Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  Notus looked up in time to see the boy eviscerate the other man. The smell of blood assaulted his senses and he forcefully suppressed the hunger that surged to meet the odour, and in good time too as chaos exploded around him as others took whatever they had on hand to beat back the raiders. Many of the older men were well seasoned having fought in battles and survived, most of the young men were trained, even if green.

  In the thick of it, Tarian and Bronwen slammed into him, sobbing for protection. He gave it willingly as he stared in horrific fascination as his Chosen slaughtered the raiders. He could hardly comprehend the boy who had seemed more likely to run away from violence was now a white phantom gracefully raining death to all that stood to oppose him.

  Each move might have been part of a dance so well choreographed that it had been played out dozens of times before. In all his centuries Notus had never seen such a terrifying sight and a prayer to the Good God came unbidden to his lips. Raider after raider fell to the lad’s blade. Most died completely unaware that they had been mowed down. When the man wielding two swords came into the fray Notus realized that he was not the only one in rapt attention upon the boy. Both he and Tarian shouted out a warning to the young man, the cry coming too late as he saw steel bite into flesh.

  Notus knew not to be worried. It would heal in a matter of moments, but Tarian did not know that and both she and Bronwen had seen the slice. Then the unthinkable occurred and there was nothing Notus could do to stop it. If those watching were sceptical about the lad’s otherworldly nature, they were now convinced as Notus watched in horror as the boy fed off of a mortal for the first time.

  The leader was the last to fall, but not to the blade. Notus moved to get closer to the boy, to try and prevent any possibility of the boy going onto the next person. It was not unprecedented and Notus wanted to stop it from even potentially happening. It was even more shocking to hear the boy’s cry of agony and see him crash to his knees.

  Notus quickly made it to the lad’s side, the mud squelching beneath his knees and firmly grasped the young man before he could topple forward onto the bloodied ground. Fear coursed through the monk. He had never seen such a reaction in a Chosen.

  It was then that he noticed the deep cut in the boy’s upper arm. It should have healed. Instead it gaped open under the ruined shirt. Shaking his head in confusion and a desire to discount the reality of what he was seeing, Notus did the only thing his fogging mind could think of.

  “Get Eira,” he shouted at Tarian who stood beside him. “Now!”

  Tarian stared at her unconscious saviour being held by the monk. She knew Father Notus had said something but it did not register. She was too scared at what she was seeing. It was only when Notus shouted at her again did Tarian break out of her reverie. Grabbing Bronwen’s trembling hand, she ran to the roundhouse, her urge to flee finally loosened.

  It took a couple of tries to open the wooden door. Rewarded at last with the creaking of hinges Tarian allowed herself some sense of accomplishment. The night had not turned out in the way anyone could expect and she absently touched the top of her neck where the blade had cut her. It stung but did not bleed.

  Bronwen, seeing her mother within, cried out and ran inside to be picked up in the fiercest of bear hugs.

  “Oh thank the Goddess you’re safe,” cried Eira, brushing dark locks from her daughter’s tear streaked face and gave her a kiss on the forehead. Turning to Tarian she said, “I’m so glad that Paul was able to get you to safety.”

  “It wasn’t Paul, Eira.” Tarian shivered, the effects of the assault and witnessing the violence finally taking its toll.

  Worry washed over Eira’s face as she clung to her daughter. She could see something was terribly wrong on the young woman’s face. “What happened?”

  “It was the fairy lord, mama,” answered Bronwen. Eira turned to face her daughter, confused about the details. “He killed the bad men. Mama, he saved us.” Little sun golden arms wrapped around Eira’s neck, giving her mother a huge kiss.

  Dark imploring eyes penetrated green before Tarian could look away. “What happened?”

  “He’s hurt. Father Notus sent me to get you.” Sadness and concern filled Tarian as she went over to pick up her own daughter, desperately needing to know that she was safe.

  Eira blanched and placed her daughter back on the ground. With a strict order for Bronwen to stay in the roundhouse with Tarian she headed outdoors and stepped from a world of peaceful sleeping infants to a world of death and massacre.

  “By the Goddess,” she exclaimed, hands clutching at her heart in an attempt to gain control of its fearful racing.

  It was a scene out of a nightmare, ones in which she had seen her father and husband cut down over and over without her being able to save them. The dimming light of the bonfire unattended cast a reddish glow upon everyone and everything as if they were all covered in blood. How many lay on the ground unmoving she could not count, but she could tell that not many were her own people.

  Almost in the centre of the carnage Notus knelt, his brown robes a ghastly reddish colour, holding onto her brother splattered in red. Before she could get to them, she had to do something about the chaos that was raining down upon her village. It had to be done no matter how desperately she wanted to be by their side. Knowing that Bronwen and Tarian were safe was small consolation in the tragedy of the festival.

  Swallowing down her fear, Eira took another deep breath and took control of the situation. Head held high, eyes firm, she caught the first person she could grab and began issuing orders for the disposal of the marauders corpses. They had to be gotten rid of and preferably buried deep within the forest where no one would find them. If they had any allies she did not want her village to be targeted for revenge.

  With the next person she arranged for the wounded of the village to be brought to the central lodge where she would apply her healing arts as soon as able. She could see some of the men who had fought and won. Some with deep cuts still freshly bleeding, others with bruises still too new to be painful, to those who lost loved one’s she left their families to take them home and prepare them for their final crossings.

  With one last task left to delegate so that it would free her up to do what she desperately wanted to do, Eira quickly found her neighbour and asked her to go and take Tarian and the children in for the night. Her friend nodded knowingly. She had often done this in the past until Tarian came, when Eira was needed elsewhere for long periods of time. With a gentle hug the two women parted to their respective tasks.

  Eira’s gaze fell back upon Paul and her brother, fresh worry filling her heart. Skirt hiked up and bare feet squishing in mud not made with water, she rushed over. The fear and worry in Paul’s eyes told her what she needed to know and did not want to recognize. Fighting back rising emotions to match the monk’s, Eira donned the professional distance that a village healer must have in order to do what was necessary. Before she could do any healing they first had to get unconscious young man into her home, now.

  “We have to get him inside, quickly,” she ordered Notus who mutely nodded.

  On the count of three, with Eira on one side and Notus on the other, they lifted the boy to his feet, half dragging, half carrying him to the roundhouse. She could see Paul trying to be as careful with her brother’s right arm as possible. It was difficult going with the lad being so much taller than they, and made more so in trying to get the three of them through the door without dropping him.

  “Onto the bed,” stated Eira, pointing with a lifted chin to the bed Tarian had used, her voice focused on the task before her. Notus followed her direction without question.

  Gently, they sat the unconscious young man down on the edge of the bed, allowing Eira to unclasp the cloak to lift it away. Unceremoniously she rolled up the heavy fabric and plopped it against the wall behind her, laying the clasp on top.

  Notus could not express how relieved he felt that Eira was taking charge in caring for the
boy. He brushed the long white hair dappled in red out of the boy’s face. He could see pain tensing the pale features, white brows pulled close. The boy should be fine, the gash gone. That was the way of the Chosen. Something was terribly wrong. It took him a moment to register that Eira had called his name.

  “We need to get him out of those clothes,” she stated matter-of-factly. Notus could see the lines of worry darkening her face and remembered the secret she had imparted to him and knew that she was just as concerned, maybe more so, than he.

  As if she needed to say something, to keep going she stated, “Tarian and the children will spend the night at Arwen’s.”

  Notus nodded as he stood, absently smoothing his robes in an attempt to find something he could control. Together they removed the once beautiful shirt, cutting it away in places once they saw the hand length slice in the lad’s upper right arm. Notus was almost positive that had the boy not been Chosen, the arm would have been cleaved in two.

  The remnants of the blood soaked shirt assailed his senses, quickening his hunger as Eira handed him the shirt to be placed next to the cloak behind them. Disgusted at the thoughts slamming through his mind, he quickly deposited the shirt on the floor to be discarded later.

  With the shirt off and the wound finally exposed, Eira carefully laid her brother down on the bed on his left side, so as to keep the wounded arm off the bed and at a height she could easily work at. The small burn above the sternum was inconsequential to the one on the arm.

  Turning around to join Eira beside the boy, he found her kneeling, examining the wounded arm.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” demanded Notus as he moved to stand beside her. The red and black edged wound was sliced deep enough to see the white of bone. Blood oozed out the gaping gash that started just below the shoulder joint and ended just above the inside of the elbow. It was not even attempting to heal.

  Eira took a shaky breath. “This is not good, not at all.” She looked up at her worried friend; her own fears plain on her face. “There’s a pail of water by the fire that I had boiled after you left, please get it.”

  He did as she bid, using a cloth to grasp the handle. Crystal clear liquid sloshed and threatened to mingle on the dirt floor as he carefully walked it over and placed it on the floor beside the unconscious boy.

  Taking the rag from the handle, she dipped it into the boiled water and rung out the excess.

  “Clean the wound first,” stated Eira, passing the water soaked cloth to her friend. “Once the wound is tended to we’ll clean the rest of him.” Fatigue roughened her voice and Notus knew that her night was just beginning. There were so many more in need of her healing talents.

  Standing, Eira went to the mantle to pick up a copper coloured wooden box that had been her grandmother’s and her grandmother before her. Now it was hers and by morning it will have made her ancestors proud, she hoped. She took the gallon jug sitting on the shelving housing the foodstuffs next to the hearth. With the box in one hand and the jug in the other, Eira turned around to do what needed to be done and halted.

  With her brother lying on his side, his long white hair no longer covering his back, she could see wide silvered ragged tracks on his back. Rushing over, Eira placed the jug and box on the floor beside the bed and went around the other side where, with skirt held up over her knees, she scooted to examine him.

  Notus glanced over his left shoulder and halted his washing of the wound. “What’s wrong? What did you find?” asked Notus, panicked that there were other wounds the boy had taken that he had not noticed.

  Eira placed her hands on the old scars, tracing them and stopped when her brother flinched and moaned at the touch. “Paul, what happened to him?”

  Leaning over to see what she was talking about, Notus had his first truly clear look at the boy’s back. Five nearly identical thickly silvered parallel scars tracked horizontally across both sides of the ribcage just below the shoulder blades.

  Notus shook his head. “I don’t know. He had them when I found him.”

  “They look as if they were from a bear.” Eira shook her head disbelieving.

  “There is a large bear fur he uses for his pallet.”

  Their eyes connected in realization. Eira huffed out a held breath, head shaking sadly. Climbing off the bed, she came around and she switched places with Notus to begin her work on healing the current wound.

  Picking up her grandmother’s box, Eira lifted the finely engraved lid and placed it on the bed beside her. Inside, sewing needles made of bone were lined up side by side next to small spools of very fine gut string. Next she picked up the jug and used her teeth to open it with a pop. The strong smell of grain alcohol filled the room as she stared intently on the cut, once again the healer of the village.

  “Hold him,” she ordered, preparing needle and thread with alcohol, the extra quickly absorbing into the dirt floor.

  Kneeling by the boy’s head, Notus grasped white strong shoulders. Warily he asked, “Eira, what are you going to do?”

  “I have to cleanse the wound before I can stitch it,” she sated matter-of-factly, checking to see how she should start. Right now, all that existed was the wound, to think of anything more would cloud her judgment.

  “Stitch it?” Notus had seen the procedure performed in the past, usually when warriors came back wounded, sometimes due to unfortunate accidents, but the necessity of it on a Chosen, when it should never have been necessary, only deepened his worry.

  “It will not heal if left open like this and I don’t know whether or not it will heal after I sew it up.” Her voice matched Notus’ unspoken concern, obviously for different reasons.

  “What do you mean?” His voice rose in panic. He had come to care very deeply for the youth and appreciated his companionship. The accidental creation of his Chosen, as horrible as it was, meant that for the first time in a long time, he too was not alone, and the realization that he cared so much for the boy scared him.

  Eira lifted her gaze. “The wound has been cauterized.” She traced around the blackened edges with a bone needle as if to outline the real problem.

  Releasing the boy’s shoulders, Notus shifted over to really look at the gash, the sudden wrongness painfully clear. He had seen the sword hit. It had not glowed with forge fire heat. It did not make any sense that it could have caused such damage, and he told Eira so.

  “I don’t understand it myself,” she said softly, almost disbelieving what she was about to say. “The only possible explanation I can think of is that what the villagers are saying is true.”

  “That the boy is some ancient forest god come back to life?” Notus could not believe what he was hearing. It was too ridiculous to even consider.

  “I know. I know.” Eira shook her head to dismiss her own theory. “But my mother believed him to be Fay. Even Bronwen and Tarian believe he’s a fairy lord.”

  “That does not make any sense.” His voice rose in frustration born of worry.

  Softly, Eira replied, fearing to speak the truth. “It does since it was iron that burned him.” Grabbing the opened jug, she poured the cleansing alcohol over the wound before Notus could support the boy from the biting pain that was just the precursor to her finally settling down to the arduous task of stitching the wound.

  Chapter XVI

  He tumbled in a void of darkness.

  Out of control, scorching heat consumed him.

  Curling into a foetal position, pain lashed through him.

  There was no light.

  There was no Garden.

  There was no wailing.

  He whirled around in absolute blackness.

  Devoid of every sense except pain.

  Pain: the only constant.

  Fear ever present.

  Slowly, imperceptibly, his uncontrolled descent reached its terminus.

  Conscious thought took hold through the pain.

  Uncurling, no sense of direction could be perceived.

  No up.


  No down.

  Nothingness.

  Panic through the pain made its dominion.

  Memories flooded in.

  Fearing a renewed encounter he tried in vain to search the darkness.

  Nothing.

  Terror fuelled his furiously pumping heart.

  A touch.

  A single feathery touch as cold as death shocked up his arm.

  Crying out, he pulled away, cradling his wounded arm.

  Harsh and cold as the dead of winter, piercing the blackness.

  He spun around.

  “The covenant issssss fulfilled,” the voice came from all around, filling the void.

  Cold terror filled him. Shaking his head in denial he tried to back away and found he could not move. Frozen, stuck in a blackness gone solid.

  A scratching rustling filled his ears, threatening to explode inside his head.

  “Stop!” he cried out, imploringly.

  As suddenly as it began, the sound vanished.

  “Open your eyessssssss.”

  He did not want to.

  He did not realize that he had closed them.

  An icy cold touch under his chin forced his head up and he snapped his eyes open at the shock of pain through his head.

  Red bloody eyes glared at him from a white rotting face. Its white half formed body floated in the unseen eddies and currents of the void. Its smile revealing a row of sharpened teeth.

  He could not move. Frigid tendrils held him in place, lashing his body in fiery pain. He cried out.

  “You are mine,” it hissed. Its breath rotten with decay. “Finally.”

  He whimpered, wishing that it would release him. Let him go.

  It cocked its head to the side sending other parts of it into the unseen breeze. “Now why would I dooooo that?”

  The tendrils gripped harder. Agony burst through him. Surrendering to the support of the tendrils he could only hang in the void.