Blue Words

by M. C. Edwards

  “Yessssssss!” sang the sweet voice inside his body.

  “The words,” echoed another, much more hushed voice in his body. It was faint, almost nothing. At first he thought it was his mind playing tricks on him. “The words,” it sounded again. Not the sweet angel’s voice, but a rough and familiar voice, the voice of his father. It was quickly joined by that of his uncle and then a chorus of others, The Twelve. They were soon joined by thousands of other victims the Valkyrie had claimed over its time and finally they were joined by Kahn. All spoke as one, yet he could separate each voice individually.

  Blood trickled from his nose and dripped onto his arm. The spatter was not blue, but a very human red. His time was nearly done. “The words,” the chorus repeated. He began to utter the twelve sacred words, quietly a first, but gradually rising in volume. The cage of inscriptions tattooed onto his skin began to glow angrily. Brood joined his chant. The two men continued to repeat them over and over. The chorus of voices within him also chanted in support. The stream of blue leaving his body slowed and finally halted. The chant continued. The stream began to reverse, fraction by fraction, the blue started to return. It began to re-fill his body. His strength returned with it.

  Gudrik climbed back to his feet renewed and reinvigorated. He screamed the words louder and louder. The streams flowed faster and faster back into him. The trails of blood ended and the light began to follow. Still they chanted. Now it was the Valkyrie that screamed as it clawed at the ground, just as it had done some two thousand years ago when it was bound to the amulet. Finally, with one last fleeting wail, it was done.

  The wounds closed. However, the pain did not stop. Gudrik’s blood seared, burned and bubbled as if he was being torn apart from the inside out. His inscriptions glowed hot, his muscles pulsed and his skin stretched as if the beast was trying to burst free. He removed the blue word from Brood and flopped down beside him, writhing in agony. Brood spoke, but Gudrik could not hear him, the Valkyrie screeched inside his head. The Inscribed’s mouth leaked blood as he spoke. Gudrik had seen internal injuries before. The night stone may have protected Brood from the touch, but the impact had not been so shielded. Brood’s ribs were shattered, his lung punctured and many of his other organs damaged. Still, he had clung to the monster to aid in any small way he could. “Far braver warriors than I,” Gudrik thought, through the agony.

  Brood pulled the bottle of blue blood from the large pocket of his cargo pants. He struggled a few short wet gasps before slugging a big gulp. It was relieving for Gudrik to see, but he could not rejoice, his pain was so intense that he was struggling to retain consciousness. It was a futile struggle which he soon lost. Brood shuffled closer to him and poured the final swallow of blood into Gudrik’s open mouth. Would it have any effect? He had no idea, but it was clear that Gudrik was in pain and it was worth a try.

  Dorian shifted down and collected the two men. Neasa slung Brood’s arm over her shoulders and helped him to his feet. Barrat slipped his hands under Gudrik’s arm pits and lifted while Solomon bundled his arms around the Warlock’s legs. They moved the casualties from the rooftop garden into Kyran’s penthouse. Brood was propped up in one of the beds and Gudrik laid in another, where Barrat tended to him as best he could. Kahn’s body was laid on the floor, beads of sweat still clinging to his dark skin. His lips and shirt were stained blue from the futile efforts to revive him. Ami draped a sheet over him. Teefa disappeared on some errand with George leading the way. Neasa tended to Brood, cleaning and comforting him as the blood painfully corrected his broken ribs. “Poor Brood,” she said sweetly, “Is there anything I can do to help?” Her voice was gentle and calming.

  Brood coughed, winced and muttered, “S’pose a blowjob’s out of the question?” Neasa simply smiled at the crude remark, happy to have him back to his old self.

  “If I re-break some of those ribs you could probably do it yourself.” They both chuckled on the surface, deep down though they still mourned for the loss of their leader and friend.

  Solomon reported to his superiors while Half Man and his pack tried to fix the power and get the elevator system functioning. Teefa and George returned with a small brown paper bag with the D.M.R. logo on it. The sound of an incoming chopper thrummed as Solomon and Barrat awaited it in the rooftop garden. “Get the van and bring it into the car park Teefa,” ordered Dorian, taking on his father’s mantle. “We will meet you there shortly, none are to be left.” She leapt fearlessly over the rail and plummeted towards the ground.

  ‘Shortly’ turned out to be a generous estimate. The elevator system was dead and no amount of tinkering seemed to change that, so the descent had to be made by stair. The stairwells were an endless twisting column of darkness, but finally six ragged Inscribed, a small group of militants, one unconscious Warlock and a fallen hero were loaded into the van and rolled out of the deserted city.

  The Stuff of Dreams

  “Dreams are simply portals into what your life could be.”

  The breeze was cool and sweet, rich with the smells of the ocean. The sun beat down warm and kissed Gudrik’s skin red. “Ahh home,” he thought as he stirred, pushing himself up out of the hot sand. The sky was blue, the water clear and the sand golden white, but this wasn’t the beach he had come to know as home.

  Instead of the rocky crags and the Serpent’s Jaw, he saw smooth unbroken sea rolling out before him, with the hazy blue-grey of more land far beyond. Jutting out from the sand was a lone palm, warped and distorted by decades, possibly centuries of weather. It rose straight for but a metre before the trunk bent sharply, running horizontal, parallel to the sand for a time then twisting high into the sky where its leaves opened like a hand blocking the sun. Gudrik’s own hand ran to his wrist, to the wand.....it wasn’t there. In fact it wasn’t the only thing missing. He found himself as naked as the day of his birth.

  He turned from the water and walked towards the thick wavy grass which lined the rising sand dunes. It tickled Gudrik’s bare skin as he pushed through. On the other side of the flowing grass river lay thicker wooded scrub which was much harsher and scratched his flesh, still he pushed on through it. The dry, woody thicket seemed to be endless. Sounds of life teemed around him, rustling and shaking the leaves.

  After half an hour of trudging through unyielding nature, Gudrik paused to consider exactly what he was doing. He turned in circles deciding whether to continue the course he trod or change tack. The breeze blew in from the north; at least he thought it was north. It seemed to carry sounds on it, very subtly, almost quiet enough for Gudrik to think them nothing more than mind tricks. These whispers though were sounds which he recognised, sounds he had heard a million times in his long years, the singing clash of steel on steel.

  After careful deliberation, he decided his destination, where ever that may be, lay to the north. Either the land he had spied earlier to the south had been an island, which would mean he was on the mainland. That would mean he could continue on through this scrub for day after day without actually ending up anywhere. On the other hand, it may have been the mainland he sighted meaning that he was in fact on an island, in which case hours of trekking would simply pop him out at another beach on the opposite side. Of course there was the third possibility, both were islands. Either way, confusion aside, the sounds from the north were the only signs of civilisation he had heard, so that was the direction he would go.

  The sounds soon became stronger and constantly audible, rather than only floating on gusts of wind. The clash was joined by the grunts and groans of people and accompanied by the bark of orders. The thick scrub began to thin out and the walking became faster and easier, until finally, he came to a stone wall the height of a man.

  The sounds which had drawn him were coming from the other side. In the absence of the wand Gudrik bit his hand and rumbled a command, “Xitzsus.” Oddly, there was no tingle, no chill and no burn, only the throbbing ache accompanied the bite. He gave the wound a puzzled look and his heart leapt int
o his throat. The bite still bled, but the blood was a very mortal red, more puzzlement for an already puzzling situation.

  He passed the wall in the old fashioned way, climbing up upon it. Within he saw a large grassed clearing. The stone wall upon which he was perched rolled around in a large circle embracing the space. The foot of the stone was lined by a trail of well tended gardens which grew all manner of herbs, spices, vegetables and fruit. Evenly dotted about the grassy lawn were five small wooden cottages. All faced toward the centre where a smaller circle of cobbled stone lay. A large flag waved in the wind above casting a fluttering shadow over the stone circle below. The sun was high; it must have been near midday.

  Dotted around the grassy area were pairs of combatants training with weapons; swords, daggers and hammers....evidently the clashing of steel he had heard. There were also archers training on woven reed targets. Gudrik could have believed he had gone back a thousand years, if he hadn’t been searching keenly that is, for there were also traces of modernity. At the east of the circle where a sixth cottage should have sat was a firing range, very similar to the one the Inscribed had built. The oddity which struck him hardest though, was the combatants themselves. They were all children. The ages seemed to vary, ranging from six and under all the way up to late teens. Some also could have been older, into their twenties.

  None seemed to have seen him as yet, thanks only to good fortune on his part and distraction on theirs. Perched up in plain sight, what was he thinking? “My abilities have made me lazy.” He dropped from where he was into the shrubs of the garden below. The foliage acted as a cover to creep his way around the perimeter of the wall. Each of the cottages displayed a banner, all the same as the large one flapping high above; a rack of weapons silhouetted with black and edged in white on a crimson background. The children and youths were not alone. Several adults were seen. There were women pottering around the cottages and collecting from the gardens, while other adults stood amongst the groups of children barking orders and instructions.

  It soon came to Gudrik’s attention that one of the pairs of children closest to him had stopped clashing their blunted steel and were now staring in his direction. “Ormstunga.” This could not go well for him. A naked man in the bushes, watching a group of children was sure to draw a negative reaction. He raised his hands in surrender and slowly stepped out of his cover. The young boy and girl, of whom the eldest could have been not more than ten, did not flinch or recoil. They simply kept staring. Gudrik was puzzled to say the least. Suddenly a tall man with a large scar running from his ear down his neck snapped orders at them in a language foreign to Gudrik.

  They promptly went back to what they were doing. The man however, stormed towards Gudrik, his eyes fiercely locked onto the Warlock. Gudrik backed away and clenched his fists. The man waved his arms wildly shouting as he closed in on Gudrik. They were very bizarre actions for someone who appeared to be a combat trainer. He was within a pace of the Warlock. Gudrik threw a punch at the man to keep him at bay. It was probably not the best decision for the situation, but it was what came naturally. His fist sailed straight at the man’s nose, but passed through his head as if he were a ghost. The Warlock stumbled to regain his balance as the man stormed through him. Gudrik turned to watch him shoo a large seabird from the stone wall behind him. The children giggled as the cumbrous bird took to flight.

  “You are all spirits,” he said out loud to see if they could hear him. There was no reaction. He repeated it again in spirit tongue. Still no response. Then another, more chilling thought crept over him. “Or am I the spirit?”

  Many a time as a Varth-lokkr he had freed confused spirits who believed everyone else around them to be the dead ones. Was that what had become of him? He no longer bled blue. He had no idea where he was or how he came to be there. The thoughts hurt his head. He wandered the grounds, now free to move as he wished. There were younger children there too, ones too small for training. These children were merrily playing inside the wooden cottages. He moved from cottage to cottage examining their contents. He seemed to be able to interact with objects as normal, but people passed right through him……or he passed through them. Gudrik caught his reflection in a mirror and moved in for a closer examination. Two large green eyes stared back at him.

  The last of the cottages in the set was quieter. At first Gudrik thought it to be empty, but as he turned to leave a soft sniffle drifted from under a wooden bed in the corner. He crept closer to the sound and dropped to all fours. Underneath, curled into a tight ball was a child. A small child. He raised the edge of the blanket which hung down, allowing more sun to flow in. The girl looked up at the new rays of light. The breath was knocked from him. Staring at Gudrik was the precious tear stained face of his little princess, his Tabitha. She seemed to stare right at him. He reached desperately for her. “Googy,” she whispered. Everything went black. He opened his eyes.

  The world was very different when Gudrik woke. “A dream,” he thought, “A weak, pathetic dream.” Never had Gudrik hated the dream world more than right then. Even the black cell had not been as heartbreaking. His once treasured haven was now sullied by that flirtatious tease.

  Hot, white lights burned his eyes making his vision blurred. His body burned with pain. The Warlock rubbed his hand over his face. He had been shaved clean. As his eyes adjusted he made out the blue interwoven strings of tattooed script on his hands and fingers. The memories of the Valkyrie flooded back. The memories of Kahn’s death. The memories of pain. Although that pain still lingered, thankfully it seemed to have eased considerably, from blinding agony to a dull background throb. The voice remained though, no longer screaming, instead uttering whispered mumblings of dark things in a voice as sweet as song.

  Gudrik scanned his surroundings. Stark white walls and floor gleamed around him. The bed he found himself lying in was soft, warm and embracing; it took much motivation to get up and out of it. He threw the sheets back and found his body naked. It had been cleaned of all signs of battle. Only the armour remained. “No, these inscriptions are not armour, they are restraints.”

  He was not sure how long he had been there. Hours? Days? Weeks? The Warlock dropped his feet to the floor. It was cold and smooth. Two tubes hung from his body. The first ran a clear liquid in to his left arm. He tugged it sharply and the needle popped from his vein, a small spurt of blue sprayed out. His tattoos flickered wildly with luminescence and the voice squealed for a second before the wound closed. The second tube extended from his cock and ran to a piss filled bag which hung from the side of his bed. “What vile form of torture is this?” Gudrik grasped it tightly and yanked hard. It came out, though not with ease. He screamed a scream which rattled the very foundations of the earth. He looked down to see the tube was ballooned at its end. “Why!?”

  As he looked up, Gudrik was confronted by an unexpected sight before him, a sight which confused him, a sight which warmed him. Perched on a large, soft chair in the corner of the room was George. She had been asleep until the scream, but now squatted like a cat ready to leap to safety, her eyes dinner plates as her mind woke properly. She looked at the catheter in his hand and rolled her eyes. “You didn’t? Seriously are you simple or something?” She stood up, her hair was a mess, her eyes were red. “Sit down, I’ll get you something to wear.”

  George left the room, but shortly returned with long green and brown mottled pants and a green t-shirt. He dressed. “Many thanks,” the Warlock mumbled.

  “I haven’t forgiven you,” she blurted unprovoked. Gudrik nodded with a smile concealed beneath his stoney facade. She may say she hadn’t forgiven him, but the fact that she was there suggested otherwise.

  “How long was I out?” he grunted.

  “Three days.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Robertson barracks, Darwin. Solomon brought us here when everything was said and done,” she fixed her hair in a small mirror, “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Different. I still
feel it inside me, scratching away at my insides,” the Warlock clenched his teeth.

  “You have to stay in here for now. We brought you to Robertson because Solomon has friends here, the kind of friends which don’t ask questions. Obviously people noticed what happened in Brisbane. Publicly, the authorities are playing down any involvement on your part, but Solomon is getting a very different picture on his end. In fact they are blaming you for everything. You are officially considered at large.”

  “Everyone else?” asked Gudrik.

  “Fine and well, Dorian has the rest south of here at a property owned by Solomon’s brother. We are supposed to go there as soon as you’re ready.”

  “Why bring me here at all?” asked Gudrik, scratching his head.

  “For a while there it seemed like your blood wasn’t healing you, they weren’t sure if it was permanent or not. Solomon wanted you somewhere you could get care for your human body if it was needed. You just slept though, and talked a lot.”

  “About what?”

  “Don’t know, it was all in that rolling, mumbly language you all speak. But whatever it was it made the others uncomfortable.”

  “Where’s Solomon?”

  “I’ll find him. You stay here, only a couple of people know who is in this room and I would like to keep it that way.”

  With that George left the room, slamming the door behind her. He rattled the door knob, locked. “She still doesn’t trust me.” Not undeservedly though, considering the first thing he did after she left was precisely what she asked him not to do.

  He looked around the windowless room and wandered impatiently from side to side counting paces as he did. It wasn’t long however, until the door knob rattled and Solomon entered. A smile spilt his face from ear to ear. “Good to see you up and about,” he said, extending his hand to Gudrik.