Blue Words

by M. C. Edwards

  The shack itself sat about half a metre off the ground on short, wobbly, wooden stumps. The bare iron sheeting had oxidised to an orangey-red colour on much of its surface and a few patches had even rusted right through. Salt crusted windows lined each wall; their wooden frames swung out and wedged open using off-cuts of timber. Cool, salty mist blew across the ocean and through the home.

  Gudrik entered the shack’s back door via four creaky, timber steps. Inside, the home consisted of a large central room and a single small bedroom. The main room was sectioned into kitchen, dining and living areas. A crude wood fired stove, a small wash tub and a long wooden dining table filled the western half of the space. A section of empty floor leading up to the front door was left as a sitting area. Against the southern wall stood a large silky oak cabinet which contained a small collection of arms, a few blades and bows, which Gudrik recognised to be of very fine quality, and a collection of modern weaponry which was foreign to him. Through the northern doorway lay the small bedroom, its floorboards hidden beneath a scattering of random mattresses and bedding material.

  To Gudrik the accommodation was perfect, reminiscent of how he had lived much of his life. In fact he marvelled at the genius and luxury of the primitive boiler and crude pipe setup of the shower.

  George on the other hand, had just wandered out of the car with Tabitha in her arms thinking Gudrik had forgotten all about her. She was appalled by the conditions of their refuge. She grunted, pouted and bitched about how it was inhumane for a child to stay in such third world conditions. She whined and whinged about every detail as she trudged along behind Gudrik following him through the beach house and out onto the front verandah. There her rant was silenced.

  George stepped out of the front door and soaked in the incredible view which lay before them. The moon hovered majestically over the Pacific Ocean and cast its haunting light over the waves as they gracefully rolled in and crashed onto the beach. An unblemished blanket of sand sprawled out below; white in the moonlight at the feet of a line of twisted, swaying Casuarina trees. Their needles lightly tapped together with each breath of wind. The sky was clear and the stars shone uninhibited like a million holes pierced through a black blanket. A cool breeze rolled in across the water easing the stifling heat of the Queensland summer night and filled their nostrils with sweet, salty air.

  “Aye,” said Gudrik in reply to the silence.

  “I guess this place isn’t all bad,” she relented, “But I’m not sure I will ever be able to use that disgusting toilet.”

  “Sooner or later you will,” chuckled Gudrik. It was a deep, crackling rumble, and the first true laugh she had heard from him. Another welcomed hint of humanity.

  When they walked back into the shack George and Gudrik were invited to sit around the table with the others while Malaki and Neasa furiously prepared a meal. It had been such an action packed day that George had not eaten anything since her sunrise breakfast with Tabitha. Now as the adrenaline started to trickle away, George suddenly noticed a burning hunger. Her stomach let out a loud gurgle, as if screaming for attention. Everyone’s gaze shifted and she instantly went red. “It’s been hours since I ate last,” she piped, trying to excuse herself. George turned quickly and looked at Gudrik. “Do you eat? Warlocks I mean, do you eat or are you like vampires?”

  The question was partially curiosity, but mostly it was a blatant effort to draw attention away from her vocal stomach. “Aye,” grunted Gudrik. Her eyes stayed on him and he realised she expected more. “Yet I have not eaten a bite in around, hmmmmm......” He looked to Kahn for guidance.

  “Around ten centuries since you were taken,” piped in the Inscribed leader.

  George’s jaw dropped in disbelief, “Ten centuries??” she blurted.

  “Close enough to, give or take a few decades,” Kahn added. George closed her mouth, but her eyes remained as dinner plates.

  “I feel hunger just as you do and have felt it desperately for longer than I can remember. I don’t require food though,” rumbled the Warlock.

  “No such thing as vampires either,” Teefa piped in putting her feet up on the table. “We started those stories long ago in Wallachia.” George looked confused.

  “Romania. That’s what it’s called now,” Neasa added from the stove.

  “Yeah....anyway, we overheard one of Kyran’s men in a tavern mouthing off about how he stumbled upon him feeding on Gudrik. So we added a few of our own tweaks and stoked the flames. The wildfire spread,” continued Teefa.

  “Only time we’ve ever managed to muster a populous to help us,” added Kahn.

  “Wait, wait, feeding on Gudrik?” George’s face looked like she had just bitten into a lemon.

  “Drinking his blood,” exclaimed Teefa, “How do you think he’s lived so long? He still went under his father’s standard back then, the old Blessed Dragon. Son of the Dragon they called him, Dracula in their native tongue.”

  “So, you guys are responsible for the tales of Dracula?” she said doubtfully.

  Teefa nodded, “Well the original ones, it kind of grew itself from there. Some guy wrote a book about it centuries later.”

  “So no chance the glittery skinned teens are real then?” joked George with a giggle. The rest of the room stared blankly at her, either unfamiliar or unimpressed with the reference. “O-kay. So how many of you Warlocks are there?” Everyone looked at her blankly for a second before the Inscribed erupted in laughter. George went red again. “What?”

  “They are not Warlocks,” Gudrik said focusing on Kahn, “They speak the tongue, but are not of The Twelve. Last I knew there were no more Varth-lokkr.”

  Kahn looked at the other Inscribed and stood up, the laughter quickly died away. He removed his shirt and the others followed in suit. All had large artistic patterns of glyphs and runes tattooed over their bodies in a rich, blue ink. Long strings of characters swept off the centre mass of the designs, spiralling in numerous trails. The flickering candle light danced off their bodies and the shadows seemed to give life to the scribblings. “We are inscribed with armour to protect us,” said Kahn.

  There were many similarities in the armours, but no two were the same. All seemed to consist of similar symbols and patterns. None contained any pictures. To George’s eyes they were beautiful to behold, and clearly not random. There were geometric patterns beautifully interlaced and built off one another. However, to Gudrik’s eyes there was far more to behold. They were alive with meaning. He read words in the art, old words, ancient words. Words he was sure no one from this age could read. Words of the spirit tongue.

  Spirit tongue was predominately an oral language. It was not easily written, which was probably the main factor in its disappearance. Despite sounding like short and sharp grunts, writing the words was extremely complex. Even the shortest of words, consisted of long strings of glyphs, runes and symbols. Altering the shape or pattern in which symbols were formed could even change their meaning and intention or infer a purpose.

  Kahn had the most intricate designs and there were far more clusters inscribed on him than any of the others. They expanded from simple, spiral patterns on his chest and back into long twisting strings which entwined and crept down his extremities. When he moved the blue tentacles of text seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

  Dorian’s armour started like his father’s, with spirals growing from the center of his chest and back. But they were far less crowded. Branching from both center spirals were four chains in a thicker curling script. Two snaked their way tightly down each arm while the other two slipped down into his jeans. Gudrik could see them emerge and creep out the cuffs onto the tops of his bare feet. Unlike Kahn’s armour, Dorian’s did not end at his wrists. Instead it swept on, tightly covering his hands, palms and fingers.

  Paw’s armour was much more heavily concentrated into thick weaves which ran down his back in uneven drips, as if it were a thick, viscous liquid poured over him. On his chest was only a small spiral covering
his right pectoral muscle. Strings flailed wildly off it and stretched down his right arm and hand, branching in the way veins would beneath his skin.

  Unlike the men, Teefa’s armour was much finer with thin, delicate scripts which ran along her collar bones before plunging sharply between her perky, young breasts. There the two rune strings met a third which flowed between them. They ran parallel down the centre of her abdominal muscles, splitting only to snake around her naval and then flow at angles into her denim shorts. There the central line curled into a tight, complex spiral. Both of the outside chains reappeared running straight down the back of her legs, ending only when they licked at her heels. Two other fine spirals also hovered at the base of her spine, just showing above her waistband.

  Malaki had no artwork on his back and chest other than a thin chain around his neck. His arms however were a different matter. They were all but completely covered from shoulder to wrist in ordered, clustered blue sleeves. The text flicked and lashed over the thick, sculpted curves of his muscles like tongues of flame.

  Like Teefa, Neasa’s armour was much more feminine. It started on top of her left shoulder with a small wheel of runes. From there four chains broke away, snaking in different paths across her back and wrapping around under her right breast. As they passed under Neasa’s arm, one fine wisp of script crept a little higher, running up the soft curve and passing just under her nipple. The four chains then swept across her stomach and down the inside of her left hip bone where they disappeared into her skirt. Only one delicate chain emerged, trickling down the back of her leg before curling halfway down to the inside of her thigh. Two tight spirals also adorned her forearms; a single chain escaped each, the right running up to her shoulder, the left running down to her palm.

  George noticed Gudrik’s gaze drifting from one tattooed body to the next. She failed to realise that he was actually reading the armour. She noted that his look seemed to linger on Teefa and Neasa. Jealousy took her, though she could not really say why. “Boobies!” squeaked Tabitha, her eyes fluttering on mum’s shoulder as she woke.

  “Clearly neither of you have had children,” George bitched at the firm perky breasts. Teefa’s mouth snapped open, venom dripping from her teeth, but she was instantly silenced by a small gesture from Kahn. She exhaled loudly, gave a chilling glare and slipped her shirt back on. The others did the same, except for Dorian. He was the most chiselled of the group and enjoyed displaying it.

  “You Warlocks stand part man, part spirit,” Kahn began, “We on the other hand lie somewhere between man and Warlock. I knew your uncle Scurt. He took me in and treated me as if I were family when I was in need. Eventually he trained me in the old ways of the Varth-lokkr, which had been long forgotten.” Kahn lowered himself back into his seat. Malaki and Neasa returned to the dinner preparation.

  “Scurt always spoke of wanting to share The Twelve’s craft with the world. He felt if it was in reach of the average man, people would no longer fear you.” He smiled warmly as he spoke of Gudrik’s uncle. “He came up with the idea to tattoo spirit tongue commands onto my skin using his blood. I became his guinea pig.”

  George was intrigued. “Did it work?” she interrupted excitedly. With a snort she realised the stupidity of her question and wished to suck it back in. Kahn and Gudrik both stared as she flushed red.

  “I know, I know. My bad, please continue,” she submitted as she hid her face in her hands.

  “Obviously it worked to some extent, but the.....,” he paused for a second and looked at George, “schpals.”

  “Spells?” she blurted.

  “No, schpals!” The Inscribed corrected her pronunciation in chorus. “Schp-arl-s!”

  “Spirit tongue for word,” explained Gudrik.

  “Told you we needed to stop using that term,” grumbled Malaki, “People think we are Harry fucking Potter when they hear it. We just call them blue words.”

  “The schpals, or blue words are watered down versions of what The Twelve were capable of.” Kahn looked apologetically at Gudrik, “Sorry, are capable of. They differ from one Inscribed to the next, but they have given us an edge over the years.”

  “Kyran even tried it. Never worked though, he doesn’t know enough of the tongue,” added Teefa.

  “Turned into a tradition but, he still tattoos a Warlock blood talon onto his paladins and any greys who distinguish themselves above the rest,” said Dorian, sweeping his hair from his eyes.

  “His father’s men all had a Dragon’s talon on their shields,” grumbled Gudrik.

  “We are all inscribed with furthtu-rah,” said Kahn. He looked at George. “Ageless.”

  As Kahn spoke the blue word, a tight spiral of runes on Dorian’s bare chest began to glow, shimmering and bathing the room in a brilliant, electric blue light. “The agelessness was intended to mimic your healing and immortality. However, while we do seem to be able to live indefinitely, we are still mortal. We do not fear age, disease, starvation or other similar ailments, but should one of us be seriously wounded in some way death is just as likely as any mortal. We have lost many brothers and sisters during the Inscribed’s war with Kyran. Other than that we are all inscribed with around two other commands of our choosing. We select them after passing the trials.”

  “Why not just write ‘immortal’ on yourselves?” asked George.

  “There is no word for it,” answered Gudrik before any of the Inscribed. “They did well; ageless is the closest they could have hoped for.”

  “It’s not really a word that eternal beings have a need for. It’s just what they are,” added Kahn.

  “How many of you did Scurt inscribe before he was lost?” continued Gudrik.

  “Four of us originally,” said Kahn, “Of which I am the last survivor. However, Scurt also shed a pot of blood before his death.”

  “Our blood doesn’t survive after death, I have seen it,” interrupted Gudrik.

  “The vessel he used was very carefully crafted and infused with fragments of Scurt’s skin, bone and blood melded into the very brass it was forged from. Your uncle was simply experimenting, but it turned out to be a wise move. It kept his blood viable even after his death. I took the collection to allow us to continue our order. I guarded the blood and used it to inscribe only the most honourable of warriors who aided our cause. Our numbers once stood well above fifty, a veritable army. But the supply ran out long ago, the war didn’t. Our numbers now stand at what you see before you,” Kahn said lowering his head solemnly.

  “Why stop at three blue words?” grunted Gudrik. “I read more than three on you.”

  “I have more, as did all of the original four, but there were complications. We don’t understand it fully, but when drunk or poured onto wounds, anything where Warlock blood is used, it does miraculous things. When delivered in small amounts, like in our armour where it becomes part of the body, it behaves more like a poison. The human body seems to have some tolerance for it. It differs, most can take three inscriptions, some more, some less, but we stop whenever the fever starts to show.”

  “Fever?”

  “A fever like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It felt like my flesh would melt.” The memory sent shivers through Kahn.

  “Food’s nearly ready,” called Malaki. Kahn nodded to him.

  “Where was I....oh. Some Inscribed over the years were even left with only two and a half inscriptions because they began to show symptoms early. Others have tried adding extra blue words against recommendation. All hoped to fight through the fever, all died. See, after Scurt’s death our supply was too small to use in the amounts needed for healing, but even with an endless supply there is the addiction to contend with.”

  “Addiction?” Gudrik asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “The blood has be taken sparingly. Use it too frequently or in excess and the body becomes dependant on it. Your natural immune response slows to a halt and cravings plague you, it twists and warps the mind.” It was all news to Gudrik.

 
; Dorian spoke up, “As you can see Gudrik, we have as much reason as you to want Kyran’s head. But we have to look past his death also. Should we kill him in the open, we would be hunted as criminals from there on. We really do need to wait for the right opportunity to arise. My father is no coward, I swear. When that chance comes we will be by your side to avenge the deaths of all those loved ones he has taken from you and us.”

  All went quiet as the group digested the heavy words, and pondered memories of the fallen. But the heavy silence was suddenly shattered as George’s stomach once again piped in with a vicious rumble. Again she flushed red. “I’m sorry, but how’s that food coming?”

  The mood picked up and an air of merriment took the room. Malaki and Neasa littered the table with plates of local seafood and a selection of vegetables and salads plucked from Kahn’s treasured garden; a garden he nurtured as if it were a child. “Hook in!” said Neasa, and that they did. Dorian poured steins of home-brewed honey mead drawn from casks in the shed. The mead soothed Gudrik’s dry throat and summoned long forgotten memories. Kahn brewed it to Scurt’s recipe and it shared ancestral traits with his father’s. The strangers told tales, laughed and feasted happily while Tabitha, who was now wide awake, busily made shadow puppets with Paw in the flickering candlelight and giggled at the adults’ drunken antics. The room was a merry cacophony of accents drawn together from all corners of the world.

  All of the Inscribed, with the exception of Neasa were smokers, heavy smokers. Being ageless the long term effects had never been an issue. It was halfway through his third cigarette that Kahn suddenly noticed Tabitha 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.