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  Throughout the coming ages my blood sustained Kyran, providing him with eternal life. From century to century I was moved from palace to palace as his empire expanded, evolved and moved. Always the amulet sat upon my chest, unnaturally heavy, destroying any hopes of freedom.

  For an age I did nothing but wish for death, something he would never allow. The hunger, thirst and pain were maddening. Did I lose my mind? Of course I did, any man would have. There were times that my escape would have meant me scorching the earth of all life. But I was captive for a long, long time, a timespan which any mortal’s mind will scarcely comprehend. So much time in fact that I managed to fall apart and then painstakingly, piece myself back together again.

  Throughout the centuries I willed pain and suffering on all of mankind for abandoning us, for turning on us. But one bright summer’s day when I was being moved, I was reminded of the beauty and wonder of which I was deprived, while the monster Kyran lived the life of a king. Elya would have been disgusted with what I had become. My father would have been ashamed. I realized it was only Kyran who truly deserved my hate. On that day I vowed, no matter how long I had to wait, I would have revenge for my father, for my wife, for my uncle, for The Twelve and for myself.

  Making Amends

  “There are some mistakes which must be atoned for.”

  The smell of burning flesh drifted on the air as the flaming axe did its duty. The pain soon took its toll and Gudrik’s concentration wained, the axe collapsed back into flittering droplets of blue. Kyran began to squirm and sat up, eventually climbing to his feet. Dusting himself off, he walked to Gudrik, flanked by his troops. The front of his suit was scorched and hung open revealing the slowly closing wound. Blood still ran from the deep gash as it healed. Not red human blood, rich, blue Warlock blood. Panic widened Gudrik’s eyes, as much as he tried not to show it.

  “You aren’t the only one who can avoid death Gudrik of The Twelve,” he said with an eerie calmness. “The arrogance of Warlocks has always astounded me. For so long you simply assumed you were immortal....invincible.” He walked closer to Gudrik, circling him. “I experimented on your kin, as I worked my way through them you know. A wise warrior knows his enemies as intimately as he knows himself.” Kyran kneeled beside the Warlock, clearly unafraid. “I found that under the right influence you are as frail as the rest of us. The amulet was my guide; all of its materials had some effect. Most simply slowed your healing or subdued your abilities, but night stone, now night stone on the other hand really allowed me to inflict pain. It was almost as toxic to your kind as the amulet itself. That’s what you have lodged in you as we speak, burning with its toxic reaction.”

  He turned to his troops and barked an order, “Secure them!”

  “Silver nitrate?” the big man boomed. Kyran shook his head. The Hammer walked up to Gudrik and punched him in the face with his giant fist. The blow was crushing, knocking him flat onto his back. Meanwhile his counterparts dealt with George and Kahn. Gudrik’s vision blurred. He felt himself being dragged by his foot. His awareness became distant. He soon faded from consciousness into the black embrace of sleep.

  A firm slap suddenly snatched Gudrik back from his dream world, back into the throbbing agony of reality. Before him he saw that George and Kahn had joined the others. The pain streaking throughout his body was blinding. He was no stranger to suffering, his healing gifts had never allowed him respite from pain, but this was hard to block out. No matter what barriers he put in place, this pain seemed to ooze through. His veins were pumping fire throughout his body.

  He carefully searched the room, quivering with effort as he willed his head to rise from the ground. He was now lying within the thick ring of salt. Combined with the night stone lodged in his flesh, he may as well have had the amulet resting on his chest once again. He tried to move, but restraints held his wrists and ankles tightly fixed together.

  “He’s back with us sir,” boomed The Hammer, towering over him. Gudrik spied the blue talon tattooed on his neck, identical to Ami’s. Suddenly he understood why these troops were not sleeping with the rest.

  “If I knew for sure my blood grafts were permanent you would have been beheaded by now,” said Kyran, who had relieved himself of his soiled jacket and shirt.

  “Strong words,” strained Gudrik, “but we both know a mortal life would be the least of your problems should I die.”

  “Possibly. In truth I cannot know for sure what would happen. It could be a catastrophe, it could be nothing,” he said, wandering amongst the captives and examining them. “The world is a much bigger place now Gudrik. If it was to be released, I could allow it to have this land and simply move my empire to the other side of the globe.”

  “You! Woman!” Gudrik gasped looking up at one of the greys. “Put one of those bullets between my eyes now so I don’t have to listen to this any longer.” Kyran ignored him.

  “Tell Alicia to bring me a new shirt,” he said calmly to the Sword.

  Coarse hair covered Kyran’s heavily muscled chest. He was much broader than Gudrik, yet just as tall. He appeared small alongside the Hammer, but was his own giant when standing over George. His clean shaven face and styled black hair made him pleasant to look upon. He did not look decrepit or ragged, but he had aged since that night a thousand years ago, no doubt avoiding the addiction had taken some toll.

  As Kyran spoke, a possible salvation revealed itself to the Warlock, a faint glimmer of hope. A small ventilation shaft sat directly above Gudrik. It was flowing a light breath of fresh air into the room. That breath had been very gently eroding away at the salt trap. Just behind Gudrik, obscured from view by a small pile of rocks and dust, the thick line was now just a thin strand. “Keep him talking and we may yet be free of this.” The man seemed to love the sound of his own voice; surely it wouldn’t be too hard?

  “Where is the child?” Gudrik demanded with newly found strength.

  “You’ve gotten soft over the years Gudrik. Trying to distract me with some false humanity?” he chuckled.

  “I care nothing for it, but I’d hate to see you enjoy its company as much as your father would have.” Kyran’s face reddened.

  “My father did no such thing!” he snapped, “He was a holy knight, a defender of the faithful, the Blessed Dragon. Those tales were nothing but Warlock lies.” He paused and ran his fingers through his hair; realising Gudrik was simply inciting him. Kyran collected himself. “You are in no position to demand any information of me. She may be alive, she may be dead. Either way, none of you will ever see her again.”

  “You monster!” screamed George. “I’ll kill you if you’ve hurt her.” The grey closest to her punched George in the mouth, opening her lip.

  “You did this to her when you took up cause with the demon,” scolded Kyran. She spat blood at him. He glared at her in disgust as he wiped it from his face.

  “How did you find us?” Gudrik asked. The room was still, the breath of air from the surface had stopped. “Come on!”

  “Find you? I have known your location since the day you escaped. I simply let you be, nurtured public fear. As long as you weren’t causing any hassle I was going to leave you to your own devices. You really have no idea just how insignificant you are. Pathetic. With my weaponry you’re not even a treat anymore. It was only your visit to my research centre which prompted this.” He turned towards Kahn, “Even familiars have their price.”

  “Lies!” Kahn roared in response. The Sword stepped forward and smashed him across the face with the butt of his rifle.

  Kyran ignored Kahn and moved to the two wounded Inscribed. His attentions turned to Ami and he dropped to one knee beside her, stroking her hair gently. “Such a beautiful girl, she has always been my favourite, such loyalty.” Kyran turned to the Sword. “You two share a bloodline you know.”

  Kahn’s face washed pale. Despite their long and twisted history, he had always defended her loyalty unflinchingly. “Has my guilt clouded my judgment all these year
s?” Kahn thought. He could hear what Malaki would be saying right now. The greatest scorn however, was seen on the face of Dorian. His feelings were not contained. Tears streamed down his cheeks cutting paths through the blue war paint, as he struggled with the writhing clutter of emotions. Gudrik glanced at the salt circle. The vent had almost finished its work, but the air remained still.

  Kyran then moved to Malaki and looked around. His brow furrowed and his look darkened. He gestured to the Hammer, who stomped over. Kyran wrenched the dart from his shoulder; not even a flinch from the big man. He returned to his post over Gudrik as if nothing had happened. Kahn struggled at his bonds furiously, earning another thump from the Sword’s rifle butt.

  “How is it you bleed blue?” asked Gudrik trying to distract him. Kyran lowered the razor shard to his side.

  “Not sure if you were aware under that amulet or not Gudrik, but I stopped feeding on you almost a decade ago. I won’t bore you with the details, but as I said earlier, the research is the only reason we are still speaking.”

  Gudrik did not really have any concept of time during his captivity, but Kyran did speak the truth. For a long time he had seen only minions or greys come to bleed him.

  “After the grafting, the amulet’s presence began to affect me as well. I am actually glad to see it gone. A circle of salt and some large obsidian spikes should work just as well anyway. Though I dare say it won’t be as pleasant for you.”

  “The blood is useless without the language,” Gudrik rumbled.

  “True. My familiar is fluent though,” he glanced at Kahn who glared back, killing him numerous ways in thought, “But I’m no Bond villain. I am not going to regale you with my scheme.” He turned to the Sword. “Any word from Alicia?”

  “Still at least an hour away sir.”

  It didn’t matter. Gudrik felt the welcome breath of a column of air from the surface. The moment he had been waiting for arrived. The ring was broken. “Xitzsus,” he breathed. There was no reaction, despite the constant trickle of blood seeping from his bullet wounds. He repeated his command, but the outcome was no different. “The night stone.” He began searching for a means to draw fresh, untainted blood. Normally Gudrik would have simply bitten his hand, but the bindings prevented that.

  Kyran bent down, hovering over Malaki, shard in hand. “Where’s my daughter!” George screamed again, sick of hearing him talk.

  “Now I have a problem with this woman,” he said pointing the shard at George. He forgot Malaki and began to walk towards her. “You came into my home and stole from me.”

  “First of all dickhead,” she cursed through tears, “It was an accident and considering the messed up shit you are into I don’t think you should be so critical. Where’s my fucking daughter!?” George’s anger fought through the anguish and fear.

  “You are a prime example of what is wrong with this world now,” he said ignoring her. “I may have saved it from Gudrik’s kind, but a new scourge is rampart. Whores like yourself who lust after worthless men and flood society with undisciplined bastard children. People openly worship false gods and flaunt common decency and respect without being punished for it. The treasure I fought for turned to shit in my hands without me even noticing.”

  “You have known your share of loose women,” snarled Kahn.

  “True, thanks to the addiction.” He nodded in ashamed agreement. “It held me for a long time, but my soul was already sacrificed anyway.”

  “Have you ever actually listened to the crap that comes out of your mouth?” George yelled, tears of anguish leeching from her eyes, “WHERE’S MY DAUGHTER!?”

  Something in Kyran snapped. He stormed over to George and stood above her, still clutching the shard. He wrenched the distraught mother to her feet by her hair and wrapped his fingers around her throat. He pressed the shard to her cheek. His face burned red, his teeth clenched wildly. Blood ran and dripped from her chin. Gudrik tried to intervene. “Stop! I will go willingly with you if you allow her to go free.”

  “YOU WILL COME ANYWAY!” Kyran roared at him. Slowly he dragged the shard down George’s cheek.

  Gudrik fidgeted harder than before struggling as if he was being cut, struggling to free his hands. He rolled and kicked and his fingers dragged through a small pile rocks and dirt. His hand bumped something, something which he hadn’t expected. A small, metal object. He ran his fingers over the familiar curves and lines, Scurt’s wand. He glared up at the vent. “Fates be praised.” He scooped it into his bound hands.

  Gudrik glared at Kahn signalling him for help, a distraction. Kahn’s centuries of experience led him to read the intention perfectly. “I’LL KILL YOU!” he screamed, struggling to get up. Once again he earned a heavy strike from the Sword. This one was delivered with much more force. This one left him unconscious in the dirt. The Sword gave a small giggle which drew the gaze of everyone in the room. Seizing upon the opportunity, Gudrik ran his finger along the blade and issued the blue word under breath. The fresh, untainted blood reacted instantly. His body faded. The obsidian slugs dropped through him sounding four light thuds as they hit the dirt. The bindings fell free of his wrists. He restored his physical state just as the gazes returned. Gudrik’s body healed. His strength returned, for the moment, he kept his secret.

  Kyran pressed the shard against George’s other cheek. His hand closed tighter around her throat. Gudrik quickly weighed his options as he scanned the troops and weapons around the room. “Where’s - my - daughter!” snarled George breathlessly. She swung her right knee up, landing it firm and square between Kyran’s legs. His face twitched, his grip crumbled and he slouched forward. George growled and slammed the peak of her forehead into the bridge of his nose, her bound hands clenching with rage behind her back. Blood burst from Kyran’s nose, spraying onto her face. Instantly Gudrik felt the urge. Not the lingering urge from the tanks but. Whatever Kyran had done to himself, that was still his blood. “Blartvictus!” he roared as George fell aside. The order resonated within the small stream of blue liquid leaking from Kyran’s nose then surged throughout the body. It excited all but a few meticulously spared drops into action. Large spikes of night stone tore through his flesh in every conceivable direction, exploding out from inside him.

  Dorian realised the salt trap had been breached. He glared at the two greys which had stood by Kyran. They quickly snatched their weapons up to fire at Gudrik. Dorian shifted from where he lay, leaving his bindings on the ground. With a heavy puff of blue mist he appeared behind them, one hand on each of their grey shoulders. In an instant he was gone again, this time taking the greys with him. Another puff echoed through the chamber. Dorian appeared once again, close to the wall of the tunnel with the greys twisting and writhing, their bodies partially embedded within the rock wall.

  The greys’ demise left the room in a tense standoff. The Sword and the Hammer were not regular men. Fear did not take them; the powers did not intimidate them. They were level headed enough to react strategically, even under intense situations. The Hammer scooped George up gripping her so that one small twitch from his massive arms would shatter her fine neck. The shard Kyran had held protruded from between her left ribs, a final strike none had noticed. The Sword had positioned himself over Ami, his right foot stomped on her head, the muzzle of his rifle firm at her temple.

  “This can’t end well for any of us,” said the Sword calmly, “I think you had better drop the knife Warlock and we can sort something out.” Gudrik gave no reply, but he let the wand fall from his hand, clattering on the ground at his feet. “I’ll leave this one as a good faith gesture,” he said nodding at Ami. “The other one comes with us. As long as no one follows she’ll be left unharmed.”

  Gudrik stared hard at him. Ami was near death, Malaki had stopped rolling and flinching, George was looking pale. Dorian was already quivering after his two shifts. Gudrik however, was not concerned. He knew something the others did not.

  A fine blue mist wafted around the giant of a man
and suddenly burst into form between the Hammer and his captive, shoving her from his grasp and unceremoniously into the dirt. George’s head firmly struck a small rock bursting blood from her forehead and rolling her eyes back to white. Kahn went pale, Gudrik’s eyes widened. The Hammer lunged landing a mammoth fist across Kahn’s jaw, knocking him to the ground. Gudrik flinched toward Kahn. “Don’t worry about me you fool!” he called, “Deal with her!”

  Kahn slid between The Hammer’s towering legs and popped up behind him. He swung a lighting fast kick into The Hammer’s lower right ribs. Even through the body armour, they crunched. It didn’t faze the giant. He swung around, launching a flurry of punches at Kahn. For such a large man, he was quick. Kahn deftly avoided his blows, throwing many of his own in between. The Hammer blocked all but a few.

  The Sword smiled, revelling in the fight for a moment. Dorian seized the opportunity. “Rizarous,” he whispered. A long thin shard grew in his hand, crackling with light.

  “Shame,” said the Sword looking back to Ami. His finger twitched on the trigger. Dorian loosed his shard directly at the Sword’s throat. The paladin reacted with freakish speed, he drew the rifle up as he fired, intercepting the crude dart and ricocheting it into the wall. The bullet, from his interrupted shot, plunged into Ami’s shoulder. It wasn’t a perfect save, but was better than the alternative.

  Gudrik charged to George and dragged her as clear of the battle as was possible. He ripped the shard from her side and quickly bled into her mouth. He was not used to playing medic in battle; his instincts did not serve him well in that role. He was nervous, jittery and over thinking everything. Combat was what he knew, what he was comfortable with. Nevertheless, he stayed by George.

  Dorian rolled aside as the Sword fired shots at him. He dropped low and loosed another dart, but the paladin once again removed his head from its line, using the rifle to defend. However, this time the dart struck a gloved finger. He dropped the weapon. Blood leaked from Dorian’s mouth, nose and ears. His body was breaking down. Rather than flinch, Sword drew his combat knife and launched into close combat. Dorian bounced to his feet, wrenched the ricocheted shard from the wall and met him. Both were well trained and both were blooded, giving and receiving blows and slashes without end. But Dorian was weakening quickly. His technique was becoming sloppy. His reactions slowed.