Blue Words - Part I Page 14

playing away in a thick haze. The Inscribed quickly agreed that smoking was to take place outdoors when the child was around, though the reason completely escaped Gudrik’s understanding.

  Another of the Inscribed’s vices was alcohol, and if there was ever an excuse to drink, Gudrik was it. Before long they were well lubricated and alongside the mead, their stories also began to flow. George absorbed their tales wondrously, piecing together what she could of their histories.

  Unexpectedly, Teefa turned out to be the oldest Inscribed after Kahn. By the age of sixteen she had already spent many a year as a comfort slave, dragged from campaign to campaign for Kyran’s higher ranking men. One night while being drunkenly pawed by one of his paladins, a man she referred to only as the Hammer, she snapped and drove his own dagger into his throat. Terrified, she fled into the forest surrounding the camp. There she had hid for hours, freezing in the frigid dark until she was stumbled upon by Regicide, another of Scurt’s original four.

  Malaki gruffly bragged of his prowess as a huntsman. “No man could read the woods and stalk prey as well as I!” he boasted, thumping the table and spilling mead everywhere. “I was known as the wolf in man’s skin.” Chance had one day brought him upon a stranger in the woods one dusk. The stranger was fighting six other men draped in grey military garb. Malaki, having no love for soldiers, who often confiscated his kills in the name of nobles or thrones, leapt to the stranger’s aid. That stranger turned out to be Kahn, and his brave act earned him both a chance to study for the trials and a lifelong friend.

  Fate brought Neasa to the group during the witch trials of the New World. Her caring nature had driven her to speak up for one of the accused, earning an accusation herself. She was incarcerated with Teefa and two other Inscribed who took her with them when they made their escape.

  Paw had been a master swordsman and a notorious pirate. He was known and feared by all of the group’s enemies, or so Teefa told the story anyway. In an unfortunate twist of fate he had been captured by Kyran in the tragic assault referred to as ‘the Betrayal’, a failed attack, during which the group had been betrayed by Trayue, another of Scurt’s four. It had cost many casualties and decimated their ranks beyond imagination. “We do not mention that dog’s name,” spat Malaki sternly at Teefa, who was telling the story.

  Her voice softened, but still she continued, “It was then that the paladins took his sword fingers and he bit off his tongue. He never spoke again, but his sword play......well that’s a different story. Put it to the test and you will soon learn his left hand is as capable as the right.”

  Fond tales of his mother flowed from Dorian’s slurring tongue. His swept hair had slumped drunkenly with the rest of his body and now covered one eye. She was a beauty born in the southern Japanese islands. Sakura was lost when he was a young child, leaving only faded memories of her face and tales from his friends. She had also been lost in the Betrayal. Though Kahn pretended not to hear, Gudrik noticed a sadness creep across his face as the tales of his beloved were told.

  The light hearted mood continued late into the night and on through the early hours of morning. That night for the first time in over ten centuries, Gudrik slept. The feeling which overcame him as he lay his head down and closed his eyes was so embracing and warm that a child like smile crept across his chiselled face. Better still; dreams came to him that night. He had almost forgotten the power a dream could hold. Forgotten how much sense a nonsensical collage of people, places and events from one’s past can make in the dream world. It was a window into his old life. He drank with his father once more, spoke with The Twelve, hunted in his beloved homeland and made love to his beautiful wife.  

  I am Kahn

  Many people see leadership as a crown, something glittering and golden; something which stands one man above another. However, anyone ever topped with such a crown knows that it is nothing more than a crushing weight of duty and sacrifice which slowly buries you. I am Kahn, the first of Scurt’s familiars. The first of the Inscribed, a man eternally cursed with duty.

  Familiar is an ancient spirit tongue term, “trusted one”. It was something Scurt called me often, but in truth I was more like a son to him. Maybe not a son by blood, but having never known my birth family, I gladly claimed him as a father. Before he came along I had lived as a slave, stolen from my homeland and torn from my family in an event I can scarcely remember anymore.

  Scurt was the first person who ever treated me as an equal......or even as a human really. It was a gesture which shone all the brighter when he shared the truth about how far from his equal I truly was. Suddenly, with one revealing slash of his wand I was thrust into a world which an orphaned slave boy could scarcely have dreamed existed. The Warlocks were no less than gods among men, beings shrouded in such a heavy veil of legend that they are still referred to unintentionally in the modern world by people who know them as nothing more than myth. The term ‘blue bloods’ stemmed from stories of their status. Numerous bible tales are twisted recounts of their deeds. Legends of werewolves and skin changers evolved from their beast transformations. Fables of Alchemists, Wizards, Druids, Witch Doctors and Sorcerers all have their origins in The Twelve. Even the traditions of beheading which survive in some cultures developed from the uprising against the Warlocks. In fact, they are the root of most supernatural folklore heard around the world today.

  Scurt always hungered to help the world and his drive was stronger than any other I have met to this day. Though they didn’t understand it at the time, and probably still wouldn’t today, his death was a sharp loss to all of humanity. To me personally though, it was a crushing blow.

  It’s surprising the details which stay with you from a trauma like that. I remember things being wrong about the cottage when I arrived home that day. Little things, a pot knocked over, the door ajar and hanging crooked on its hinges, the thick smoke of a poorly tended fire in the hearth. I remember Scurt’s body lying almost peacefully in front of his chair. I remember his eyes staring at me from the opposite side of the room, not blue as they had always been, but dead and hazel. I remember red blood, not blue soaking into the floorboards. But none of that is what springs to mind strongest about that day. No, what I remember perfectly, as if it happened only seconds ago is the breathless feeling. It overcame me as I entered our home and it froze me in the entrance. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe. To this day I couldn’t even tell you how long I stood there. It wasn’t until Trayue arrived, seconds, minutes, maybe even hours later that I reacted. It was the shame of being caught frozen, like a blubbering coward that finally coaxed me to move. What should I have done? No idea, but I’m pretty sure I should have done more than just stood there.

  I had lost the only family member I had, the only family I had ever known. In tribute to my father, I set upon a mission to help the remaining Warlocks. A quest in which I and the other three original Inscribed failed miserably.

  Beaten, but not defeated, I did not put my tail between my legs and flee. One of The Twelve had been taken captive. My goal was clear. Free Gudrik from the clutches of Kyran. After all, he was practically my cousin. It was a struggle which waged on and on. Our inscriptions gave us an edge in combat; our numbers though were our weakness. Finding trusted people to inscribe was near impossible. Kyran was worshiped as the striking hammer of god. To everyday people, we were but minions of the dark lords struggling to raise them from the hell Kyran had sent them to. We were forced to skulk in the shadows and hide our existence. Nevertheless people who saw him for what he was did surface from time to time and new members faced the trials. My wife was amongst them.

  Whenever Kyran would move, we were there, right on his heels, waiting for an opportunity to strike. We followed him through Europe and the Middle East as he expanded his empire. Distraction and setback plagued us, but we fought on. In Wallachia we rallied support from locals and found sympathy and allies in neighbouring Hungarian forces. For the first time in our existence, our numbe
rs almost matched his. It was the high point in the Inscribed’s existence and we had never been so sure of ourselves. What followed was a crash so steep I am not sure we have ever truly recovered from it. It is simply remembered as the Betrayal.

  To this day, I still don’t understand why Trayue did it. Nothing about it made sense. He had always been dedicated to the cause; many times I even believed his dedication to be stronger than my own. The slaughter I saw on that day will be forever etched into me, a scar that will never fade. Though some of us escaped death, none escaped injury. As we retreated, half our forces were already impaled on stakes around his fortress, dead or dying, my wife amongst them. The differences between agelessness and immortality are never bolder than in the wake of something like that. Our only solace was that the traitor also found himself amongst the stakes once his purpose was served. We mourned our losses, fought our doubts and returned to the task. New Inscribed were found, but the blood ran low.

  His empire soon moved to the New World, the Americas. Again we followed. There we successfully halted his operations for a time, fighting out of ancient