He paused in thought, pain flooded in. He fought and focussed to push the burning needles to the back of his mind. It was while fighting the pain that Gudrik noticed it.....a tiny, nagging tingle or urge in the back of his mind, something faint which was easily ignored. It was familiar, a ghost of something from his past, something which still put fear into him, though he couldn’t say why. Now that the tingle had been drawn to his attention, there was no ignoring it. As he moved around the room it changed, as if swelling and shrinking within him. Gudrik closed his eyes and focused as he drifted, following the swelling.
It drew him to a point in the centre of a small office. From there any direction he moved simply weakened the feeling, yet nothing in the room led him any closer to understanding the source. Gudrik’s frustration grew; again he had no idea what to do, again he regretted not having the Inscribed. He was at breaking point, ready to end the constant pain and find what he came for with the axe, when had a flash, an idea. The Warlock looked to the floor. He sunk through the levels and eventually the urge swelled and soon screamed at him so strongly that there was no ignoring it. Finally deep inside the facility, he laid eyes on the source.
Behind the glass of a small fridge door sat a test tube rack. On the rack, a series of small sealed crystal vials containing his blood. Gudrik swiped at the fridge, but his hand simply swished straight through it. He released the blue word and tried again.
It was a strange sensation staring at the blood in the vials. Gudrik could see it, he could feel it and knew it was his, but even without trying he knew that it wouldn’t react. “Protected maybe?”
Gudrik set to searching for journals or papers explaining what was being done with his blood. There was little to be found and although speaking and understanding the language, he could not read a character of modern text. Eventually, his search left him scowling at a laptop beside the fridge. Gudrik had seen these before, but had no idea how to use one. He bashed, slapped and barked orders at the confusing box, all to no avail.
Defeated, Gudrik decided to take the samples and laptop and run. It was only a discreet shuffle that alerted him to something behind. “Hold it,” came a stern, but calm voice. It was a deep voice, used to being listened to. Gudrik looked around to see a soldier with a rifle aimed at him. He was a tall man, easily as tall as Gudrik, but much thicker with muscle. His skin was almost as dark as Kahn’s, and his head just as smooth and shiny.
“That weapon won’t do you any good,” rumbled Gudrik, attempting to intimidate him.
“I figured. Bet it still fucking hurts,” sounded the reply, clearly intimidation was not going to work here. Another soldier dressed in identical greens joined him. He was as tall as the first, but slimmer with close cropped red hair and heavily freckled skin. These were not Kyran’s men.
Gudrik laughed, “Aye, that it would.”
“You know, I have been stuck in this facility for weeks now waiting for you to show up,” complained the first soldier.
“Julian Drake is not to be trusted,” rumbled Gudrik.
“No doubt, but I don’t trust you either. Orders are to call in his team on sight.”
“Do you always follow orders?” challenged the Warlock.
The soldier remained expressionless, “They’re already here.”
Gudrik barred his teeth and growled. The door to his left burst open and in rushed three of Kyran’s greys, two men and a woman. They were tailed by a tall, golden-haired woman whose uniform set her apart from the others, above the others. Without a word, the woman in grey fired a blast from her shotgun. Gudrik spun away, but the pellets spread too far. His teeth clenched as they struck, ripping through his skin and forcing him back against the bench. He slid to the ground.
The wounds scalded and throbbed with every heartbeat. He reached for Scurt’s wand instinctively, but it was kicked from his hand by a black boot. Gudrik, slumped his head back against the cupboards and plunged his finger into one of the blue seeping holes. Amongst the thick blue ooze was a crystal of rock salt.
Salt was something which was very familiar to any Varth-lokkr, it was useful in dealing with spirits, but he had never seen it used in this way. Before he could speak, the golden-haired woman fired a small dart into him. Gudrik instantly snatched it from his chest. “What is this?” he grunted flicking it back at her. The woman ignored him. Her body armour was jet black. Instead of the white dragon’s tail which was emblazoned on the breast of all Kyran’s greys she had a white spear tilting diagonally across her chest. Peeking out of her collar, just below her ear sat a blue tattoo, a dragon’s talon.
Gudrik’s body seemed to slow; an odd feeling crept over him. He felt heavy. “What is happening?” he demanded. Once again he was ignored. He struggled to move, he hissed commands. His wounds still sat open, but the salt contaminated blood refused to obey. Once again he let his head slump back.
“That really slowed him down,” said the first soldier, bending down to closely look at the Warlock. Gudrik stared back at the dark man, helpless and too heavy to move. Behind the soldier the woman with the white spear drew her side arm. The greys did the same.
“Pity your gross incompetence let him get away,” she said raising her gun to the red headed soldier’s ear.
“What?” replied the crouching soldier, screwing his face up.
“Behind you,” whispered Gudrik.
The crouching soldier glanced up and caught a reflection captured in a large glass dividing panel just in time to see his comrade shot. With lighting fast reflexes he spun around and disarmed the grey standing over him as she fired a shot. The bullet went wayward and struck Gudrik in the leg. The wound did not bleed. The soldier eyed the woman in black as his powerful arms clamped the grey’s neck. A sickening crunch sounded through the room as he broke her spine and dropped the lifeless body to the ground.
He stared at the other three, willing them to make the next move. Make the next move they did, all training their weapons onto him. The soldier dived out of the line of fire in a desperate act of survival, but no shots were heard. Instead a small smash of glass rang out, along with a sharp spurt of guttural gibberish. The soldier shouldered his rifle and warily peeked over the desk he had taken cover behind. The remaining greys and the woman in black quivered and twitched impaled on massive, razor shards of glistening, black stone. Each shard sprouted from the same wet, blue stain on the carpet. Around it the floor was covered with delicate slithers of crystal vial which caught the light and sparkled.
The greys twisted and fought as they died, terror and agony burning in their eyes. Horrific gurgling sounds bubbled from them. The woman with the spear on her chest however, was a completely different story. She glared unflinchingly at Gudrik still trying to raise her weapon at him until the final second when life drained from her.
“What the fuck was that all about?” barked the soldier at Gudrik, checking the neck of his friend for a pulse, a pulse which was no longer there.
“Drake does not want me,” he drew some deep, difficult breaths. “H-he does not want me captured by you. He simply wanted your help in locating me,” Gudrik finally gasped out. The soldier looked at his fallen friend for a few seconds then picked up Gudri’s wand. He paused a moment before handing it to the Warlock hilt first and helping him to his feet.
“That stuff they pumped into you shouldn’t be permanent. It’s a coagulant, silver nitrate. It shouldn’t kill you, being an immortal and all, looks as though it stings a bit but.” Gudrik gave him a dark glare. “Most importantly though, it stops you bleeding. I can explain this away, by blaming it on you,” he continued looking around bodies, “but you need to get out of here now. More of this mercenary scum are on their way. Are you gonna be able to get away in this condition?”
“Aye,” was all the answer Gudrik could muster.
With that Gudrik threw another of the sealed tubes onto ground, shattering it instantly. He muttered the blue word and pictured himself somewhere far away. He knew shifting probably wou
ldn’t get him home, but it should get him further than Dorian was capable of. He blindly hoped it could at least get him to the northern outskirts of the city. The burn washed over him once again and the lab disappeared, but this time there was no cold exhilaration as he came out of it. This time when the heat faded it was replaced by an even more immobilising agony. It throbbed through his body like a hot sword slicing him long ways. Gudrik groaned and twisted, oblivious to what had happened. He looked down to see that his left arm, left leg and the portion of body between could no longer be seen. He seemed to have shifted into a brick wall.
Gudrik screamed as he tried to move his left extremities. Lumps of congealed, blue blood slopped down the wall, still refusing to acknowledge any commands barked at it. In his right hand Gudrik still clasp the samples. Furiously he fought through the pain and in a clumsy flutter of fingers worked one of the vials out of the rack. It fell onto the pavement. In a crushing blow of irony the fine crystal tube bounced, rattled, rolled and failed to break.
Gudrik let out another scream; this time as much frustration as suffering. Beads of sweat streaked down his forehead and he fought against the agony just to stay conscious. Slow, heavy heart beats struggled to force the thickened blue gloop through his body. Each thud resonated in his head, a wave of pain accompanying it. His vision began to grey, his head lightened. Mustering everything he had left, Gudrik heaved his right foot off the ground and in one last agonising act, slammed it onto the vial with all his might. The crystal crunched into shards under foot as his long separated blood flowed from its insulated prison. “Xitzsus,” he uttered breathlessly. His physical body once again collapsed into a shade, allowing him to float his mutilated limbs free of the brick. Exhausted, his concentration waned. The world began to move. Quickly, Gudrik released the blue word, bringing his body back to full physical being and crashing his twisted remains to the ground in a rolling tangle. He passed into the dark embrace of sleep.
I am Gudrik
Well......that’s when everything changed, that’s when I truly started being shaped into the weapon I would become. Our blue eyes were just the start of it, over the following seasons both my father and I noticed changes in us and in each other. Releasing spirits became easier, injuries healed instantly and illness seemed to be nonexistent. But most chilling of all, what really threw us into a panic, our blood now ran a ghostly blue.
It was obvious that the battle with the Valkyrie had changed us, but to what end? The stories of old didn’t mention anything like this. The songs of legend all ended with Jäger’s clan making the long journey to the land below. But we survived; there was no journey to the underworld for us. Anyway, shouldn’t such brave heroes have gone up to the hall of the gods? We made the decision that more must be known about what had happened to us. We couldn’t be the only ones; we set out to find Scurt’s clan.
For many moons we rode, traipsing from city to city in our search. At every stop people knew of my uncle and his clan, but none had seen them in recent times. We had almost given up hope when my father spoke with uncharacteristic excitement. He remembered an ancient Varth-lokkr refuge in the cliffs of the northern coast. It had been a meeting point in old times, but had been unused for generations. He had been there once during his youth. Scurt knew of the refuge as well, there was a chance we could find the clan there. So off we set north, towards the bitter ice of the north coast.
We were soon running low on supplies, winter was in full force and game was scarce, it was not a journey usually made outside of summer. By the time we reached those jagged cliffs which fought back the North Sea, we were half starved. I formed camp in a sheltered nook of rock while my father climbed higher to gather his bearings and refresh his faded memory. “I am sure this is where it should be, but perhaps we are too far east,” he said, surveying the area. “I cannot be certain. We will rest here tonight and see if morning brings new clues,” he mumbled, clambering back down the rocks. We ate the last of our salted venison that night, the following days would be hard. Sleep didn’t come easily, despite our exhaustion, but in the wee hours of the morning we both succumbed.
I was rudely awoken at sun rise the next morning by the jabbing of a walking staff. As the mist of sleep cleared, I recognised a familiar voice. “Ah brother, your memory always was better than mine. We traipsed this coast line for four days before I remembered where to go.” We quickly emerged from our furs and greeted the clan members present. My father instantly sprung into theatrics.......well to be honest he only spoke quickly, but compared to his normal steely resolve, he was hysterical.
Uncle Scurt was swift to quash his rant. He calmed my father and explained that they had experienced the same changes, it was the reason they had come to the ancient refuge, to decipher what was happening.
They believed that the Valkyrie had been too powerful for the amulet to bind. They believed it had broken its restraints and attempted an escape. However, in a side effect they believed not even the creature had foreseen, its essence had been split, overflowing through the bloodlines and finally being bound within our bodies. The healing and vigour seemed to be side effects, but that was not their greatest discovery.
One day while cutting herself and examining her ghostly blood, Kadlin mumbled a common Varth-lokkr health blessing, the words “Odin karrjk,” spirit tongue for ‘Odin’s fire’. As she spoke the word ‘karrjk’ the few droplets of blue blood which had managed to drip free of her wound hissed into flames before hitting the ground and fizzling out.
So we decided to stay. We studied and practised, and yes we failed......often, but in time we learned our craft. When I bled I exposed the essence of the creature bound within. Mixed with commands spoken in the spirit tongue and more than a dash of focused thought I had the recipe to affect the world as if I were of the other realm. Concentration and control allowed us to conjure and shape the casts in creative ways, bending the meaning of certain words and even focusing commands onto individual drops of blood. We were by no means as powerful as the Valkyrie bound to us, but compared to the common man we might as well have been gods.
Every slash I made and every blue word I cast brought pain with it, but woven through that pain with a mind numbing intricacy was always something else, something which far outweighed the suffering. That woven pleasure took me right back to that moment I first laid eyes on the Valkyrie, that moment when I realised mankind’s complete and utter insignificance in the world. But now it was reversed; now I was the one looking down on mankind.
After hours of debate a decision was reached. We would go our separate ways and spread our craft throughout the world, holding to our Varth-lokkr blood oath. Though we no longer felt the need to travel in groups, we would always remain connected. You see spirits are all knowing beings. They do not search, they do not wonder, rather they operate as a collective consciousness or hive, what one knows all know. While I don’t possess the full knowledge of the other realm, we could hear each other’s minds. Should we feel the urge to tell each other something in haste or share an emotion, The Twelve instantly knew it. Actually, it took great practise and restraint before I learnt to keep my private thoughts just that.
So armed with our craft and pumped full of noble intentions we set forth individually and for the first time in my life I stepped into a journey without my father at my side. Centuries passed, age did not weary us, cold, sickness and war could not claim us. As the Viking warriors expanded their reach to distant lands we were there with them. The legend of The Twelve spread far and wide across the seas and into foreign lands. I traveled the known world and served jarls, warlords and commoners alike, anything I believed to be a just cause. I banished plagues, saved children, fought wars and won battles, but as the ages changed so did our roles.
In more peaceful times we gave up our status as a tool of warfare and took positions as advisors, healers and even teachers. As our name was spread through the different tongues of the many lands it also evolved and we were known by many names. We we
re revered for the services we gave to mankind.
However, as anyone who has seen years pass knows, all things one day end, and eventually the age of magic gave way to the age of religion. The mystically entwined gods of old, my father’s gods were all but abandoned by man for single gods of their own invention. These new gods demanded more of their followers and promoted the segregation of those who did not follow the same teachings. The things I have seen done in the name of religion sickens me to this day.
These new religions seemed only to see the differences amongst each other, while to me it was their similarities which were blindingly obvious. Our powers went from being something which was revered and respected to something which was feared and hated. Led by the new holy men, uprisings began against The Twelve. Being immortal, the only injuries I bore were to my ego, but still we respected mankind’s wishes and retreated from view, hiding amongst the people we once served.
My doubts about the gods grew. Yes I knew the other realm existed, but while to my father that affirmed his beliefs, it was the major catalyst for my doubts. I have never shaken the notion that these ‘gods’ mankind kneel themselves before are nothing more than spirits swollen into power by legend and rhetoric, but that’s a matter for another time.
Some of The Twelve married mortals and settled, others continued with their work in secret, but for all it seemed our changes had made it impossible to produce any family. I met and married the daughter of a woodsman. Elya was an incredible woman, a pillar of beauty, strength and virtue. I was happy. I was in love. I had a home.
It was around that time the messages started.
Escalations
“Sometimes even fate needs a jolt.”
Blue Words Page 12
