Blue Words

by M. C. Edwards

  The raucous rabble stopped the instant Gudrik stepped in the door. Every set of eyes trained themselves onto the shirtless, bare footed stranger. Without the voices, the wailing melody of the country music finally had centre stage and seemed to excitedly grow in volume. He suddenly felt awkward. An outsider mixed amongst an oddly large group of locals. Gudrik nodded silently in no particular direction, an attempted greeting. Thankfully the group erupted into a series of mumbled replies, all variations of “G’day mate” before returning to the chatter from before his arrival.

  Gudrik lowered his head and walked straight up to an empty space at the bar. He was met by a lanky aboriginal man. “What can I get ya mate?” he said with a smile.

  “Honey mead.” Gudrik received a long blank look.

  “Sorry mate don’t have that. Not from around here right?” The man cocked his head and eyed the Warlock.

  “Aye. What do you have?”

  “Beer, rum, whiskey and,” he paused briefly, “Actually that’s it, beer, rum and whiskey. Oh, and I think there’s a bag of goon floating around as well.”

  “Whiskey,” the Warlock mumbled.

  “Name’s Fish,” he added in a friendly tone as he poured a neat shot of whiskey into a short glass. “Three-fifty mate.” Gudrik reached into his pocket and slapped four tiny nuggets of gold onto the bar. Fish examined it cautiously.

  “Is it real?” he blurted, trying to contain his interest.

  “Aye,” replied Gudrik.

  “Well, management doesn’t usually accept bullion as a rule, but I’ll do ya a favour mate. I’ll take this gold and shout ya drinks for the night aye?” Gudrik gave an agreeable nod.

  Fish looked like a man who had lived a hard life. Deep wrinkles criss-crossed his dark face and a large scar interrupted his short, patchy grey beard. His rough but pleasant demeanour was projected by the large crooked smile he constantly wore, showing off his five remaining teeth. “So what brings ya out into the middle of nowhere?” asked Fish propping his elbows onto the bar. “Runnin away from someone, or chasin somethin?”

  “A bit of both,” grumbled Gudrik.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “I didn’t expect there to be so many people here, there is nothing for leagues,” he commented, changing the subject.

  “There’s a shitload of cattle properties around this area, real big ones. The workers and families all meet here once a fortnight for a piss up. You lucked out.”

  “Turn the TV up Fish, the news is on!” yelled Boar, one of the ringers drinking under the dart board.

  “Poor buggers don’t get ta see the news very often,” Fish mumbled. He reached under the bar and dropped the volume on the stereo. The large television on the wall screamed for the crowd’s attention as the previously silent newscaster was given the floor.

  “More shocking revelations have emerged today from the leaked government file dubbed the ‘Merlin’ report. Allegations have surfaced that the deceased Julian Drake had been keeping the now infamous creature restrained in his city high rise prior to its escape.”

  The television earned Gudrik’s attention.

  “Even more incredible is the revelation stemming from the report that consumption of the creature’s blue blood can heal the human body from any injury or ailment, theoretically providing the fabled fountain of youth. Several pharmaceutical companies from around the globe have posted large rewards for samples of the creature’s blood. These rewards have sparked large squads of vigilantes, hunters and fortune seekers to form, despite the government’s condemnation of any such actions.”

  Gudrik’s soul plunged back into its suffocating darkness, just another ploy to force him out of hiding.

  “The Health Minister has warned that the healing claims are completely unsupported by any scientific data. It should also be remembered that although it appears human, the creature is extremely dangerous and citizens should not under any circumstances attempt to apprehend it. All sightings should be referred to the police. The creature is still sought in connection with the disappearance of one George Tipus, the woman seen flying off in his arms in the landmark footage, and her daughter as well as a string of other deaths, including military personnel.”

  As the reporter spoke CCTV footage of Gudrik and the Inscribed walking through a cluster of fallen soldiers at the Raven’s Skull Creek facility played on the screen. “Just lies, all of it……well most of it.” Whoever it was behind this was simply inciting the public do their work for them.

  “The leaked report also contained the following composite sketches of the Warlock and members of the terrorist group known as the Inscribed who are said to be harbouring the creature.”

  Gudrik’s own likeness stared back from the screen before him. His face was soon joined by that of Kahn, Dorian, Malaki and Ami. “This could be a problem.” He became painfully aware of the fact that every set of eyes in the bar was suddenly burning holes through him. Even with the facial hair which had blossomed, there was no question as to whether or not they recognised him. By now Gudrik was sure that they saw nothing but their fortune in his place.

  Boar was the boldest, and the first to move, standing up from his seat. His actions were enough to rally courage in a few of the other, lesser men surrounding him. It has to be said that Gudrik admired the bravery of this dullard. Cocky enough to believe he could take on something which had survived over two millennia and had just been repeatedly referred to as ‘dangerous’ in the media. It was his type which formed the front line of battle formations in Gudrik’s day. Courageous men, brave and enthusiastic to a fault, but they were soon beneath the feet of the more seasoned warriors.

  Gudrik knew exactly where the situation was headed and his hand instinctually moved to the wand. However, before it was drawn, Fish came to his aid. “Bars closed, piss off home!” he called, slamming a shotgun onto the timber top. Boar’s eyes shot back and forth between Fish and Gudrik. Despite his meagre appearance Fish was not a man to be trifled with and Boar led the group storming from the tavern in a cloud of threats and curses. Car doors slammed and tyres screeched. Gudrik and Fish were soon left standing alone in the bar.

  The two men now eyeballed each other. Fish spoke first. “Normally I would say ya had about thirty minutes till that mob were back in ‘ere, guns blazing to finish ya off. But the shock of what ya are may slow ‘em down a little. They’ll most likely wait and track ya ta ya camp, get ya while ya sleep. I assume ya sleep?”

  Gudrik ignored his question. He was busy deciding what to make of this man. Sure, on the surface his gesture was noble, but in the Warlock’s experience deceit often wore nobility as a shroud. Gudrik was direct. “How do I know that I can trust you anymore than them?” he grunted.

  “Ya don’t, but either way I guarantee that ya haven’t seen the last-a-that mob. I’m the closest thing ya got ta a friend out ‘ere mate. If you’re in need of advice then stay and I’ll try ta help. If not, then piss off and good luck to ya.”

  Gudrik nodded in an uncommitted fashion. “What makes you think I won’t just kill you and feast on your innards, as the man in the glass suggests?” he said, pointing at the television.

  “I tend ta ignore most-a-the shit I ‘ear on TV. But if it were true I’m pretty sure there woulda been a blood bath a few minutes ago.” Fish smiled a crooked grin at him. “Anyway, ya can’t do anything to me that time ain’t working on itself.” Fish tapped his lower abdomen. “Liver’s rooted. Cancer. Doc says I only got like two months ta live.”

  “So what exactly do you want?” asked Gudrik, believing he had found the stranger’s motivation.

  “Nothing, just got some advice for ya,” Fish continued, unconcerned whether he wanted to hear it or not. “I been watching the stuff about ya on the news, and I been figuring about it. I figure ya gotta face facts, eventually ya gonna be cornered or caught. I’m sure you’ll put up a hell of a fight, but in the end they’ll either build some weapon to take ya out or you’ll enslave the human race and live
up ta their bullshit.” He poured another shot for Gudrik. “So why not turn yaself in and choose how ya blood is used.”

  Gudrik looked at him strangely as he sipped the whiskey. “I know, I know, it’s not a great plan, but in the right hands ya blood really could save lives. Just to be clear, I’m not talking about guys like me. Fuck me; I did this ta me-self. When I was at the hospital down in the city, I seen a children’s oncology ward. Full of kiddies that were dying, little bodies riddled with cancers they didn’t deserve ta have. You could save em, give em a chance ta use their lives.”

  “Honourable, but the authorities would simply come and take me anyway,” said Gudrik signalling for a top up.

  “Sure as shit they would, but imagine the public take on it when soldiers burst inta a children’s hospital and drag out, at gun point, a man who has been seen performing miracles on sick kids.”

  Gudrik saw wisdom in Fish’s words. Public perception seemed more prevalent in this time than ever before. It was a plan which may just work. He sipped at his whiskey. “Fish, Boar, what’s with with the animal names, is it a cultural thing?” Gudrik asked.

  “Just nicknames mate. Boar’s strong and brave, but dumb as a post. I am Fish thanks to me old drinking habits. The little guy always at Boar’s side is called Whippet too, like the dog.” Gudrik nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

  “Are you considered a wise man amongst your people Fish, an oracle or such?” asked Gudrik, still sipping his shot.

  “Ta be honest mate, I know very little of me people. The community I come from lost its culture long ago, flushed away in a tide of drugs and booze.”

  “How’d you end up here?”

  “I fled that shit hole when I was twelve and headed ta the city. Ended up falling in-ta-the same life anyway. Twenty five years later, I crawled out of a hazy shit-storm ta realise I was the only one of me mates still alive. Decided I needed to get away, started hitch-hiking and ended up here. Been clean and sober ever since. Not many men can say a pub got em clean,” he chuckled heartily. “I love the isolation and serenity.”

  “Aye, easy to be alone with your thoughts.”

  “Exactly, things are slower ‘ere. Maybe that’s how the life finally caught up with me.”

  “You seem like a good man Fish; if you wish it I would share my blood with you.”

  “Nah, I’ve done me dash mate, made peace with me end. Help the kiddies; I’d consider it a personal favour.”

  “Consider it done,” replied Gudrik as he stood up to leave the bar.

  “Where’re ya camped?” Fish asked before he could leave.

  “No fixed spot.”

  “Head west, not far away there’s a place where the rocks rise up like jagged, red walls. The Howling Valley it’s called, always a gale whipping through there, nice an cool. Fresh water and lots of giant stone turtle shells ta hide amongst. Supposed ta be old dreamtime magic in there, according ta the tales, home of the pale spirits. I think you’d like it.” Gudrik nodded, shot the last of his drink and left the bar.

  His mind circled ceaselessly throughout the journey back to camp, a blur of fear, anger, concern and love. He knew what his next move would be. As crazy as it sounded, Fish’s idea was the best option which he saw before him. He would be found eventually, as much as he wished to deny it, that outcome was inevitable. Though, there were still a few details which he had to consider. For starters, Gudrik didn’t even know where to find this hospital full of sick children, let alone how to enter it without simply terrifying everyone and emptying the building on arrival. He would take a few days to consider on the plan. He worried too about the Inscribed. They were more exposed than ever before. Sure, they were more than capable of taking care of themselves, but Kyran’s words still lingered in his mind, “It seems even familiars have their price.” Kahn had dismissed it, he trusted his order to the death, but how did they find the safe house if not for an informant? Though with Kyran dead maybe the traitor would no longer be a threat anyway. That too would require thought.

  His mind was now all a flurry, far too active for sleep. So instead Gudrik packed up camp, eyed the stars for bearings and wandered west. The night was peaceful and the walk was enjoyable. It’s surprising the sights which appear when your eyes adjust to the moonlit night. Creatures of the dark scurrying about their business, roosting birds chittering in sleep. The air is cool, but the sands still hold the warmth of the day. It wasn’t long before the ground he trod began to reach upwards. He trudged the steepening slope until he hit a sudden up-thrust of rock. It towered high and solid into the night with many ledges and steps, very easy to climb. So up Gudrik continued, until he reached its peak. A straight plunge met him on the other side. It fell into a small valley and then sharply lifted again on the opposite side like a mountain which had simply had its middle removed. Glints of bright moonlight bounced up from the valley floor where it met the twisting creek. He saw too the giant turtle shells Fish spoke of, large red boulders, polished round and smooth by centuries of weather.

  In the dark it was difficult to see a way down. He briefly contemplated camping the night atop the wall and descending in daylight, but he was an open target perched up there. So despite his intentions, Gudrik was now tired and ready to rest. He relented. Drawing Scurt’s wand he bled and sprouted his wings. The tear of pain was sharp and brutal, it had been sometime since he had done it and it seemed his tolerance had dwindled. As the agony faded, he glided down to the valley floor, finding a secluded corner to rest.

  Sleep came quickly, though it was not a peaceful one. Nightmares shattered his rest, just as they had for many nights prior. Always these dreams were the same. He found himself trapped in a tight cell….cold, black and damp. He fought and fought and fought, but all his work had little effect on his prison. Occasionally a kick would allow a tiny crack to open and water would begin to trickle in, but escape never came.

  Morning bloomed pink and gold as Gudrik woke to the ghostly howl from which the valley’s name had been born. He stretched and walked towards the creek. The valley had been pretty by moonlight, but bathed in the light of day it was nothing short of spectacular. Sheer red walls plunged into greenery which rustled in the wind. Rocks of numerous sizes, the red of the walls, peppered the middle of the valley surrounded by white sands to the water. He stripped and washed himself in a shallow, running stretch of stream. The water was crystal stained by the tannin of floating leaves and deep wide patches opened into water holes as it crept along. Gudrik set about exploring. He weaved amongst the massive boulders, scattering sunning lizards as he went. There were shallow caves eaten into the walls of the valley with ancient paintings of tall white figures greeting the local inhabitants. “The pale spirits,” Gudrik thought, remembering Fish’s story.

  The paintings depicted these pale spirits walking on a river of crisp, blue water which seemed to flow out of them. As the water flowed along, the large stone turtle shells rose from it. The tale interested him, and Gudrik wished he had asked Fish for more of the story. He moved on, the so called stone turtle shells were his next stop. The giant rock domes were actually hollow, but they did not appear to be emptied by the hands of Mother Nature. The inside surfaces were smooth and precise as if the stone had simply melted away, leaving a cave. The dirt floor had a perfect circle of river stones which was clearly a fire place long, long ago. Twelve dwellings he counted in total, a significant number. Gudrik took it as a sign that fate intended him to be there.

  For two more days the Warlock’s carefree exploration continued. There were dozens of small caves and crevasses cut in the rock where a mighty river must have flowed in ancient times. There were more paintings of the Pale Spirits too, with their flowing blue river, which must have been more of the story, but it was a story Gudrik could not piece together.

  Many of the caves were large enough to use as a camp, something Gudrik was looking for. The skies to the west had changed, darkened. A storm was coming. It would be the first rain which Gudri
k had seen during his time in this arid land. The camp he had was sheltered, but it wasn’t weatherproof enough to keep a fire alive should the wet come down.

  After weighing his options, Gudrik decided to move the camp into one of Fish’s turtle shells. He just couldn’t move past the fact that there were twelve of them; it had to be a sign, where he was meant to be. He chose the largest of the twelve and moved his meagre possessions in. He lay out the bedroll of woven grass and hide and built a small cooking fire. The flames took quickly and the hot tongues flickered wildly, feeding on the light kindling. They lashed the shadowed walls with tendrils of light which rapidly surged and retreated. For the briefest of moments, something peculiar caught the Warlock’s eye, an eerie fall of shadow.

  He moved to a point on the round wall opposite the entrance. The wall was textured there, quite different to the smooth finish elsewhere. He ran his hand over the rough section. It seemed to be old, worn carvings. Curiosity took him. Gudrik bled and lit his hand bright. He shone the light onto the worn carving. His eyes opened wide and his bottom jaw dropped, unable to believe what he was seeing. Spirit tongue.

  “The Land Below.” Gudrik echoed the words around his head as he walked. The trail to the top of the valley wall wound around on itself over and over again. It was a trip he had made several times that day already, just to keep tabs on the storm’s movement. “The Land Below.” It seemed a strange thing to have written, and he was amazed to know that the tongue had survived in other parts of the world as well, but that wasn’t it. What really had his cogs turning was the familiarity of the phrase, he knew that he had heard it somewhere before. The source hung just on the edge of his mind maddeningly out of reach.