Blue Words

by M. C. Edwards

  Wind whipped at her face. George felt it closing, the air swirling. She felt cold fingers creep along her skin and embrace her. She felt herself lifting towards the heavens. Breeze tickled her face; the sun’s rays warmed her as she rose. “Death is not so bad.”

  She opened her eyes and gazed up. The sun shone brightly, silhouetting the angel which carried her to the heavens. “The Valkyries have come for me.” As the mighty wings swung around and shadowed the sun, her eyes adjusted to the light and George recognised Gudrik looking down at her. “My guardian angel,” she thought to herself briefly before remembering her hatred. Her eyes hardened. He swooped down towards a rooftop, beating his huge wings faster and harder as they dropped to make the landing as delicate as possible.

  George found herself in a familiar place, somewhere she had been before, Drake’s rooftop oasis. As soon as they were safely down Gudrik ran to the roof’s edge and looked down. The Valkyrie stood at the bottom of the building screaming up at him. It stretched and surged upwards, but did not fly or climb after them. “They shed their wings,” he mumbled to himself remembering the tales of old. “They shed their wings!” he said again with more excitement.

  He looked at the Inscribed far below and further down the street. They were forcing themselves along, unsteadily moving towards the tower. He leapt from the roof, tucking into a dive, his wings folded to his back. As the street below closed in he spread his wings wide and swooped over the Inscribed. “Get onto the rooftops!” he yelled. The Inscribed looked up at Gudrik swooping overhead. “Remember the tales, when they touch the ground, a Valkyrie sheds its wings and becomes Earth bound!”

  Ami ran to Dorian and wrapped her arms around him. They burst into blue mist and reappeared on the roof beside George, they collapsed in a heap. Kahn shifted to mist and wafted up on a draft. Gudrik scooped up Teefa and Neasa, dropping them on the roof before returning quickly for Brood and Crave. The Valkyrie paced furiously around the base of the building. It continued stretching and surging itself after them briefly, then suddenly dissolved with a crackling, electrical hiss and was gone.

  George searched for any sign of it. Gudrik wasted no time, opening his vein and feeding all of the quivering, dying Inscribed. Their recovery was swift. “What was that?” asked Dorian, breathlessly.

  “That was a rogue Valkyrie,” the Warlock replied in a rasp.

  “The rogue Valkyrie?” asked Teefa. Gudrik nodded, still staring at the street below. The lights flickered inside the penthouse. Anxious glances bounced about the rooftop, everyone desperately hoping that someone else had an idea.

  “How can that be?” panted Kahn, “I thought it was trapped in the amulet until all of The Twelve were dead.” The lights flickered again.

  “So did I.” Gudrik’s hard face softened, “I released it when I killed Kyran.” The realisation hit them with weight of a hammer.

  “Whatever he had done to himself, it seems he acted as the twelfth,” accepted Ami. As she finished her thought, the lights flickered once more, and died.

  Gudrik and the Inscribed stood as mutes. It was the only explanation which made sense. The retribution they had all salivated over for centuries, the very reason the Inscribed existed, had achieved no purpose other than unleashing something even more deadly and unpredictable onto the world. It was a terror which they had no means to vanquish. “So how do we fight it?” asked Kahn.

  “I don’t know,” the Warlock replied, defeated. For the first time since he had been released from his captivity Gudrik genuinely felt helpless.

  “Well how did you defeat it last time?” growled Dorian, frustratedly sweeping his hair from his face.

  “Obviously we didn’t,” the Warlock growled back. “It can’t be killed, it’s an eternal being. We merely trapped it.”

  “Let’s just do that again,” said Brood.

  “Last time we had a meticulously crafted talisman to bind it to along with twelve hardened Varth-lokkr. As I am sure you are painfully aware, we have neither now.”

  The group fell silent again. This was more defeated than George had ever seen them. Even under Raven’s Skull, beaten as they were, mentally they were still defiant. Now they seemed broken, both in body and mind. “So where have you been anyway?” asked Kahn attempting to change the topic.

  “A big dog had some questions of me,” he said. The Inscribed found his wording interesting.

  “Half Man?” blurted Teefa. Surprised, Gudrik nodded.

  “He has never been a fan of Kyran’s. Must be here to pick the carcass.”

  “Told you he was in the country,” bragged Brood.

  “He wanted to know if I killed his father for Kyran. He’s looking for a blonde woman too; she apparently holds much of his acquired knowledge.”

  “Alicia Carter, she would be a gold mine,” said Kahn.

  Crave suddenly got to his feet, tilting his head to the sky. The group thought it strange. “I hear it too,” said Teefa joining him on her feet. Everyone hushed. The resonate thrum of an approaching helicopter closed, growing in volume as it came. As it closed in, the swirling winds began to blow on them. The group shielded their faces as it whipped up all manner of debris and dust. It settled about two metres above their heads and two solitary troopers dropped down onto the turf of the roof.

  The Inscribed went onto the defensive. Guttural blue words sounded in chorus. Darts, scales, axes and talons emerged while the few remaining rifles were shouldered. The first soldier responded quickly by raising his hands, in a show of peace. “My name is Solomon. I have only come to talk. Are we going to have a problem?” he said boldly.

  Gudrik responded instantly and equally as boldly, “As long as you are here to help you are under no threat from us.” He recognised this man. It was the soldier from the research facility. Solomon signalled to the helicopter and it lifted back into the sky. The Inscribed lowered their defences.

  “This is Barrat,” added Solomon, putting his hand on the other soldier’s shoulder. “A good man, in fact he’s here because there’ss no one I would rather have at my side when the shit hits the fan. You met his brother briefly at the lab.” At first Gudrik couldn’t recall him, but then the face of the redheaded soldier sprung to mind, dead at the hands of the grey.

  “Sorry for your loss,” Gudrik grumbled.

  Barrat thanked him with a nod, “I appreciate you taking care of the crazy fidix for me.” Solomon rolled his eyes.

  Solomon later took the time to explain that when Barrat and his brother were boys, their mother had been rather intolerant of bad language, so they had simply invented their own. ‘Fidix’ was a word used by both in place of all curse words. It was a word which still came naturally to him; in fact his use of it seemed to have increased in tribute to his fallen brother. Barrat was smaller and finer than Gudrik and Solomon, but still fit and hard. His face was scarred almost all over. Not the crater like scars of Half Man, but smooth sweeping burn scars which covered nearly his entire face. He had lived most of his life as an outcast because of them, but eventually Barrat had followed his older brother into the army and proved to be a born soldier.

  Solomon walked to the edge of the rooftop and stood beside Gudrik looking down on the maze of streets below. “So what are we dealing with here?”

  “A creature from another realm,” replied Gudrik. Solomon raised an eyebrow. “A spirit and a very dangerous one.”

  “What, like some guy’s ghost?”

  “No, something completely different.”

  “Right.” Solomon’s unblinking acceptance surprised George. “So, how do we kill it?” he asked, “It destroyed everything we’ve sent at it so far.”

  “We were just discussing that ourselves,” said Kahn.

  “We can’t,” grunted Gudrik, “To use the modern words Solomon, we’re fucked.”

  “Not exactly what I was after,” Solomon replied. “On the plus side, looks like it’s gone for now. I’ve got a squad sweeping the streets, and a clean-up crew taking care of th
e bodies.” Gudrik’s demeanour swung, urgency swept across his face.

  “Get them off the ground now. It has gone nowhere; it is simply waiting for more prey.”

  Solomon leapt onto his radio, barking orders. He believed Gudrik to be a man of his word. “The special forces team is climbing a stairwell as we speak, but I got no answer from the cleanup team,” Solomon finally announced.

  “They’re dead then,” replied Gudrik.

  “Fidix!” mumbled Barrat, earning another glare from Solomon.

  “So you’re telling me that this thing can float around and kill anything with a touch, but if we sit up out of reach it’s as helpless as a three year old?” Solomon asked.

  “Look it’s a long fucking story, just accept that it works,” George butted in, sick of the endless cycle of talk.

  “So what, we just sit on the roof for the rest of our lives?” asked Solomon.

  “We can get the chopper back to get us out of here,” suggested Barrat.

  “No,” rumbled Gudrik. “It’s us that is keeping it here. The second we move on, so will it and more death will follow.”

  Dorian was sitting on the railing beside George, dangling his feet. “I have an idea,” he announced suddenly before shifting from the rooftop and popping out beside a vending machine far below. He quickly smashed the front of it and gathered an armful of sports drinks before shifting back up and dropping the bottles on the grass. The small groups dotted about the terrace gathered to watch his curious behaviour.

  “Thirsty babe?” asked Ami, finally breaking the silence. He ignored the question and began opening the bottles and tipping their sweet contents over the edge. Once all were emptied he thrust an armful at Gudrik, “Fill these.” Gudrik arched a single eyebrow. “We will be able to use our abilities more and fight harder when decay is not an issue.”

  It was a good idea and Gudrik quickly followed his instructions. “What about the addiction brother?” asked Crave. He had known his share of dependence and knew that it was nothing to be sneezed at.

  “Addiction can be treated, death can’t,” replied Dorian, tossing bottles of blood to each of the Inscribed, one by one.

  “Well,” said Crave swirling his bottle half full of warm blue fluid, “I’ve got my bottle of gummy-berry juice, but it still doesn’t change the fact I can’t even scratch that big, blue girl down there.”

  Gunfire echoed off to the east. A radio crackled to life, “T--/--under--/-attack--/.” Silence followed.

  Solomon checked his radio, “It’s not mine.” Again it crackled with broken speech. Everyone looked to Gudrik. The sound was coming from his pocket. He fished around and pulled out the small radio Half Man had given him. He eyed it curiously and shook it hard. It crackled again.

  “Hello!” he grunted back. Solomon snatched it off him and pressed the button in.

  “Talk.”

  “Half Man?” Gudrik rumbled curiously.

  “Gudrik--/-ttack--/-blue cloud.” The speech was fragmented, but its meaning was clear.

  “Get off the ground,” he yelled as Solomon worked the radio. More indecipherable messages followed. He needed a more precise message. “Drake building.” Gudrik repeated it many times in hopes that they took his meaning, but a reply never came.

  “That thing seems to fidix with the radios, transmissions broke up like that every time our squads were hit,” said Barrat.

  No more sounds came from below, the city was once again silent and still. Teefa searched but saw no sign of Half Man or his team. A wall had been reached. The group sat in the sky top utopia safe, yet fearful. The silence was deafening. George wandered the penthouse, exploring more thoroughly than the last time she was there. Hunger bubbled in her. It had escaped her attention the last time she was there, but Drake didn’t have a kitchen. “So damn rich he ate out every night no doubt.”

  Instead George found herself in the bar. She walked behind the counter and ran a finger sensually along the line of bottles. The finger came to rest on a tall, slender bottle of vodka. Down it came and she was soon two glasses it. Gudrik wandered into the room and she groaned. “There are about fifteen rooms in this place, why do you have to be in the same one as me?” she snapped at him.

  “This is where the liquor is,” he grunted back.

  Gudrik proceeded to snatch a bottle of scotch down, seemingly at random, and sat beside her. He pulled the cork with his teeth and began slugging slurps from the bottle. “I still hate you,” she blurted.

  “You and many others,” he replied, seemingly unhindered. “Solomon is making a report to his superiors.”

  “What is there to tell them?”

  “I guess that mankind is lost.” Gudrik took another sip.

  “I’ve always hated that word, ‘mankind’. Shouldn’t it be humankind?” George was alradey beginning to slur. Gudrik just shrugged.

  It felt good to be around him again. George was slowly remembering what had brought them together in the beginning, but she was a stubborn soul and refused to let go of the hate. For every beautiful memory the Warlock provoked, she would push it out of mind with Tabitha’s face, the most precious thing she had ever known, a face she would never see again. It succeeded in keeping her hate strong.

  She stood up and left, taking her vodka with her. George wandered back through the dark penthouse. The others were scattered about. Solomon was still pacing on the terrace and yelling into his radio with Barrat watching on. Teefa and Neasa were sitting and discussing tactics with Ami and Dorian. Crave and Brood passed her, heading to join Gudrik in the bar. Kahn was examining the artefacts on display in the central room.

  George needed some alone time, so she sought out somewhere to have it. She passed the room where she had first laid eyes on Gudrik’s lifeless body. It was the place where she had lit the fuse which eventually brought about her daughter’s death. A tear welled in her eye. She quickly wiped it away and grew angry at herself. Not only because of her aversion to crying, but because it was not only a tear at the loss of Tabitha. She stormed on, swigging her drink as she moved down the stairs and through the corridor to the cell she had been locked in. The lock was twisted and deformed, the guards room empty and dark. She headed back toward the emergency stairs stomping her feet and enjoying the echo. George looked through the panel of glass into the stairwell. No armed guards this time. She went to open the door. A shimmer of light flickered from down the stairwell. Cold fear gripped her and she dropped the bottle, shattering it on the floor. She turned and ran back to the penthouse, screaming as she went. “It’s climbing the stairs! It’s climbing the stairs!”

  Her report drew an instant reaction from everyone and they hurried to her snatching up weapons on the way. Gudrik emerged from the bar, wand in hand. “Wait on the terrace,” he said to her before striding down the hall, the rest in tow behind him. She paid his instructions little heed and followed anyway. The warriors fanned out as much as they could in the limited space and crept towards the stairs. The light was glowing and flickering stronger and brighter than before, visible clearly through the window from down the hall.

  “It’s not blue,” said Teefa. George realised she was right.

  “Still, something is coming, so stand ready,” replied Kahn.

  The light was soon joined by sound as whatever it was closed in. Shadow danced up and down the walls of the stairwell. The noises increased in volume. Soon the shadows gathered, blocking the light, blocking the glass. With a crash, the door swung open. Metal rattled and clicked as weapons were raised on both sides. “Hold!” called Gudrik, from the front, the team was still fanned out at his rear. Despite her fear George peeked between the others to see. In front of them, spilling into the hall stood a small band of soldiers, lights gleaming from their guns. Small golden bones dangled from their necks, picking up the light and glimmering.

  The Survivors

  “At its essence, life is all about survival.”

  “We wanted to see if we could help,” said Half Man
sipping his scotch. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “A living biological weapon,” added one of his men, his golden bone read Bragg.

  “Dropped three quarters of us before we even knew what was happening,” said another, whose tag named him Quiggly.

  The mismatched group of survivors sat in a cluster on the terraced gardens as the sun set. Inscribed, military, private contractor and civilian, all sat side by side, each as helpless as the other. Much of the stock in the bar had been brought up and plonked on the grass. Crave and Brood gathered trinkets and books and lit a small fire on the turf. “He won’t miss them,” assured Brood.

  Solomon had nothing good to report. A quarantine line had been established surrounding the city. No forces would enter. The authorities were treating it as a biological threat. Solomon had reported more accurately on it, but they simply didn’t have another course of action to consider yet. For now at least, the survivors were on their own. Further silence deafened them.

  Gudrik wandered down into the penthouse. He paused marvelling at the blue mosaic circle inlayed into the marble. The ceramics of blue were coloured by his blood, he could feel it. The Warlock read the spirit tongue and chuckled to himself at its meaning. “If only he knew what it was.” Just around the corner he found Barrat, glass in hand admiring a picture on the wall of Kyran with a beautiful woman.

  “She’s famous you know,” he said to Gudrik tapping the glass. He walked over to look. “In movies and fidix,” Barrat continued with a minor slur to his words.

  “She’s beautiful,” grunted Gudrik. “You have a woman?”