Blue Words Page 15

  “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 killer, 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 shook me deep inside as the paranoia took hold. I dared not speak of it to Elya though.

  It was no more than one moon later that my fears came to a head. Long after dark there was a knock at the door. I snatched up my wand and slashed my palm. “Karrjk scwarve,” I whispered as I flung my hand forward releasing a spurt of ghostly, blue blood. At the command it glowed and changed, emerging as a flaming war axe which I caught in my hand. I saw terror in my love’s eyes; she knew nothing of my past, of my craft. I moved Elya away from the door and cautiously opened it. You can imagine my surprise and relief at the sight of my father. The axe flittered back to droplets at my feet. “My son,” he said, “I dared not contact you. He can hear.”

  Elya returned to bed, though I know she did not sleep. “We have made grave miscalculations my son.” We sat down to large mugs of honey mead. “This man will be our deaths.”

  “He will never find us.” I was dismissive. “No one knows my true self and you have been nothing more than an anonymous wanderer for many winters now. We are the last survivors because he cannot find us.”

  “It is the amulet which desires our deaths, this Kyran, is merely its tool. The Valkyrie, it has found a way to have its vengeance,” he said shaking his head. “No, he has known our locations from the beginning; I fear it is no accident we were left until last.”

  We didn’t have to wait long for our day of judgment to arrive.

  A Confrontation for the Ages

  “Sometimes a single death can achieve more than an ocean of corpses.”

  It’s difficult to describe the complexities of walking when invisible to someone who has never done it. It’s uncanny how much of one’s spacial awareness is dependent on their visual sense. Not only for sighting of obstacles around them, but also for manipulating their own body in relation to said obstacles. Most of the group coped well and quickly adapted to their new situation. George was not one of those. Yes, she was an active and co-ordinated individual under normal circumstances, but this was not a normal circumstance. She found herself tripping over and stumbling more than a one legged drunk. Nevertheless, after a series of stacks and spills, she found herself standing in one relatively unharmed piece at the outer fence of the compound.

  It was a very different picture to earlier that day. The previously dead area now teemed with activity. A mixture of Kyran’s private security and government forces patrolled the area. They seemed to have divided jurisdiction into two parts. The army, in their green fatigues, were patrolling the perimeter and grounds while Kyran’s men, clad in their dark grey body armour, maintained security of the buildings and infrastructure. Gudrik shuddered at the lies which Kyran must have spun to get government resources defending his personal facilities. “Gudrik!” piped George’s feral whisper from thin air. “Those soldiers are not part of Drake’s forces. They are simply following orders. Promise me you won’t hurt them.”

  The Warlock sighed a heavy breath. Her demands were growing tiresome and he snorted in distain, but George had a point. Kyran was touting lies about Gudrik’s callous brutality whenever he was given the platform to do so. Slaughtering a troop of government soldiers wouldn’t really aid his cause. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll leave the men in green, but the greys sealed their fate the second they signed to his cause.”

  Gudrik ran his hand down an invisible left arm until he reached his wrist. He removed the wand and released some blood. The trickle seemed to flow from nothing in the eyes of the shrouded onlookers, a tiny stream of blue running towards the ground. The floating trail drifted closer to the chain link fence until it was pressed against its wire diamonds. “Xitzsus terr,” boomed a voice from nowhere. The links of the fence panel in front of them became faint, as if a thin veil separated the wire from their reality. “Quickly step through,” came a gruff whisper.

  Logic dictated that traces of their presence be kept to a minimum, so non destructive methods would be used for as long as possible.

  Gudrik stepped through the faded panel first. As his shrouded presence passed through the fence it wisped and spiralled around him as if it consisted of nothing but smoke. The others cautiously followed, all the while trying to stay as silent as possible so as not to attract a nearby patrol. Gudrik kept an ever watchful eye. In fact, he was paying so much attention to the soldiers that he made a rare mistake. His trailing foot snagged a large rock. The Warlock stumbled and stomped trying to regain his balance. He failed, crashing heavily to the ground and freeing a large puff of dust. The wand was knocked from his hand. It made a metallic rattle as it skittered along the hard, dry earth. Gudrik quickly dragged himself forward, out of the way and began wildly searching for the invisible blade. He moved his hand side to side unsuccessfully until.....he brushed it with his hand. Once again it scutt
led along the ground. This time the wand, along with a small slide of rocks and dust, cluttered into a curiously positioned grate. They tinkled and skittered down the metal pipe and beyond his reach.

  The rest of the group had by that stage moved through the fence. Gudrik released the blue word. Unfortunately, the strange noises had already attracted the nearby soldiers. They cautiously approached the shrouded group, closely inspecting Gudrik’s drag marks in the dirt. It may have been night, but the enormous floodlights left no lack of light. The invaders held their breath as they silently shuffled around, avoiding the soldiers’ every movement and keeping their shadows hidden within the sheds. It is not an easy task to keep actions silent, not to mention the fine, red dust which excitedly leapt into the air, betraying the secrecy of their every movement. The soldiers continued their inspection, proceeding to the fence. They poked, prodded and pulled on it, looking for signs of tampering. Thankfully, Gudrik’s plan had paid off and they were satisfied everything was above board. The men returned to their patrol.

  Gudrik and his team of shrouded infiltrators crept stealthily through the yard, weaving their way through the strategic littering of armed men, always carefully hiding their telltale shadows. Their paths varied, but their target was the same, a large hangar style door leading into a gargantuan shed which dwarfed everything around it. The only buildings of its size in Gudrik’s time had been stone castles and fortresses. Not the queer, smooth, seamless stone he had seen buildings made of in the city, but large blocks of raw, rough hewn stone. Never had he seen something so large constructed of metal.

  Inside the cavernous steel structure stood an entire battalion of greys, positioned in small groups about the space. The eastern wall was lined with a staircase leading up to an office perched one storey above them. Beneath it stood a set of large storage shelves. Several military vehicles were parked in rows against the western side of the shed.

  Gudrik’s stomach fluttered, something was wrong. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it nerves? Was it danger? Why not, danger was all around him? Was it instinct telling him he was on the right path? There was no way to be certain, but it was somehow familiar and right now within this structure it was screaming at him.

  “Under the stairs,” whispered Gudrik to the group. The message passed along an invisible chain. The light breath of speech spooked a nearby grey to attention. He whipped his head around, scanning the direction which the sound had come from. His suspicions even drove him to wander over and investigate, but by that stage the group had moved on. Travel was easier inside the shed. The lighting cast shadows in all directions, their shadows simply mixed and blended with those of the greys.

  It was difficult coordinating a group of shrouded insurgents, especially in near silence. But huddled away in their refuge under the stairs, Gudrik felt safe to engage his troops. “Everyone check in.” In turn they whispered their name, acknowledging their presence.

  “George.”

  “Kahn.”

  “Malaki.”

  “Ami.” Everyone paused, anxiously awaiting the one remaining name.

  “Dorian!” prompted Gudrik, slightly louder than before. Still no answer came.

  “Look,” whispered Ami, “the ground, towards the jeep.” The others quickly began searching the area. There amongst the writhing weave of shadows Gudrik noticed tiny gravel stones, dragged in on tyres and boots, being disturbed and scattered, a sight which would have easily escaped notice if not for Ami’s keen eyes.

  “Get him Ami,” ordered Gudrik. The group anxiously stared into an empty patch of space, praying two shrouded lovers, separated by a hostile environment found each other. They soon lost the whereabouts of both amongst the movements of the greys. Minutes passed, they seemed lifetimes. Frantically, Gudrik swept his eyes from side to side scouring the ground. He even found himself whispering hushed promises to gods he didn’t believe in. You might imagine his surprise when they were actually answered.

  All of a sudden, they were just there. In a previously empty patch of space, there they suddenly were, as clear as day. First Dorian, mid-step creeping forwards, then Ami lurching along, her arms stretched out feeling after him. He was less than a pace in front of her. Dorian froze, completely visible and hopelessly vulnerable. The greys shot to attention, raising a barrage of rifle barrels.

  The look on Dorian’s face was fierce, but it was a forced ferocity masking panic below. Ami on the other hand was a picture of serenity. She slowly straightened her body and gave the greys a look which made them question whether their numbers were enough for this fight. There was no panic or fear beneath her expression.

  The greys shouted a frantic montage of commands and threats at them from all directions. Malaki and Kahn sprung from their hiding spot, screaming to their stricken comrades’ aid. Ghostly cries bellowed from their invisible bodies and filled the hangar with echoes. The greys swept their guns from side to side madly following the sounds. Malaki raged and greys began to fly as he parted the crowd. But just as the commotion reached Dorian and Ami, the rescuers too emerged from their shrouded state and into plain sight. Malaki’s rage fizzled. All the Inscribed shouted blue words, their inscriptions simply failed to respond.

  Gudrik looked curiously at his hands. He was still shrouded. “Stay where you are George, we may need you,” Gudrik whispered, creeping from the refuge. He was much more wary than the others had been. The Inscribed still stood in a battle ready standoff, surrounded by heavily armed greys and ignoring all commands barked at them. Gudrik weaved his way carefully through the grey uniforms, working toward his friends. There just before the point of their final stand Gudrik sighted the problem. An old Varth-lokkr trick. Something so simple it was nothing short of ironic that it could contain such inhuman power. “Clever boy.”

  Before the Warlock’s feet lay a thick ring of salt which surrounded the centre section of the shed space, essentially creating a dead zone. It may have wreaked havoc with his plan, but it did tell Gudrik something very important. They were on the right track. There was something there which Kyran wanted to protect. Something he needed to defend.

  One of the greys eventually took command and began to bark orders at the Inscribed. “Are there any more of you?” The familiars did not respond. “Get on the ground or we will fire on you.”

  The four Inscribed refused to submit. Instead, Dorian and Malaki looked at each other and in an act of defiance they removed their shirts, proudly displaying their inscriptions. They were dead anyway if they surrendered, Kyran would never let them live. Gudrik bit his hand. Three more times the grey repeated his order. Gudrik slid his foot forward breaking the salt line. The order came, “Fire!”

  “Qriktsus!” Gudrik’s growl echoed loudly through the warehouse as he flicked blood onto the ground. Thick walls of stone and earth burst from the ground, shattering the thick concrete floor like a thundering quake and knocking the greys off their feet. The swarm of bullets thudded harmlessly into jagged stone battlements which now surrounded the Inscribed.

  Gudrik dropped his shroud. The confused greys anxiously leapt up and turned their weapons on him. Before the bite wound could heal Gudrik rumbled for his axe. The tongues of flame licked at his flesh as it tore from his hand. In a single, swift motion fluent enough to be called dance the axe was buried in the closest grey. Gun fire erupted. The Warlock wrenched it free and sent it spinning through the air at another. Blue words spurred blood from fresh wounds into more axes which flashed in his hands, gliding and slashing through one man then the next, he grinned through the pain as red and blue splashed together at his feet.

  The hysteria and gunfire caught the soldiers’ attention and they flooded in, adding their weapons to the ruckus. The sight of their green fatigues cut through Gudrik’s giddy battle fog, and George’s request suddenly reverberated in his mind. He exhaled heavily and rolled his eyes. “The things I do for that woman.”

  “Santarktsus,” he whispered, igniting his numerous bullet wounds. Soldiers
and greys alike, collapsed heavily to the ground. Weapons rattled onto the fractured concrete slab as they all fell unconscious. If the warriors he once fought alongside could see Gudrik now, he would never have lived it down. It was not what he would have called an honourable victory.

  The stone wall dropped. Dorian appeared to his left in a whirl of mist, Malaki charged out and halted, looking about wild eyed. All they found was peace and quiet. They seemed disappointed at the lack of battle. A shape emerged from a long stretch of shadow which lay in the Warlock’s right periphery. He sunk his teeth into his hand. The beautiful blonde haired head of Ami suddenly showed through the dark. She paused briefly in a low crouch as the dark seemed to cling to her body. She eyed the sleeping bodies. Gudrik arched an eyebrow at her with intrigue.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty handy,” Ami bragged, standing up. The shadows fell away from her. Gudrik gave a small, but genuine nod of acknowledgment. “Has its advantages,” she said kicking one of the sleeping greys.

  “Enough chatter!” roared George’s voice from thin air.

  “Agreed,” said Kahn who was crouched inspecting the remnants of the salt trap. Gudrik removed the remaining shroud and George appeared. There was no longer any need for secrecy; anyone not touched by the blood was now despondent in slumber.

  George stormed up the stairs to the small office, while the Inscribed spread out, searching the vehicles and stripping some weapons and equipment from the sleeping men. Gudrik climbed the stairs; George met him at the top. “She’s not here Gudrik!” George muttered repeatedly, “She’s not here! She’s not here!”

  “Nothing Gudrik!” Kahn called up from the ground, the space echoed.

  “I fucking told you, the bitch just drew us into a trap!” spat Malaki pointing at Ami.

  “Screw you Malaki,” she replied, storming towards him. There was no fear in Ami’s eyes, despite the fact each of his arms were the girth of her legs.