Chained Chaos chapter 1

The Quickening

A scream ripped through the tranquillity of the forest. Its pitch was high and it carried far, a cry of anguish and despair; the sound delivered its distress to the core of anyone that heard it. And someone did hear it.

Determination etched on his face, the man hurtled through the forest. His right hand was tight around the haft of a huge single headed axe which he gripped just below the head. The lump of iron itself would be enough to slow a lesser man but he did not notice its weight at all.

He hurdled a thorn bush, protecting his face from whipping branches with his left hand. Circled around his wrist was a thick leather bracer which bore the scars of old wars, scars which would have been worn by the skin beneath had it not been present.

His arms were bare and heavily muscled, forearms overdeveloped from years of felling timber. A sleeveless leather shirt flapped in the wind created by his passage. Loosely laced, it covered a wide, muscular chest. His doeskin breeks and sturdy leather boots were worn but well cared for.

Peering like two grey jewels from a heavily bearded face, his eyes were framed by lines of stress and his shoulder length black hair was shot through with silver. These signs of age had not been apparent the previous year. But then, the last year had been far from normal.

Trevn burst into the clearing and slowed to a halt. He spoke gently to the sobbing woman kneeling on the ground and helped her to her feet. “Megan. What's wrong? Were you attacked?” He could see no sign of marauders, indeed there was no sign of anyone but the woman, his neighbour.

Megan stared up at him, her normally pretty face was puffy and tear stained, her voice trembling. “It's come back Trevn, it's in there now!”

Trevn swore. Time was short; he thanked Megan for her warning and set her off on the trail back to her little cottage a mile down the road. He knew she would be grateful for the respite, she had been a companion to both him and his son for the last five years, ever since her husband had passed away from lung fever and she had been party to more than one gruelling incident of late. This… thing had been here before and recently.

Megan had long sought to woo him with her honey cakes and fresh bread. His cottage door was almost always open and she would have entered to leave her tasty gifts on his table for him to enjoy on his return. Clearly, she had found more than she had bargained for inside.

His heart sank.

He slammed the axe into a stump and strode purposefully towards the large log cabin that nestled into the trees. It boasted a slate roof and was lovingly crafted from long, straight pine logs, each painstakingly carved out to fit snugly over its neighbour below. The cabin was substantial with a large main room and two separate bedrooms. In a time when most people of his lowly birth brought up entire families in a single room, the cottage was lavish indeed.

Sweat stood out on his tanned forehead as he braced himself to enter his son’s room, sweat that was not the result of his mad dash through the forest. The moisture on his forehead was the cold sweat born of fear. He clenched his fists, steeled himself for the worst and made his way into the boy’s bedroom.

The sight that met his eyes almost unmanned him. His son, Usil, lay on the bed, his back arched, his abdomen forced towards the ceiling. His shoulders, arms and feet seemed anchored to the bed while his stomach muscles writhed with strain.

Usil was sweating and feverish, his normally bright crystal green eyes were now flecked with yellow, the whites bloodshot. They were unfocused, the pupils dilated and they looked swollen enough that they might pop out his skull at any moment. A strange metallic smell permeated the air, it was a smell he recognised from the heart of lightning storms. As a forester, that smell invoked dread.

Trevn swallowed his fear and moved to the side of his son’s bed. He cradled the boy’s head in his arms. He had long since given up urging his son to fight against this thing. Postponing it just made matters worse in the end.

“Shhh, shhh,” he whispered, “Don’t try and fight the inevitable. What will be, will be.”

Usil’s eyes re-focused and he stared up at his father, pleased beyond words for his company. He tried to smile but his expression ended up more of a grimace.

“It’s on its way dad,” he whispered, fighting vainly to hold back the tears that brimmed in the corners of his eyes, threatening to overflow and breach the flimsy floodgates he had constructed in his mind to hold back his emotions. “I can’t stop it.”

“I know son, I know. It’s not your fault.” Trevn could see his reflection in those eyes, minute by minute more yellow flecks were appearing as if the green had been merely a coloured veil which now lay in tatters, revealing more and more of the sickly yellow that had lain hidden and festering beneath.

Usil’s eyes lost their focus again and Trevn relaxed his grip and stood up. He paced back and forward for half an hour or more. Finally, as he knew would happen, Usil’s breathing grew deeper, his eyes now more yellow than green. The bedroom thrummed with tense, nervous energy.

It won’t be long now, he thought, maybe half an hour, no more. He left the bedroom to seek solace elsewhere, he needed to be anywhere but that damned bedroom.

Miserable, his eyes fell on the knapsack of food Megan had left behind. It slumped on the table like an orphan, lonely and unloved. He thought back to Megan and he sighed loudly. He could not return her affection. It was not that she was unattractive; indeed she was normally a bright and pretty thing, flitting about without a care in the world, full of life and hope. And therein lay the problem. His hope, and a good portion of his life, lay buried outside in a clearing by a stream no more than a hundred yards away.

They had been married only four years when she had died in childbirth, their second child, lost at birth, lay in her arms in the grave.

She was his soul mate, his lover and closest friend. The memories haunted him still. He could not love another. Not even kind, gentle Megan. He was still in love with his wife, Ariel.

He wrestled his mind back to the present and considered the gravity of the situation. IT was getting stronger and the periods of its absence were diminishing. How long until it never left and his son was lost for good? Well, he would deal with that situation when it arose. He would deal with both of them. What point would there be of living any longer when all he had ever loved was gone?

He'd make it quick, a cut to the femoral artery in the groin and it would be over in minutes. The thought tormented him but he knew he would do it when he had to.

Dusk had arrived with the rapidity typical of deep winter in northern climes and Trevn lit a taper from the smouldering remains of an earlier fire and used it to light candles dotted around the room. Then he did the same for his son’s bedroom, frowning at the thought of facing the coming nightmare in the growing dark.

Blowing out the taper, he left the bedroom and walked across the living room to a pine cupboard. There he took out a tall earthenware jug. He removed the wax seal from its narrow neck with a long knife from a sheath at his belt and poured a large measure into a carved wooden cup which he immediately swallowed.

He grimaced as the home distilled spirit burned his throat on its way down to scorch his empty stomach. He poured himself another and tried to ignore the low groans emanating from his son’s room. He shook his head, this was not something that could be ignored, this was something that had to be dealt with imminently.

Placing his cup on the table, he reluctantly started across the rough finished floor boards towards the bedroom. Three steps from the door frame he was distracted by someone banging heavily on the main door.

Trevn paused, caught between going to his son and answering the door. His eyes flickered to the claidhmore hanging above the fireplace. The heavy blade had been his father's and his grandfather's before that. He was more than proficient in its use as were all the men in his family for generations now.

It was as ever a live blade, razor sharp and perfectly balanced for a two handed swordsman, not much shorter than a bastard sword, it was long enough to draw blood from nearly three paces.

He shook his head, he didn’t need a blade to deal with issues at his door, indeed the sword was so long it would hamper him in the confines of the cottage. He feared no man or beast. There was only one thing he truly feared and that was his son’s... affliction. As ever, he would face that fear and remain with Usil through whatever was to come.

The knock sounded once more. So hard were the blows that he could see the heavy oak door move in its frame. Trevn sighed and turned to the door. “It’s unlocked,” he called loud enough to be heard over the winter wind outside. “Enter if you dare,” he added as an afterthought.

The iron hinges protested as the heavy oak door swung inwards slowly to reveal a tall cloaked figure standing on the threshold in the deepening twilight. The light from the candles in the room spilled out into the gloom, revealing a thin carpet of snow.

“Master Woodsman, I presume,” came a deep and powerful voice from the opening.

“Aye, that much is obvious,” Trevn said. He could not keep the strain out of his voice, he could feel the pressure building within the cottage. Not long now, he thought with a shudder. His manner was uncharacteristically brusque; the strain was getting to him. “State your business cloaked one.”

“Sir, It is below freezing out here and I have come far and am in need of warmth. Would you not invite me in to share your fire awhile?” There was no hint of pleading in the man’s voice.

Trevn frowned. It was an unusual traveller indeed who would presume to intrude upon the hospitality of a cottage when there was a village with an inn not two miles down the track. The stranger intrigued him. Something about the way he spoke, the confidence apparent in his demeanour and the way he held himself spoke of great age, although he could not see within the confines of the traveller’s hood to confirm this.

Normally he would be happy to let the old fellow warm himself by the fire and grab a bite to eat before continuing on his way. But tonight?

Before he could open his mouth to reply, the man had spoken again and Trevn fancied he could detect a note of compassion and perhaps kindness in the deep voice. “I assure you sir, I mean you no harm,” said the man standing on the threshold.

Trevn almost laughed despite the situation, “No man calls me ‘sir’, traveller. I am an honest man, not a noble. My name is Trevn and normally you would be more than welcome to share my hearth. However, tonight, this is no place for someone with a faint heart. My son has a rather dangerous affliction that tends to ah.... affect the people around him.

“In short it is not harm from you that makes me pause; rather it is harm to you that intrudes upon my hospitality.”

The cloaked man appeared to think for a few seconds before answering. “Woodsman,” he said, opting for the more formal title rather than his name, “I am but a humble traveller but I have some ability as a practitioner. This ability and the risk involved, I will happily trade you for some warmth and company.”

Trevn considered this, trying without success to ignore the groans emanating from his son’s room. He could again smell the tang of lightning that always accompanied the last stages of the coming.

Clearly, the stranger had noticed the smell too and the crackling build up of energy in the air. “It appears you have little time,” he observed softly.

Trevn heaved a breath; the hairs on his arms and neck were beginning to rise now, a sure sign. He resigned himself to the man’s presence.

“Then welcome stranger. Enter. The risk is yours.” He paused briefly, “Please leave your staff at the door.” He said, noticing the object for the first time. “I don’t like weapons in my house.”

“Thank you kindly, woodsman,” the stranger replied as he entered and closed the door behind him. “I assure you; the staff is necessary in my line of work and is rarely used as a weapon.” Nevertheless he left the object at the door.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Trevn gestured to the old rocking chair by the fire. “Not that it will help any.”

He started towards the bedroom and stopped, retraced his steps to the cupboard instead and removed another mug. He retrieved the whisky, poured a healthy measure into the mug and handed it to the stranger.

“Here, drink this, it’ll warm you up and I think you may need it before the night is done. It’s not the best but it’s passable. An acquired taste, certainly.”

The stranger accepted the drink graciously, “I don’t doubt the quality or the kindness with which it is given. I would however like to keep a clear head for the moment in the hope that I may be of some help.”

Trevn laughed humourlessly, “I’m afraid you can’t help my son, old man. I’m afraid no-one can help my son.”

He peered closely at the stranger, considered that the man had yet to part with his name and as he did so, Trevn could see green eyes sparkle within the confines of the hood.

He also considered that the man was deliberately keeping his head down and his back to the candles to hide his face. He was about to request, no - demand, that the man doff his hood when a loud moan escaped the bedroom. He spun and ran to his son.

As he entered the boy’s bedroom his long black and silver hair rose like a mane around his worried face. Usil was semi-conscious, hovering above his bed, the discarded blankets twisting and thrashing as though with a life of their own on the floor at Trevn’s feet.

All colour drained from Trevn’s face as his son’s head turned to look at him. Usil’s eyes were almost pure yellow now with only a faint inkling of the original green remaining. Large purple veins pulsed and writhed at his temples looking for all the world like fat worms squirming under his skin. His breathing was heavy and sporadic and sweat ran down his temples in rivulets.

“It’s here father!” Usil’s pitiful strangled voice cried. “I tried to stop it,” his voice fell to a whisper, “but I can’t. It’s too strong!”

The boy’s back arched as though he was going into his death throes and his eyes rolled back into his head leaving only the whites visible, shot through with deep red capillaries. Shelves shook on their mounts and books fell towards the floor only to have their motion arrested as if gravity itself had turned its back on the room.

Trevn shook uncontrollably, primarily from naked, primal fear of the unknown and partly from the sudden chill that invaded the room and permeated his body to the bone but he would not leave the boy alone. He reached over to his son and with a supreme effort of self control over his almost mindless terror, he reached across and held the boy in his large gentle arms and said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “Relax son, I’m here, nothing will harm you while I’m here.”

He wished he believed those empty words but he knew in his heart that there was nothing he could do to help his son. He would fight all the hordes of hell for the lad but against an intangible malignant spirit there was nothing physical to fight. The damn thing could manipulate his son but Trevn was powerless to even touch the enemy, never mind draw blood. He could only stay and comfort and hope that both of them survived the long night ahead.

Fear turned the cold air bitter and the energy in the room rose until it was palpable. Trevn feared for his son’s life, he feared for his own life and that of the stranger’s too but there was nothing he could do that he was not already doing. His not inconsiderable martial skills were absolutely useless, he felt utterly impotent. It was a feeling he had never known before the onset of his son’s affliction and it was tearing him apart.

He was an emotional wreck, flitting from terror to revulsion, anger to capitulation. He wept like a child but he did not leave, he did not relinquish the grip on his boy – he tightened it. Nothing alive or dead was going to take his son away from him. Anger rose within him, forcing back the other, unwanted emotions that vied for life.

“What do you want?” he screamed at the empty air.

As if on cue the shelves vibrated and parted company with the walls. They fell up, not down and bounced against the ceiling, finally joining company with the books that they had supported for so long. The whole ensemble rotated like a languid, eerie whirlpool while bumping off the rough plaster ceiling with ever increasing frequency.

Trevn could feel a bed sheet curl around his calf and slither up his leg like some malignant serpent. Revulsion gripped him and he struggled to ignore it and tightened his grip.

The bedroom door slammed open. Trevn winced, fully expecting it to come hurtling across the room at him. Another thought struck him, perhaps the spirit that possessed his son was making ready to turn its attention on the stranger. He whipped his head around to see and was astonished to find that quite the reverse was true.

The old traveller had doffed his hood and now stood in the doorway, staff back and firmly in hand, his knuckles white with strain. Shoulder length grey hair and scruffy, unkempt beard fluttered wildly in the maelstrom.

Trevn’s gaze was drawn to the man’s eyes. The eyes that he had seen flash icy green within the confines of the stranger’s hood now blazed yellow in the dimming light.

The stranger turned that gaze on Usil, locking on to the lad’s rolling eyes.

“Boy!” he said in an unfeasibly deep voice that Trevn struggled to believe could have come from a human throat. “You must learn control.”

Trevn could feel energies whipping the air as the man spoke, seeking to force the old traveller out of the room. Instead, the stranger leaned into it as a sailor might lean into a stiff westerly and took a step towards the bed, his gaze holding Usil’s frightened eyes in focus.

He spoke again, his voice projecting strongly, seemingly without effort, “Without control you will kill yourself and everyone around you.”

Trevn’s ears rang with that voice; it was so powerful he could feel the floorboards beneath his feet vibrate. He could not shut out that voice. And neither could his son.

Usil stared at the stranger, dread was written on his gaze as they flicked their focus to each of the stranger’s eyes in turn.

“Strain for control boy! And lose the fear, for it is fear that drives this.” The stranger took another step towards the bed. “Push against me boy, burn the power up – strive to push me out!”

The stranger’s voice, once so loud that it threatened to move furniture now seemed to be largely inside Trevn’s head. It did not appear to be the product of mere vocal chords alone.

“Fight lad, fight me – push with all your might. Push as if your life depends on it. For I tell you now it does!”

Once more the stranger was forced to increase his angle of lean. His hair and beard streaming behind him as if in a tremendous gale and yet not a breath of wind was present in the room.

The voice was fading from Trevn’s ears and head, becoming more difficult to distinguish from the bumping of the books and shelves, the groans of his son. He got the impression that the voice was directed solely at Usil now and indeed, now he stared at the stranger, he discovered that the man’s lips were not moving at all. Yet somewhere in the back of Trevn’s head he could discern a soft whisper as if he was eavesdropping through a wall.

Usil sat up suddenly, freeing himself of his father’s tight grip with apparent ease. His eyes were blazing yellow gold now and Trevn could feel the power directed at the stranger, could feel the force building exponentially, being matched smoothly by the stranger.

With a roar from Usil, that power increased by several orders of magnitude and was released at once.

The stranger had time only to show his wide eyed astonishment before he was thrown through the door like a cloth sack in a hurricane. He flew over the table and through the rocking chair before hitting the wall, narrowly missing the mantle on the fireplace which would surely have decapitated him. He hung there wide eyed and twitching for a second before the power was withdrawn and he fell to the floor in a limp heap.

Trevn shot off the bed and turned to face his son, sure he would be next to feel the rage of his possessed child but as his eyes met the boy, the only things he faced were a smile and a pair of grass green eyes. Usil fell back on his bed and Trevn had to put his arms over his head to protect himself from falling books and shelves.

Shaking with shock, Trevn checked his son’s pulse and breathing. Satisfied that the boy was physically well, he ran out the door to check on the stranger, stopping only to prize the man’s staff from between two floorboards that appeared to have warped themselves around its base leaving it standing as if held by invisible fingers.

He rushed over to the crumpled form of the old man, threw down the staff and checked the traveller’s pulse, hoping, praying that the man had not paid the ultimate price for helping his son.

The pulse was erratic but strong and his breathing regular if heavy. Trevn checked the strangers neck gently before lifting him and carrying him to his own bedroom. He noticed a small pool of blood on the floor as he strained to lift him into his arms.

The man was surprisingly heavy and Trevn struggled to get him through the narrow door without dropping him. As gently as he could he laid the man on his bed and hurried outside to fetch a bucket of water. That done he bathed the gash he found at the back of the old man’s head with clean water and a rag.

Happy that the injury was clean he soaked the piece of material in whisky and held it to the back of the man’s head tightly to sterilise the wound and staunch the flow of blood. Once satisfied that this had been accomplished he returned to his son and confirmed that he was sleeping deeply.

Trevn topped up his mug and drained the contents. His shaking hands betrayed him as he picked up the jug for more and it slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floorboards. He swore loudly and sat down heavily on the only remaining seat - his prized rocking chair was now good only for firewood, pieces of it littered the floor.

He covered his head in his hands and wept, huge sobs escaping from him.

Some time later, when his eyes were dry and tired he looked up to find the stranger staring at him with compassion in his eyes. He held the shabby rag to the back of his head with one hand and cradled his ribs with the other.

“What a pair we make, woodsman.” The old man wheezed. “One hurts behind the eyes and the other in front.” He choked on a chuckle.

Trevn wiped his eyes, stood up and helped the traveller into the remaining seat. Then he sat on the rough wooden table as his legs were threatening to betray him, they no longer wanted to bear his weight.

“I think I’d like that drink now,” the stranger grinned balefully, “by the gods my head hurts!”

Trevn handed the man the remaining mug which the old man regarded as he eased himself back into the chair and sighed. “That was harsh.” He said in a whisper. As if using the drink as a pain killer, he then downed the contents of the cup in one gulp. He suddenly looked Trevn in the eye, “The boy is all right I hope?”

Trevn nodded, “Best as I can tell he is sleeping normally.”

“Let us hope so for there is little else normal about him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Your son has a talent that you are no doubt aware of.” The stranger re-arranged himself in his seat, groaning softly as he did so.

“Talent? What do you mean by talent?” Trevn exclaimed in a loud whisper, “If you mean he has been targeted by evil spirits then that is talent indeed! Perhaps I should enrol him when the circus passes next, so that he may roll his eyes and read the knuckle bones of people’s ancestors!”

The stranger sighed and loosened his cloak, struggling slowly to remove it, all the while cradling the ribs on his right side.

“You speak in ignorance my friend; your son has talent, believe me.” He finally managed to divest himself of the garment and let out a huge breath. “I do believe he broke a few ribs.”

Trevn instantly felt guilty for the man’s injuries and apologised. “I wish I had more of the devil drink, I could use a jug right now.” He said.

The stranger perked up, “Well for pity’s sake go get some Trevn.” The old man replied. “If ever I felt in need of a drink it is now!”

“But that was the last of it,” Trevn said, “I broke the last jug as I poured.” He looked sorrowfully at their empty mugs.

The traveller sat up and stared him in the eye, “Go to the still in the back of the woods and gain us another jug, man! Now is not the time to hoard the fruits of your labours!”

Trevn was stunned; his still was a quarter mile away, hidden by the ferns and bushes in a dip in the forest.

“How do you know of this?” He asked in a whisper.

If word of this got out the King's men would hunt him down for not paying duty on the liquor and the last thing he needed was the King's men here.

“I saw it when I circled the cabin before approaching the door – now, will you please go and get another jug!”

Shaken, Trevn got to his feet and took his cloak from its hook next to the door. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said to the old man. “And when I return, you have some questions to answer.”

The old man grimaced, “Yes, yes, I know you have questions. Now please, if you will, return with some relief.”

Trevn opened the front door and stepped outside. He examined the footprints in the dusting of snow by the light of the almost full moon. The traveller had walked straight up to the cabin from the village. He had not circled the cottage, had not deviated from his course, he had purposely strode straight to the door. He could not possibly have known about the still.

Growling to himself, he set off to retrieve another jug.

On reaching his destination, he again checked the surrounding area. The still was set in a cleared hollow some four hundred paces from the cottage, it could not be seen from the road or any of the surrounding land, there was no sign that anyone had passed nearby. He frowned and picked up a jug from beneath the withered ferns. How had the man known?