As with all journeys in Australia, it was long and several driver changes were made. Once again Gudrik’s eyes were opened to more contrasting lands and ever changing scenery. In the early, dark hours of morning, they arrived in the tiny coastal paradise of Menzie’s Bay.
Brood pulled the car over alongside the beach. The sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon, radiating its golden aura over the hills to the east. The faint light gave the calm rippling waters a queer glowing hue. Most of the car’s occupants caught up on some small measure of sleep, but not George. Her hopes, fears and dreams bubbled a nauseating brew within. An hour or two after sunrise a red hatchback rolled in beside their troop carrier. Teefa and Neasa creaked out of it, stiff and tired, their eyes red and puffy from days of sleepless travel, but still they arrived ready to help. “Follow us we’ll take you to the dock,” instructed Teefa.
The rickety old dock, twisted and warped by time, extended far out over the water. Several modern, medium sized craft bobbed and thudded against dangling tyres as the wind and swell lapped at them. Where the dock left the bank, stood a shambled wooden hut with a service window facing the road. Gulls cawed and squawked from the roof. The window was tightly closed, and it did not seem to have seen any business in at least a few days, the shutter was heavily caked with gull shit.
An old man sat at a bait cart opposite the shack, staring at the gathered pack of Inscribed, an old wireless wailed country tunes at a volume clearly audible even where they stood. “I’ll see what he knows,” said Dorian. “The rest of you keep your heads down. It may be remote here, but that doesn’t mean people won’t recognise us.”
He trudged up to the cart, the music blared. “Hello,” said Dorian.
“G’day,” the old man replied in a stretched and drawn out rasp.
“I am looking to hire a boat,” he said pointing at the service window.
“What?” he creaked. Dorian repeated the question.
“Can’t understand ya bloody accent son,” croaked the old man.
“Yeah, nothing to do with this screeching,” thought Dorian, as the music wailed in his ears.
“Just let me turn me ears up.”
The speakers of his radio screeched and squealed with feedback as the fossil adjusted the knobs. “Piece-a-shit,” he grumbled, before bashing the control unit a few times and finding a balance. “Go again son.” Once again Dorian repeated the request.
“He’s been gone a couple-a-days now. Tripped and caved his skull in on the gutter over there one night,” he replied, pointing to a dark stain on the concrete. “Apparently his daughter owns the business now, never seen her though.”
“We were told you know the area better than anyone else,” Dorian said trying to charm the old codger.
“What?” Dorian repeated the statement.
“That’s probably right, though some-a-them coloured folk know it better if ya can find one that wants ta talk to ya.” He then mumbled to himself for a moment. Most was incomprehensible to Dorian, but the parts he understood seemed to be fragments of some rant.
“Do you know anything about Julian Drake?” the Inscribed leader asked. The old sea dog’s eyes narrowed.
“Who’d you say you were?”
“Pushed too hard idiot.” It was not a mistake his father would have made.
“He’s dead,” creaked the old man, “Killed by the wizard on the television. Although, it still sounds like bullshit ta me, more likely just terrorists whacked out on the drugs.” He eyeballed Dorian and looked at the group across the lot. “Look if ya want ta hire a boat ya can hire mine, but don’t go asking questions like that and stirring up trouble. Drake did a lot of good for this town.” From there his speech degraded into a faint mumble, “fucking backpackers.”
Dorian sensed that he had all the coherent information there was to squeeze from this time raped mind. “We’ll take the boat for the day,” he said and they bartered out a deal.
Dorian bragged about his hard negotiating prowess as he proudly led the group along the jetty to find their transport. ‘Boat’ seemed to be a very generous term for the rotting wooden hull they found themselves in. It creaked and leaked as they bounced out through the waves, its worm eaten boards flexing almost to the point of splintering with every thud. The motor was almost as old as Gudrik and it spluttered and coughed as it pushed them slowly forwards. The sun was by now belting down on the open craft, kissing their skin bright red. Needless to say Dorian’s bragging had long since stopped.
As Dorian steered towards the first line of Islands his phone began to sing, Ami answered it. She engaged in a brief conversation which Gudrik and the others could not decipher over the engine’s drone. It was very broken and stuttered; the cell coverage was thin to say the least. “Half Man!” she yelled eventually over the sounds of boat and sea. “He was letting us know that he thought the charter company was worth looking into!” Seven sets of eyes shot sarcastic looks her way. “Yeah, yeah! I told him we were already on it! Turns out that this Garry Worth is actually Alicia Carter’s father! He died a day after the will was finalised and it passed to Alicia! Half Man thinks she may be running the remnants of his troops!” Everyone nodded.
“Who’s Alicia again?” called Gudrik.
“Alicia, blondie, Drake’s assistant Alicia,” Teefa yelled back. He held his hands in front of his chest miming big breasts, under sincere, questioning eyes. Teefa rolled her eyes and nodded.
“He also said to watch out, the government’s investigators are onto the same lead! There are naval crews searching the area,” continued Ami. Hands shot to brows and a paranoid scan of the horizon began.
After several hours of surveying island beaches, some of the Inscribed began to grow frustrated. All of the pristine shores shared similarities and there were numerous isolated paradises large enough to hide the The Forge. As the sun lowered, pink in the western sky, the tired and hungry crew finally gave up, reluctantly abandoning the search. The clunking vessel rounded a headland of rocks protruding out and sheltering a small bay. A smile suddenly transformed Gudrik’s stoney face. Protruding out over the high tide was a twisted, old palm bobbing gracefully in the wind. “This is it!” he announced pointing excitedly. Dorian swung the boat around, negotiated a few oyster clad outcrops and ran the vessel onto the sand.
They leapt excitedly from the boat and Gudrik quickly led the group on a short trek north through the scrub, following the journey from his dreams. The mood was quietly crackling with restrained electricity and before long they stood before the stone wall from his dreams. Gudrik quickly clasped his wrist feeling for his wand, ensuring it wasn’t another dream, then leapt over.
Nothing was the same. The gardens were dry and dying, the grass brown and crisp. The banners were gone and the whole area was completely and utterly devoid of life. “We’re too late,” said Ami as she vaulted to the ground. George dropped down from the wall and began running from cabin to cabin. Gudrik shot straight for the far cabin, the cabin from the dreams. At every step he was shadowed closely by Crave.
On the small wooden verandah of the hut, Gudrik came upon something which snapped him to a halt and turned his stomach. At his feet lay a large smeared red puddle, a mix of dried flaking blood and jelly like congealed dollops. The smear streaked into the dark of the cabin. The odour which wafted from the doorway was sickly sweet decay. He screwed his nose up, clenched his teeth and followed it. The red brute stayed at his shoulder, hand cupped over his mouth and nose.
Just inside the door lay a grey. He was in an early stage of decay, much of his flesh missing. A cloud of flies writhed upon him, a moving, seething shroud. A deep foreboding rumble emerged from a shadowed corner of the cabin. Two electric blue eyes shone through the dark. Gudrik’s eyes adjusted to see a black creature, thin and malnourished, nothing more than fur flung loosely over bone, blood smeared its muzzle. A massive, black wolf. Nestled between its front legs, curled tightly into a ball, lay Tabitha. A huge smile shattered Gudrik’s
usually stoney face.
“Eat Pup,” grunted the Warlock. The starved beast lumbered uneasily to the dead grey and chewed some more flesh off him, stirring an explosion of flies. Gudrik scooped the little princess up. Breath escaped her lips; she was alive, but very weak. Gudrik bled into her mouth. The Valkyrie screamed at him as he bled. Blue light strobed the walls as his restraints flickered. Briefly the pain returned, but he happily fought through it. George came around the corner and burst immediately into tears, taking her daughter from Gudrik. She tenderly wiped the dribble of blue from the corner of Tabitha’s mouth and held her tight. Catching him completely off guard, George then leant into Gudrik and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
It was then that she noticed Pup gnawing on the corpse in the cabin. “Pup?” she asked astonished.
“I told you he would follow her to the end of the earth,” rumbled Gudrik. “Was probably starving long before he got here.” Pup limped to George and muzzled her, leaving a red smear on her shorts. She patted his head lightly. It was gross, he had a mixture of dried and fresh blood all over his head, but he had earned a pat. As he stepped into the light, she noticed two bullet wounds in his right rear leg and a deep gash on his chest, but there were numerous other patches of dry blood stiffening his coat.
“Oh poor Pup,” she said, “Give the poor thing some blood.” Gudrik shook his head slowly.
“He was born from the blood. It will not help him. We will do all we can, but the fates will decide what happens from here.”
The rest of the Inscribed began to appear at the cottage door and the smiles spread like wildfire. The biggest of all though, was Gudrik’s. Despite the twisted shadow of itself it currently was, his family was back together, George, Tabitha and Pup. It might not be exactly like it was, but considering what they had been through, it was perfect.
I am Ami
I am Amissus of the Inscribed, Ami for short. It’s not a name I was given at birth. Rather, one I chose for myself, much, much later in life. Actually, I never even had a name during childhood. Strange I know, but that’s just part of growing up in The Forge. I was given my first name as a teenager, the sworn Sword of the Forsaken Guardian. A role I was proud to hold, a position of esteem. “So why defect to the Inscribed?” you may ask, because of one archaic law.
Growing up within The Forge was not the torturous life of abuse which the others will have you believe. I have never spoken to them of it; they would never truly hear it anyway. They justify their actions, their entire existence by painting Kyran as evil incarnate with nothing but cruel intent. Exactly the same way he did to Gudrik. Was either man right? Yes, and no, but that’s a whole other discussion.
The Forge was a wonderful place to grow up, surrounded by brothers, sisters and friends. The kids outnumbered the adults two to one, so we basically had the run of the place. We were taught to read and write in several languages (which was probably the most torturous part in all honesty) and we were taught to fight. Wooden weapons to begin with, progressing to blunted steel and eventually onto the full deadly versions. It wasn’t a horrible or violent process, all the training was done as games and it was by far our favourite part of the day.
We were also given the serum, a secret brew of herbs which over time dulls both fear and pain to a point where it can be easily ignored, a gift I still carry today, despite centuries removed from it. A gift which made blue words that no other Inscribed could ever hope to use possible for me.
Each nest of siblings specialised in a particular weapon. Mine was the sword. Now, to hear Kahn tell the story, everyday was a fight to the death clambering and clawing towards the goal of paladin, but in fact it wasn’t until I was about thirteen that I even found out what the training was for. Nevertheless, the day did come when my father died in battle. As the eldest and the only fully trained potential of the nest, I took the position bloodlessly. Yes, taking my dead father’s mantle sounds traumatic, but it really wasn’t. It just felt like what I was supposed to do. I had no emotional attachment to the man anyway; I had never met either of my parents. Ingrette, the nest mother was the only parent I ever knew.
I made a good Sword, in fact I loved it. I killed numerous Inscribed in my time, as well as countless other enemies of the Forsaken Guardian. Do I feel guilty about killing the family and friends of my familiars? Well I don’t exactly feel good about it, but it was a war, I did what I thought was right at the time. I’m not going to spend eternity beating myself up over it.
Inevitably the day came when I was challenged by my younger brother. Once again, my Inscribed friends would have you believe that death was inevitable for all potentials, but that isn’t true either. No member of the nest was ever forced to challenge for position. All the trainers or Smiths as we called them were potentials who had chosen to stay and forge the next nest rather than ascend. Anyway, my brother chose to challenge. I returned to The Forge to meet him. We battled hard, we battled gloriously. He had come so far that to this day I still believe his skills actually surpassed my own. It was the environment that defeated him, a simple stone. While blocking a hard down slash he stepped on a loose cobblestone. His left foot slid out and his knee gave way, dislocating. The serum dulled his fear, suppressed his pain, but he couldn’t climb to his feet.
The fight was done, I had won. All accepted it, but for the Guardian. As the Smiths and I ran to my brother’s aid he brought a halt to the proceedings. He declared that the challenge had not been met, by Forge law one of the combatants must die. I looked deeply into my brother’s eyes. Killing in combat came easily to me, this was different. I couldn’t kill a boy like this, and yes he was still a boy. I respectfully refused. That was the only order I had ever even flinched at during my service. It was the only order I had ever had reason to flinch at. It changed me. The Guardian ordered my death instead. I buried my sword into the earth and welcomed it. I felt no fear, I felt no pain, it was an order I was more than willing to obey......a noble way to die.
The other paladins obeyed, instantly drawing their weapons, but before they could strike, my brother fell upon his own blade. I fought back tears; I fought to keep the facade required of my position. Deep down though, that one single event had ripped my sense of duty far from where my body stood. That night I left my post and never returned.
I hid, blended amongst the masses in larger towns and cities. That’s when I chose the name, Amissus, it meant loss in the local dialect, seemed to fit how I felt. It was only by chance that I found myself in the company of the Inscribed, or by ‘fate’ to hear Kahn tell it. He always refused to believe that the gods do anything without deeper meaning. I’ve always been more.....well, realistic than that. I’m pretty sure Gudrik shares my views there; I have seen it in his eyes, written on his face when Kahn spoke. Anyway, it was in a market square that Teefa recognised me, such keen eyes. She would have killed me where I stood had it not been for Sakura.
The Inscribed were never ignorant of the going ons inside the Guardian’s camp. News of my defection had obviously reached them. Sakura brought me before Kahn. Many said that I should’ve been put to the sword, others suggested I simply be cast back into the world, but Kahn offered for me to take the trials, “Let the fates decide her future,” to use his words.
I survived. I passed. I became Inscribed. Kahn and I fell in love. You know the rest.
Best laid plans
“In a world of endless possibility, even the best plans cannot be considered foolproof.”
The group which made the journey back to the boat was a very different group to the one which had made the journey there. The thick veil of anticipation had been lifted and a light mood now carried them home, laughter ebbed and flowed. George cradled Tabitha while Gudrik carried Pup slung high across his shoulders. The chatter was cheerful and boisterous and smiles glowed from their faces. “So we’re all back together,” chirped Brood happily, “What do we do now?”
Dorian looked around, �
�Maybe we could set ourselves up on one of these islands. Plenty of them out here, surely we won’t be noticed.” Both George and Gudrik nodded agreeably with the suggestion.
“We should call Click when we get back, he might be able to set it up all legit for us,” suggested Ami.
“Maybe it’s time for a new inscription too,” grunted Gudrik through smiling lips. The Inscribed turned to him and stared. The Warlock retreated a little, “This Click sounds like he has earned his place.” The shocked looks quickly turned back into smiles. To say they hadn’t ever thought of rebuilding their ranks with Gudrik’s blood would be a lie, but it had never been their way to ask. In fact, since Raven’s Skull Creek, they had often found themselves wondering if there was any reason to continue the order, let alone boost their numbers.
Crave stomped through the scrub at the lead, following the sound of crashing waves. His enthusiastic stride halted as the scrub emerged onto sand. Beneath the twisted palm sat their wooden wreck, masquerading as a boat. Beside it another vessel had run up onto the beach, a sleek, black inflatable. Eight well armed men inspected the Inscribed’s beaten vessel. One instantly noticed Crave, he efficiently alerted his brethren.
These men were not clad in the grey of Kyran’s men, nor the brown of Half Man’s Pack. These were real military. They did not clamber for glory ahead of the group like the greys. They did not look loyally to their leader for orders like the Pack. Precision and discipline guided them, each man knew his role instinctively and by the time the rest of Crave’s group emerged they were surrounded. No confused flurry of commands, one man spoke for the group, calm yet firm. “Hands high identify yourselves.”
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