal as his sword met Cadwallader’s. Fear flickered momentarily in the raider’s brown eyes as the force of the attack nearly unhorsed him. He did not see the flash of light the young man’s blade made as it sliced through his belly. Entrails exploded onto his horses back before he too fell lifeless to the blood soaked earth.

  The young man, entranced in the battle ,allowed himself to let loose, to flow and move, easily cutting down raider after raider. Exhilarated, he allowed the smell of blood and fear to drive him. Never before had he felt so free, deflecting blows and landing his own deadly ones that it was a surprise to hear Tarian and Notus shout out to him together.

  Out of his blind spot came the leader of the raiders on foot. The flash of steel hurtled towards him and was quickly blocked. What he did not expect was the horizontal strike the man made with the second sword. The blade bit deep into his upper arm, slicing muscle and threatened to break bone. Searing pain in his right arm nearly caused him to drop. He had never seen anyone, nor even conceived of anyone fighting with two swords. Blood flowed down his shield arm and he brought up his sword, barely deflecting both attacks.

  The leader smiled coldly, eyes flickering to the wounded arm. The young man shifted his stance for another series of blows. They each took the measure of the other, waiting as the sounds of dying filled the air. Red eyes refused to move from black.

  When the assault finally came, the young man was hard pressed to fight against such a foe and with a well placed blow his sword flew out of his white hands as the other sword came to bare upon the nape of his neck.

  “It is a shame I must kill such a fine creature such as yourself.” The leader pressed the point to draw blood.

  Disarmed and with a sword pointed at his neck bolstered his confidence that the man meant exactly as he promised. Somehow that thought did not frighten him. It enraged him. In the midst of all the blood he felt the surge of hunger and watched the twin blades swing in slow motion to decapitate him. Time moved infinitesimally as he stepped closer and grabbed both sword arms. He twisted until he heard the satisfying pops of the shoulders dislocating. Both swords clanged to the ground as the man screamed in agony. He choked off the man’s scream with the grip of his hand.

  Under the firm grasp he felt the intoxicating rapid pulse. The need to replenish his own lost blood, the ever increasing pounding of the man’s heart fuelled his hunger. He brought his face to the raiders, savouring the man’s terror, focusing only on the pounding vessel. The smell of sweat, blood and excrement assaulted his senses, but it was the blood that drew him. Moving his pale hand around the neck, he uncovered the siren song of the large vessel. The unwashed neck and sweat did not hinder him as he pierced into flesh with his teeth.

  The scintillating taste exploded in his mouth as hot blood flooded into him. He groaned in a pleasure he never had with the beasts he had fed off. Holding the man captive, he sucked on the life giving vessel, drawing more of the intoxicating blood into him. He did not care if it would kill the man. He would have died anyways, but this way was pure heaven.

  He allowed the frightened heart to feed him as he suckled, each draught a delight. The man tried in vain to fight him as death clouded over him, and the young man held him tighter, exulting in the taste until the heart came to a flutter. Before the instant of death he tore himself away and looked at the man’s dead face.

  Hunger abated, the realizat
ion of his carnage hit him fully as he dropped the body.

  The covenant is fulfilled!

  Lightening pain flashed through him leaving him in agony and captured his breath. He did not feel the crashing of his knees into the bloodied mud nor Notus’ strong hands holding him as he surrendered to the darkness.

  So as not to attract any attention, Notus slipped out of Eira’s home, carefully closing the ancient wooden door. He hoped that his friend would trust him to get Bronwen and stay hidden herself. Seeing the girl beside Tarian and his Chosen ringed by the marauders, Notus wondered how to get to them without drawing any attention to the roundhouse. Keeping his back to the stone wall he shuffled sideways until the home no longer provided any coverage.

  A sharp cry snapped his attention back to the bonfire. Fear forced his heart into his throat. Thankfully it had not been Bronwen; unfortunately it was Tarian. She was now in the clutches of the raiders. Bronwen hid behind the lad, eyes wide in terror.

  Standing in the open he did what he reluctantly needed to do and with the speed of the Chosen he slipped past the horse backed men and entered into the throng of villagers. He easily went unnoticed; everyone’s eyes were on the tall pale lad exposed to the villagers. It did not escape Notus’ attention when several witnesses whispered the sound of Gwyn ap Nudd’s name in awe.

  There was no doubt in his mind that the situation was extremely volatile and prayed that the girls would come out untouched and the boy would back off before getting everybody killed. Moving forward he tried to get to Bronwen and the boy. If he could get there in time he could use his other gifts to defuse the situation, and free Tarian, if that were possible. In any case he had to try.

  Stepping around a frightened young couple that clung to each other in shuddering terror, Notus did not see the lad freeing Tarian from the ruffian. All he heard was the song of steel as sword was released from sheath and then the wet gasp as it was impaled through the man.