Blue Words - Part I Page 27

Teefa and the others.”

  “Probably in one of the dead spots along the highway,” added Malaki.

  “We’re in too,” said Dorian standing beside Malaki, both already looking worse for wear.

  “No we can’t risk you Dorian,” responded Kahn. Dorian’s eyes narrowed with confusion and he swept his hair aside.

  “This could be the defining battle of our order, how can you deny me the chance to fight?”

  “You will take over from me one day son, I nearly lost you once this week, I won’t let it happen again.”

  “Take over when dad? You’ve been telling me that for three hundred years and yet here I am still being treated as a boy. I have proven my ability and loyalty time and time again,” he spat blood from his mouth, “Or is this about keeping me away from Ami? You had your chance; she deserves the right to a happy life too.”

  “Watch your tone, you speak of things you don’t understand,” Kahn snarled. “My orders stand. Ami and I will accompany Gudrik, you will not.”

  “Fuck your orders; I’m coming to fight side by side with my woman! I will not let her die alone and outnumbered like my mother.” Kahn lunged forward to strike his son, but Malaki caught his arm and drew him into a constricting embrace.

  “Kahn, listen to me,” he whispered into his friend’s ear. “There has been enough fighting between our ranks tonight. I get to act like a drunken asshole, not you. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just pumping adrenaline. You know your blood; it flows through him as well. You would be at this fight no matter what. The same is true of him, and me.”

  Gudrik thought for a moment. He had intended to fight this battle alone, the Inscribed had done so much already, but with George added to the equation it made sense to have extra troops on the ground. He also thought back to the lab, and how he had regretted not accepting their help then.

  “Your company would be appreciated,” Gudrik replied. “Numbers should only improve our odds.”

  “Fine we all go. No heroics. Follow orders and keep George safe,” Kahn ordered. He shared a lingering look with his son, a look which said much. It was a twenty minute discussion of apologies and forgiveness all spoken in an instant.

  “Tell Ami to get there now,” grunted Gudrik. Everyone looked at him queerly, but Dorian did as he was told.

  Gudrik stood and faced the group. Their small cache of weaponry had been taken by the attackers. The corpses too had been stripped of any weapons, assumably by their comrades. So the Inscribed would enter this war armed only with their armour. “Make your peace with whatever gods you please, we leave soon.”

  The others prepared themselves before joining Gudrik at the water’s edge. He painted war masks on them from a gash on his palm. It was warm and wet at first, but soon dried crisp on the skin.

  “This will not be pleasant,” he warned. The Warlock took George’s hand; his palm still bled. He motioned for the Inscribed to join. They locked to form a circle. “Svanjanus cirqes!”

  The ground crumbled away below them and the group collapsed through it. There was a brief sensation of free fall before George felt a sharp change of direction. There was an intense radiant heat. George could feel herself moving at such speeds that her very being felt as though it was being distorted and separated, molecule by molecule. Her eyes were not able to focus enough to see anything other than a fiery, orange glow below. The journey lasted no more than few seconds and just when George felt like she would burn alive, her body was snapped violently upward, flinging her arms and legs down. She found herself lying face down on dry, red earth and rock, smoke rising off her back.

  Intense nausea took her, and her last meal erupted before her. “How embarrassing.” It wasn’t really the impression she had wished to make on her first campaign of battle, especially after her earlier empowerment speech. However, her wounded pride was soon mended as she looked up to see the men experiencing the same complications. Only the Warlock stood stoic, staring down from their vantage point towards the ambient glow of the brightly lit Raven’s Skull Creek mining facility.

  “What the hell was that?” spluttered George as she spat the foul taste from her mouth.

  “The void, what we dubbed the low road. A passage of nothingness which separates the realms. We were between Midgard and what my father believed to be Muspellheim. I left an exit mark here earlier,” he answered.

  “That’s impossible Gudrik,” lectured George as she climbed to her feet. Gudrik looked about in a sarcastic, animated fashion.

  “Yes…..impossible,” he grumbled.

  “Surprise, surprise, no sign of the bitch,” sneered Malaki, spitting the taste from his mouth and dusting himself off.

  “I wanted to wait till you had finished purging princess. Didn’t want to get your dinner on my shoes,” came Ami’s voice as she emerged from the dark. “What’s the plan?”

  “From here we walk up to the fence and make our way inside,” replied Gudrik.

  “A full frontal assault hey, brave but a bit suicidal for us ageless don’t you think Gudrik?” asked Ami. “I promise you he has a comprehensive force in there.”

  “It would be a glorious battle no doubt Ami, but having George with us I have an alternative plan. An open attack or breach of any kind would only give him time and warning,” said Gudrik as he cut his palm with the wand. Ami cringed awkwardly as he smeared his blood across her face. She now matched the rest of the team.

  “Vitctziscus-noh!” Gudrik yelled. George felt the blood on her face react to his words. A sharp, burning chill spread out from it and swept across her, crawling along her flesh with tiny unseen talons all the way to her fingers and toes, before fading to nothing more than a slight pins and needles sensation which lingered. She looked around the hilltop, and was startled to realise that she was suddenly on her own.

  “Gudrik!” she called frantically, “Gudrik!”

  “Calm yourself, look at your hands,” came the ghostly rumble of a familiar voice. She held her hands out in front and looked down at them. George saw only moonlit red earth. Glancing further down her body she noticed that it was no longer there.

  “How long will this last?” asked George. She was enjoying the idea of being invisible, but was cautious of the long term ramifications.

  “Don’t know,” was Gudrik’s response. “I have done it for hours in the past, but never on more than just myself. So I suggest we hurry.”

  The answer didn’t reassure George, but she kept her mouth shut. After all, she was responsible for arguing herself into this very position. “Follow me,” the Warlock grunted.

  George looked around the small plateau wildly, “How? I can’t see you??”

  Gudrik sighed loudly and scuffed his feet hard in the dirt to create a puff of dust. George and the rest of group quickly followed.  

  I am Gudrik

  For many winters I saw no sign of The Twelve. I lived a normal life, a relaxed life. I guess you could say I lived the life of a mortal. Until late one summer afternoon, while hunting in the woods around our cabin, the first of the visions struck. It dropped me to my knees, it had been so long since I had experienced one that I didn’t even recognise it at first. A flash of grave fear followed quickly by feelings of intense pain and helplessness. It was a confusing bombardment of emotion, but there was no mistaking....it was uncle Scurt. The only decipherable meaning in the mess of pictures and emotions were, “uprising” and “amulet”.

  Instantly our minds went wild with discussion. We had all felt it, and all of us knew instantly that Scurt of The Twelve, my uncle, was dead. The feelings of fear and rage from The Twelve echoed on. For the first time we were forced to question the long held belief that we were immortal.

  Most of The Twelve simply continued the lives they had been living since going underground, but my father was not that kind of man. He set out to investigate his brother’s death. It wasn’t long before he made contact with the group again to confirm what we already knew. Scurt was indeed dead, his k
iller, a man named Kyran. He seemed to have come from nowhere, a warrior who had made it his personal crusade to track down and eradicate our kind. Rumour had it he discovered a sacred amulet which gave him the power to slay immortal demons, apparently us. Father also confirmed that our amulet was missing from its resting place in the ancient refuge.

  Slowly over the following moons my peaceful thoughts and dreams were torn apart by brutal visions mirroring the ones from Scurt. One by one The Twelve began to fall; until eventually, only my father and I remained. Kyran had made an art of killing Warlocks. He had also built a legendary status for himself. He had touted tales blaming Warlocks for all of the evils in the world. Dead crops, plagues, barren women, the very things we were once revered for fighting, we now wore the blame for all. The very word ‘Warlock’ soon conjured images of dark, twisted mages who perverted the world to their own desires. It has always been the way of mankind to blame their troubles on outside influences; Kyran simply gave them a new target.

  Few people knew our true identities, but the power of Kyran’s rhetoric had been enough even to turn the most trusted of friends towards betrayal. I truly began to fear for my safety, for my wife’s safety, despite the remoteness of our home. One day I travelled to town for trade and overheard some villagers speaking of the glorious campaign of Kyran, son of the Dragon, slayer of demons. It