Blue Words

by M. C. Edwards

  “Look, you can rub my ass as many times as you want, but it’s not going to change the fact that there’s nothing there to find,” she snarled. The guard ignored her completely, finished his search and locked the cell door before disappearing silently down the hall.

  “Do I get a phone call or something?” she called after him, rubbing her freed wrists. Her own voice echoing down the empty corridor was the only reply she received.

  I am Gudrik

  For eons I have laid like this. Trapped. Cursed. The last of my kind, the final Varth-lokkr, left to waste away as the world evolves without me.

  For countless generations I have been forced to serve the one who dishonoured my line. Stuck in a form of silent torture, an endless segregation of mind and body. I have spent countless generations as livestock, my paralysed form harvested for the power within. I am aware and I am alert. I see all, hear all and I feel every throbbing ounce of pain they choose inflict on me. I have no need of sleep, no need of water and no need of food; yet I feel the yearning of a body deprived of all three. My life is pain. My life is torture. My very existence is a torment with no foreseeable conclusion. But it was not always so.

  My life was once very different, happy, contented and even peaceful. That existence is now so distant it is barely a memory, instead lingering on the edge of consciousness like a long forgotten dream. It is something I miss dearly, so dearly I would give anything to get it back. But things are rarely so simple and it’s not something which could ever be returned. I was forced to come to terms with that long ago. That life and everything which was part of it can never be anymore than a memory, a reality ripped from my grasp in a deed which I will one day repay.

  Vengeance is a bitter cycle you may say, an ever spinning wheel of injustice. That’s true. I was wronged in retaliation for something I had done, that act had been in retribution of an earlier wrong, and so it no doubt cycles back through history. They say a man who sets out for vengeance also forfeits his own life. Wise council, but nevertheless, any man who has truly been wronged in the way I have knows that his own life is a price he would gladly pay for a chance at revenge.

  So now I wait, eagerly anticipating my chance to once again spin that twisted wheel. A chance to unleash my wrath and destroy everything he has built before killing him in ways even his dark mind could never imagine. But until that day I wait. For the one thing I do have…...is time.

  I am Gudrik of The Twelve.

  Rebirth

  “Life is a war which rages from the second we are born.”

  Coughs and splutters puffed dust clouds into the air. It had been a very long time since he had actually used his lungs, but with the weight of the amulet removed they were slowly beginning to remember their function. He raised his arm, creaking stiff joints and pulled the black shroud from his body. Joint by joint, muscle by muscle he painstakingly coaxed his ancient body back into life, but he could feel it was close, its presence still draining him. He quivered. Still tingling with pins and needles, he stood and staggered uneasily from the room on feet which seemed to have a mind of their own. They would have to do, time was of the essence. Hugging the wall for support he eased along. Feeling crept into his extremities and with it came dexterity, only a portion, but a welcomed portion. “Clothes,” he thought. Blending in was going to be necessary.

  The sudden light blinded him as he stumbled gingerly about the penthouse apartment; while feeble attempts to shield his eyes achieved nothing. The naked man searched room after room before staggering into the enormous master bedroom. He rifled through every cupboard and closet, madly tossing possessions aside until finally he hit the mother lode. The parquetry door swung open to reveal a huge walk in wardrobe. Both walls were lined with fine suits, designer casual wear and way more shoes than any straight man should ever own. He blindly selected a black, two piece, tailored suit and a crisp, white shirt. The fit was far from perfect. It was made for a thicker man and hung from his frame, but it did the job. He tried to add a tie to the ensemble as well, he had seen his captors wear them, but be damned if he could figure out how to use the damned thing.

  He emerged from the room, barefoot and with buttons misaligned. His half tucked shirt draped over the trousers with the tie threaded through the belt loops and knotted above the open fly. He looked a mess, but was dressed nonetheless. He had rehearsed this day a million times in his imagination, but how well can you truly plan an escape having only ever seen one room of the prison? He followed the light and began gingerly climbing the stairs towards the rooftop garden; towards freedom. His hands shook as he slid them along the railing. Adrenaline surged, it was finally happening. “Nothing will stop me this time.”

  Two steps from the top he suddenly halted and looked back the way he had come. His teeth grated, a grimace cracked across his stoney face. “The amulet,” screamed his thoughts as he hunched awkwardly on the stairway. A growl creaked from him; his dry throat was packed with razors. The banister shook as he slammed his fist down on it furiously.

  He eased down the stairs and resumed his search of the penthouse, which produced no result. He staggered down a short off shoot of a hallway; it ended in a dark stairwell. As he descended the stairs, clinging tightly to the railing, he knew he had stumbled onto the trail. The amulet weighed heavier and heavier on him with each step, clawing at his muscles and pulling him to the ground. At the bottom of the stairs he found himself in yet another hall, extending in both directions. He turned to his right and dragged himself along the wall. The claws and weight massed as he progressed, his every muscle quivering with effort.

  Eventually he came to a point where realisation poured over him. “I can’t get any closer.” He looked around weakly and noticed a small cell set into the wall behind a heavy, barred door. Slumped into a defeated huddle in the corner was a young woman. She was so still and silent he hadn’t even noticed her. Even through the tear scarred make up and dark cloud of depression which engulfed her, he was struck by her natural beauty. He gave a slight cough to clear his throat, “You must come with me,” rumbled his gravelly whisper through the bars.

  George, jolted by the sudden noise, lifted her head to see who had spoken. Her bloodshot blue eyes peered out through streaks of raven hair which clung to her tear dampened cheeks. Before her stood a hunched, quivering mass in an ill-fitted black suit and bare feet. Instantly she recognised the long, scruffy, blonde hair and beard.

  “Argh. What is it with this place?” was all the response George could muster as she scampered back from the walking, talking corpse before her.

  “Do not be afraid,” he growled.

  “Of course not, why would I be afraid of a walking corpse?” she replied.

  “There is no time to explain. If you stay you will die,” he grunted. Talking seemed an effort.

  George couldn’t run, so absent options, she thought about what she had just heard. This relic (as the guard had called it) spoke English, though, through a deep guttural accent. It was far too crazy to believe. There was no way this relic could be trusted. In fact, there was no way this relic should even be walking. She had looked into its dead eyes. No breath had escaped it. It was, and therefore still should be, dead. But there was another side to the farcical situation. The man who owned the building did have this relic stashed in his house, a relic who was now standing in front of her giving ultimatums. That raised flags. No police had arrived yet and she had been in that cell for hours. More flags. “Have the cops even been called?”

  “How am I supposed to trust you?” asked George finally. She could barely believe what was coming from her mouth. “You could be a zombie trying to eat my brains.” His blue eyes fixed on her for a moment in a look of frustrated duty before his lips opened again.

  “I do not know what a ‘zombie’ is, but I can promise you that if I desired your brains I would be feasting as we speak.”

  They stared at each other, in a tense, eye locked standoff, neither sure exactly what to do. Each needed the o
ther, yet none was willing to appear weak in the eyes of a stranger. It was then that George noticed its eyes had changed. They were no longer clouded and dead. The blue now gleamed and the fine capillaries in the whites of his eyes now crackled like white-blue lightning.

  The relic moved first. He sunk his teeth into his hand, drawing blood. It drew a cringe from George, but the cringe was replaced with a wide eyed gape when she noticed the blood; it was not red. A vibrant, electric blue liquid seeped from his wound. He placed his bleeding hand on the lock of the cell door. “Istravictus,” he grunted at no one in particular. Taken back by the bizarre behaviour, George crept further into her corner and watched on in silence as the azure blood ignited into an incandescent glow. The metal beneath it began to steam and hiss. The lock melted into a thick, viscous liquid which dripped in slow, gooey drops into a seething puddle on the floor. The door swung free.

  “A good will gesture,” he rumbled, stepping back from the door.

  “Ok, how the hell did you do that?” George responded through restrained fear. “What are you?”

  He gave a grunt of frustration and his face scowled. “There is no time. If you help me escape I will tell you all that you wish to know and probably much you don’t.” He was almost pleading now, urgency tarnished his rough voice.

  “What on earth could I possibly do to help something that can melt a metal lock with its blood?” puzzled George.

  “There is an amulet. You know what I speak of?” he grunted.

  “The glowing one?” George replied.

  “Aye. It is in your saddle bag, which I believe lies in there,” he said as he motioned at the open surveillance room door ten paces down the hall. His hand shook.

  “My saddle bag??” George puzzled. He bit his hand again, reopening the wound which had begun to slowly close. “Blarvictis cantra.”

  Once again the blood glowed. The dripping wound stretched and distorted. He winced as the gash tore and spread until a black casket emerged. He ripped it free and his relief was evident. The fist sized container was crafted of a black, glassy stone. Ornate carvings dressed its edges with bizarre symbols.

  “I need that amulet or he will use it to find us again. If I were to touch it or get too close, I would return to how you saw me earlier. This night stone will shield it slightly,” he rumbled holding the casket out to her.

  “Ok, that’s very interesting, but what do you want me to do?” interrupted George. Her response threw him; he had assumed his need was clear.

  “You have to get the amulet into the casket.” George stared at him in disbelief. “You will also have to help me until we find somewhere safe to hide it. I will be quite useless until I am free of it,” he rumbled.

  “Are you serious?” she blurted. The hard look she received in response suggested he was always serious.

  “I have no other option.”

  George was ready to walk at that point, but one thought kept her. Where would she go? With the contents of her handbag even an imbecile could track her down in no time. “Well, neither do I, I guess,” she said snatching the black casket from him.

  “Gratitude, I am Gudrik of The Twelve,” the stranger breathed.

  “Of course you are,” replied George, immensely unimpressed.

  George scowled as she removed her shoes, hitched her dress up and crept stealthily along the hall towards the surveillance room door. Very, very delicately she slipped her head around the door frame. Inside she saw two security guards. Both were chatting away in front of a bank of monitors which they seemed to be paying very little attention to. At the sight of them, George quickly snapped her head back around the corner and pressed her shoulders flat against the wall. “What the hell am I thinking?” she thought as panic constricted her. “I can’t do this.”

  As the wave of anxiety passed, George calmed herself and snuck another look. On second inspection, they didn’t actually look that attentive at all, or even that intelligent really. “I wouldn’t mind belting that one who groped me across the back of the head,” she pondered, maniacally eyeing the fire extinguisher just inside the door. In the end she decided it would be best to bottle her anger and remain undetected.

  She quickly scanned the room for her missing handbag. “Come on, come on where are you?” Warm relief tingled as George spotted the handle of her bag protruding from a nearby box. It coldly retreated as she realised that the bag sat directly behind the left guard’s chair. George rolled her eyes, after the day she had been through so far she should have realised this would be no simple task. She crouched lower and froze as her knees cracked. The guards’ conversation continued undisturbed. With steady, controlled movements, she slipped into the room then eased closer and closer to the target. Her heart pounded so hard that she honestly thought the sound might betray her presence. Luckily the guards were so wrapped up in their conversation that she probably could have just sauntered in, taken her bag and stomped out without being noticed anyway.

  “Did you see the chick I locked up before?” asked the left guard.

  “Yeah, had a look when I went for coffee,” replied the right guard.

  “What do you think? Pretty hot yeah? Even scored myself a little feel, pretty sure she was into me,” continued the left. George arched an eyebrow.

  “Yeah alright I guess, a little out of shape but, a bit too much ass for me,” replied the right.

  “Pfft, like you’re a prize fighter you balding jerk,” thought George, swallowing her rage and fighting the urge to stand up and break his fat nose.

  “Any sign of Dagger yet?” asked the balding jerk.

  “Still nothing, the facial recognition software picked up one of those tattooed bastards on an external camera. He wanted to deal with it himself. Way easier with him gone anyway.”

  “Yeah can you imagine if we had of let her get that close to the relic while he was around?” Both gave a shudder.

  She reached her target and gently grabbed the handle. Ever so carefully she lifted it out of the box. Inch by inch it slid out. For the first time ever, George found herself wishing for a smaller bag. Success! She backed out of the room, still keeping her movements tight and controlled so as not to attract any attention. Luckily, her nylon stockings slid smoothly on the hard, shiny floor, making movement much more fluent. She reached the door and slipped back out into the hall.

  George desperately sucked in a string of deep breaths, she had all but forgotten to breathe the whole time she had been in the room. Triumphantly, George cantered back down the hall to Gudrik, desperate to get the whole ordeal over with. He held his hands up, frantically waving them, telling, warning, begging her to stop. But eager to get as far as possible from the scene of her great heist, his gestures were lost on her, she continued towards him. As George got closer he collapsed to his knees. Finally it clicked. “Ooh, right, right, amulet. Sorry,” whispered George.

  She stopped and dug through the bag for the amulet; purse, keys, phone, sunglasses, a full urban survival pack. Finally out it came, glowing wildly as if trying to save itself. George placed it into the glimmering night stone box and locked the lid in place. Gudrik’s load lightened and he climbed to his feet. “Now get me far from this place,” Gudrik grunted.

  “You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

  George slung the handbag over her shoulder and ran to Gudrik. She propped herself under his arm and began guiding him down the hall. The pair limped their way past the dark stairway which led back up to the penthouse and continued along the passage. Their shuffling echoed up and down the hall, playing tricks on George’s anxious senses. She glanced over her shoulder at every echoed footstep. The corridor ended in a heavy, black door with a long, thin strip of reinforced glass for a window. George peeked through. She saw their salvation, a large emergency stairwell, the kind which would surely take them all the way to the ground. However, there were also two more armed guards on the other side of the door. “We need to find another way out,” she whispered.

  They made
their way back up to the penthouse, back to the elevator. Finally some luck, it seemed to be working. Their ears suddenly pricked to the distinct drumming thud of boots stomping up the stairs. George glanced up and noticed a camera perched high on the wall, tattling their location to anyone caring to watch. “They’re coming! Had to be the one second they were actually watching the screens,” George grumbled loudly in a panicked tantrum. She looked at the L.C.D. screen above the elevator door. The car was still twenty floors away; there was no way it would be there in time. She glared in the direction of the incoming guards, then at Gudrik. He was barely able to walk, let alone help. There is no denying that at that particular moment in time, in that particular situation, George seriously considered dumping the relic there to fend for itself, if not for that tiny, nagging voice of morality in the back of her head of course.

  Instead, George roared with frustration and turned. She dragged Gudrik up the stairs and out the large glass sliding door. Glancing back she noticed the two guards from the surveillance room and the two guards from the stairwell had converged at the elevator. The lift arrived and when the doors opened two more stepped out. Six guards, dressed in matching grey uniforms with their firearms drawn. Six men and six weapons. All to deal with a woman they know is unarmed and a relic that couldn’t even walk? They were not planning on detaining her again, that was clear.

  On the other side of the glass, George found herself in a roof top oasis. An awe inspiring view stretched before them. In every direction lay a spectacular sight to behold. The river snaked along one side, the city smothered the other. From that height both appeared far more glamorous and serene than they truly were at ground level. The rooftop gardens themselves were immaculately manicured beds crowded with a collage of exotic, vibrantly coloured flowers and tropical succulents. A long carpet of lush, green turf lay under foot and flowed to a luxurious gazebo, perched on the corner of the building, proudly overlooking the river. Along with a Jacuzzi and a small putting green, you could say it had everything. Everything except a way down that was. They were trapped. Guards back the way they came and nothing but a fatal drop in every other direction.