The Narratives of Kaos: Book 1: Chapter 3: Chris

Chapter 3

Chris

    The sun was held high by the gods, but obscured by fluffy, pink clouds that twisted and swirled from the skyline. The smell of rain was light, but a dampness had fallen over the land. Chris hated the slush of the grass beneath him; it drew attention.

All attention is bad attention, he thought.

His eyes darted around, attempting to take in every bit of his surroundings.

The meeting with Pod had left a bad taste in his mouth, though he had never

really tasted anything before. Nonetheless, his brain racked.

Francis Cobham. He shook his head. Why does he despise me so? He thought back to when Francis had wound up in Chris’s care. An infant left outside his castle. He remembered when Fernina Talhook, the nurse, brought him inside, he being nestled perfectly in her arms.

She had cried the day he left, Chris remembered. He had vanished in the night. Chris had been able to track him down, but Francis had been adamant that he didn’t want to come back.

    Pod was certainly going to hang this over Chris’ head in the future, and he wondered if it was worth it.

   

    A lump sat at the other end.

A canurs.

    Brown fur with swaths of grey swayed gently in corse bundles. It's large head rested on four front legs that crossed over each other. The two hind legs were angled awkwardly under the beast. It's back rose and fell at a steady pace while its green snout twitched. Drool pooled underneath its jaw and seeped into the cracks of the wood.

Canurs sightings were not uncommon between Chris’s lands and the three major kingdoms, but Chris himself had rarely seen any himself; especially one so brazen.

    He began to cross the bridge, heavy with his steps to make sure the canurs was truly asleep.

He was halfway across  when he smell of unwashed, mangy fur hit him.

He drew his swords, slowly and loudly.

    The canurs’s eyelids flung open.

    There it is.

    The beast got to its feet, growling and showing off its yellowed and naralled teeth.

    It will back down. It must be intelligent enough to-

Just then, the canurs leaped, bearing claws that could cut through steel.

Chris attempted to recalculate, but the beast was already on him, it’s claws sinking into his back. Chris thought fast, hooking his arms under the canurs’s, and shifting his weight to hoist the beast over his shoulder. The canurs slammed into the railing, the impact was not only jarring enough that the canurs released the grip it has on Chris, but the railing gave way, emitting a loud CRACK! The creature, along with a chunk of railing, plummeted into the river, where they both disappeared into the strong current.

Siring pain run up and down Chris’s body. He scolded himself mentally as he felt blood trickle down his back, oozing from his fresh wounds and staining his coat. The tares could be dealt with, as there were more than a few seamstresses and tailors who could repair the cloth, but blood was not so easily disposed of.

    Chris was about to continue on when his stomach lurched. He looked back toward the bridge. Something seeped into his brain, something ominous.

The large gap in the railing where the canurs had broke through stood out like a sore thumb.

Chris sighed as he gathered up some twigs and vines to repair it. While at work the bridge taunted him. The gurgling below rung in his ears. It was calling for him… someone… anyone. The canurs had not filled its appetite.

He repaired the bridge as best he could before marching off, glancing over his shoulder every other step.

Suddenly no longer feeling alone, he turned fully to the river, half expecting to find the canurs emerge from its watery grave. Instead, a flash of white dashed by his face, and something landed on his shoulder.

It was a dove, perched on his shoulder, a raven’s feather hanging out of its mouth: Chris’s quill.

The little bird tilted her head, the beady eyes staring a hole into Chris’s cheek.

Chris took the quill and tied it back to his belt with a bit of string. “Much appreciation,” he said. Looking back up at the dove, he continued, “It’s been a while. Years in fact.”

The dove pecked at one of her own feathers, disinterested.

“Well, where have you been?”

She bashfully cooed, hiding her face in her wing.

“Right, well I don’t exactly have an abundance of time on my hands; not enough to play these games, anyway. So I suggest you inform me of why you’re here. Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”

The bird turned and blinked.

“Yes, I am aware you’re unable to speak, but there are other ways of communication.”

She didn’t respond, catching sight of Chris’s back, then turning to give him a stern look. He could still feel the blood trickle down his back and soak his vest.

“Attempting to catch my swords behind my back.”

The dove looked as though she had taken a deep breath, then spread her wings and fluttered off, disappearing into the trees.

“It was nice catching up!” Chris called.

There was no answer.

   

   

    The cuts on Chris’s back were closed now, his blood-soaked vest dried. It had been a long while since Chris had felt physical pain. It was an odd feeling, not dissimilar to the sight of his own blood. Then again, it had been almost as long since he participated in combat.

He walked mindlessly the sun setting and rising again. His feet ached and his head swarmed. Pod, Francis, Mullen, the canurs…. the bridge, all swam in his thoughts.

He could faintly see the tip of his castle’s tower when a bright beam of blue light shot up into the sky a great distance away.

His mind blanked as he watch the beam disappear. He could have dismissed it as a flash of lightning, but he knew better. Reality hit him like a boulder and he launched ahead, running toward where the beam had struck as fast as he could.

As he dashed through the woods, only one thought raged through his head. Why now?