I began my life as the green eyed son of a simple Varth-lokkr. Varth-lokkr meant something very different back then. Back then we still bled human red. Father was a simple tamer of wayward spirits and Mother was claimed by the winter when I was a child. We lived a peaceful nomadic existence, wandering the beautiful landscapes of my northern homeland. We were poor in a materialistic sense, scraping out meals and shelter when we could, but in our land the freedom we had was a gift enjoyed by few.
In a time of brutal, territorial clans and warlords only our kind was welcomed freely in all kingdoms and territories. Where other strangers would be met by spear and sword, we were greeted as old friends, no matter which town we visited. You see we were a dying breed, a tool with a specific purpose. It was us who had the knowledge and skills required to banish, bind and calm the restless spirits which plagued the battle ravaged north lands. My father would perform rituals in exchange for board and supplies. When a town was clear we would continue to the next.
It was at the age of ten that I guess you could say my shaping truly began. A long and twisted tale with a very simple beginning. I stalked and killed a buck. I knelt over the dying creature innocently mimicking the actions of my father, as boys do. Using the ancient words I had heard him chant a thousand times I released it. The beast passed peacefully into the next world and I felt the warm gasp brush through me as the spirit was freed from this realm, a feeling which I never forgot. It was the proudest I had ever seen my father. On that day he began teaching me the spirit tongue, the ancient language spoken by human and spirit alike when we walked the earth together. A language long since forgotten by the world of men.
It is said that my bloodline can be traced back to the before time, back to the original men. Long before the realms were separated, leaving mortal creatures alone on Midgard. But that is another tale for another time.
For the next decade I followed my father, learning the craft and practising the tongue. I began to understand the different spirits and rituals. I earned respect from those I helped, be they Jarl or commoner, but most importantly I earned the respect of my father. He had always treated me with the love and honour fathers have for a son, but this was different. Now he respected me as a fellow Varth-lokkr, as a fellow man.
One late autumn’s day, just as the chilling razors of the northern winter began to creep in; we were releasing a spirit which had been destroying crops in a remote village of hill folk. It was the spirit of a warrior killed in a nearby clash and forgotten by his gods in the battle’s bloody aftermath. Actually, as distant a memory as it is, it stands out. That was the day I began to question the beliefs preached as fact by my people. How can something as infallible as a god forget?
Anyway, my father cast a protective salt ring around the crops while I trapped the spirit and sent it on its way. That was the task we were built for, to free the spirits which the gods forgot or ignored. Forgot? Ignored? Once again, never have these words conjured images of gods to me. But there was no discussion to be had; in this land beliefs were as solid as ice.
On that day the town had gathered to watch us work, which was not uncommon, but as the townsfolk cleared, a tall, fur cloaked man remained. He had an air of mysticism about him, something which set him apart from the rest of the townsfolk. As soon as my father laid eyes on the stranger his normally staunch, chiseled expression changed and through his thick grey beard I believe I even glimpsed a smile. He walked toward the stranger and embraced him. “Come boy,” he called, “meet your uncle.”
So the three of us returned to our camp and reacquainted over more than enough of my father’s honey mead. Uncle Scurt and my father had learnt the craft together travelling with their parents. After age claimed their father and shortly after their mother, they had parted ways. Father had met my mother and chose to leave with her while Scurt joined with a clan of ten other Varth-lokkr who serviced the larger cities we avoided. There was much to catch up on and many stories followed. Tales of glory, memories of boyhood misadventure and as the mead softened their stone fronts, more than a few songs of sorrow. I learnt much about my father as a younger man. It was a way I had never pictured him before, but throughout the merriment it was clear that a reunion was not what uncle Scurt truly desired. My father too noticed his distraction, and being the man he was, it was not long before he called his brother on it. Like a torrent the man let all which was weighing his heart free. We listened intently as Scurt shared his troubles with us.
Scurt had been on our trail for two moons by that stage, tracking from village to village. His clan needed help. While investigating a plague in the hills above the great stronghold of Sovenglen he had encountered a spirit which they had been unable to banish. That type of power was almost unheard of. In sheer desperation the clan had trapped it within a binding circle. The presence was contained, but it had cost the lives of several onlookers and one of their own, and the circle would not hold it forever.
Scurt believed that they had come across something no Varth-lokkr had seen in generations. Something which had long since fallen to myth and legend, even amongst our kind. Something which was far beyond them, yet too dangerous to leave roam free. Something known as a Blood Angel. A Warrior’s Angel. A Valkyrie.
You see spirits, as mankind has dubbed them, are not really the mystical presences people picture. They are creatures just like us, but with a dramatically different make up. They have no need for a physical form and seem to exist in a realm beyond our understanding, the kind of place mankind speculates about as an afterlife. But in truth, our knowledge of them is patchy at best, based on snippets and assumptions gleamed from encounters with the strays and juveniles we find in our world. Anyway, back to my point, most of these creatures are actually born in our world. Have you ever wondered how living bodies work? Sure muscle, skin, bone and blood form the mechanics, but it still needs that spark, that energy which brings it all to life. Some would call it a soul, some a consciousness, but what ever you name it, that’s where the spirits come in.
Despite man’s inflated sense of importance, our world is basically just an estuary for beings far beyond our scope of understanding. Our bodies are little more than eggs nurturing their young into what they will ultimately become. The presence of the spirit corrodes the flesh and by the time it reaches maturity, the body is spent. The creature is then free to move to the plane of its own kind. However, if a body should die prematurely, the young spirit is often left confused and trapped in our realm. These are the ones the Varth-lokkr have always dealt with.
No doubt you wonder why I am bringing this up now? Well...you’ll notice I said ‘most’ spirits. There are some of a higher birth, I guess what we might call a nobility among their kind. These deities, as they are referred to in their language, are born directly into their realm and can do things beyond the common spirit. The Valkyrie is one of these deities.
They have always been considered a kin to the Varth-lokkr, guiding spirits released before maturity. It is sung in the songs of old that from time to time a Valkyrie would grow tired of flying over battle fields observing the fight and collecting the glorious dead. Their yearning to join in the carnage would become so great that a bloodlust would take them. It is said that once a Valkyrie’s feet touch the ground their wings are shed and never again can they leave this realm. The enraged, rogue spirit is then left to roam the lands; bringing death to any and all it touches.
That was what sent Scurt seeking us. However, Scurt was resourceful, inventive even cunning, he had a plan. His clan had crafted an amulet of materials considered the most powerful when dealing with beings of the other realm. A large brass pendant was forged. On one side six night stone shards were set along with six beads of amber. The reverse, was a mass of tiny runes scripted in pure silver. Together they formed the twelve spirit tongue words of an ancient binding chant, taken from old legends of the fallen Valkyrie and the heroes who defeated it. Banishing something as potent as a Valkyrie was far beyond us, no matter what numb
ers or artefacts we could muster. Instead they would attempt to bind the spirit to the amulet, forever trapping it and its destructive nature within.
My father and I agreed instantly to assist. We were Varth-lokkr after all. It was what we did. We were a proud and honourable kind. I guess we still are.....well I am. We were dedicated only to our duty, to our blood oath. But to this day I still believe, as much as my father and the others would protest, that we were also driven by the belief that we would one day be remembered in song like Jäger, the last Varth-lokkr to lead a clan against a rogue Valkyrie. At dawn we broke camp and rode toward our death or glory.
Inscribed
“Inscribe your values onto your chest and wear them with pride.”
The last thirty minutes or so of travel were quite rough and much slower going. The van bounced, scraped and jittered. It was a coastal road which clearly did not see regular traffic. But just when it felt like the axels might give way, the van came to a halt outside a small, corrugated iron shack.
A large fire crackled away in a wrought iron brazier, the flames cast a warm, flickering veil of light over the area. Shadows waved and danced over an old shed which sported a distinctive drunken lean. Two other vehicles were parked in the dark beside the shed.
Kahn immediately slid out of the van, signalling for Gudrik to wait. Two men emerged warily from inside the shed, but at the sight of Kahn the uneasy men relaxed. They walked out and embraced him. From the car Gudrik watched them huddle in discussion, until something flickered in the corner of his eye. Creeping slowly through the thick black beside the drunken shed Gudrik could just make out a figure, a man. He was well hidden, cloaked in the dark, but as the flames flickered and surged in the brazier an odd mist of light illuminated him. Kahn’s earlier words echoed in his mind, “With you free his agents will appear when we least expect it, so be on your guard.”
Gudrik leant over and gently placed his hand on George’s shoulder. He whispered delicately in her ear, rousing her. She groggily looked about, not really understanding at first where she was. “Wait here,” he rumbled in the softest rasp he could muster. He carefully opened the van door and crept out. The Warlock moved quickly behind a patch of small woody shrubs which lined the driveway. Using the plants as his cover he easily circled around until he was but a few metres behind the concealed figure using the same blackness to shroud himself. The shadow rose from its crouched position and moved towards Kahn. Gudrik leapt from the dark and tackled the figure into the light. The Warlock jammed his left arm into the shadow’s throat and drew Scurt’s wand, resting the blade hard against his cheek. A small trickle of red blood leaked out. “Who are you?” roared Gudrik.
Kahn and the two strangers spun in shock. The shadow gave only an indecipherable mumble. Gudrik repeated his question. “Nooo! Stop!” called Kahn. Gudrik looked up at the tall, dark man, frantically waving his arms along with the two strangers. He drew the wand slowly away from the man’s cheek and lightened the weight from his throat. Before Gudrik could climb off the shadow, two screaming women burst out from the house. With the grace of a tiger, the smaller, dark haired one loosed two small, serrated kitchen knives at him. Both embedded themselves deep into his face with moist thuds, rolling him back off the shadow.
“Teefa!” screamed Kahn. Gudrik climbed slowly up to his knees. He glared brutally at this Teefa while painfully levering the first knife from his eye socket, cursing her in a language which few understood.
“What? He was gonna kill Paw!” Teefa argued as Gudrik popped the second blade from deep in his sinus; he tasted blood. He got to his feet and joined the others who had by then helped the shadow up and gathered in a group. There was a soft squelch as his wounds sutured themselves closed, leaving nothing but a few wet streaks of blue running down Gudrik’s cheeks. He sheathed the wand and dropped the knives to the ground.
Kahn calmed the mood and commenced the introductions. The strangers, the women and the shadow were all what Kahn called ‘his familiars’. At his right shoulder stood Malaki, a pale, stocky man a head shorter than Gudrik. He had a heavily scared scalp. It was shaved like Kahn’s, though looked balder by nature rather than by razor. Malaki seemed to carry a look of perpetual annoyance and constantly cursed under his breath. Gudrik guessed him to be in his late thirties. He spoke with a gruff sternness and ruthlessly eyed the Warlock with suspicion.
To Malaki’s right stood Dorian; Kahn’s only son. The son shared the size and many of the facial features of his father. However Dorian’s skin was lighter, with more of a caramel hue than his father’s rich, chocolate colouring. Short straight hair fell, black as night, onto his face and he frequently swept it to the left, in what had become a habitual action for him. It was his eyes though which truly set him apart. It was clear to anyone who had seen the father and son together that he had his mother’s eyes, green with an exotic, eastern look.
The shadow was introduced only by an alias. Paw was named so due to the stumps on his right hand where fingers should have been. He had once had another name, but Kahn had never been able to say it properly so he had instead lived with a string of nicknames his whole life within the group. He was a strong man in his early forties with brown hair as long as Gudrik’s and a short stubbly beard speckled with flecks of salt. He did not reply to Gudrik when he apologised for the incident. Instead he simply bobbed him a cursory nod.
“Paw was captured long ago,” Kahn explained. “After two days he felt that the torture was getting the better of him.” He looked over at Paw. “Fearing he may give us up, he bit his own tongue off and spat it in Kyran’s face.” Paw mumbled and clicked something while wildly signing.
“He says he didn’t think it was such a smart move when we busted him out later that day though,” translated Dorian, snorting slightly as he held laughter at bay.
“Was for the best,” added Teefa, “he only ever spoke shit anyway.” Dorian erupted into a bellowing cackle, unable to hold it any longer. The group joined in, even Paw queerly cackled along with them.
Teefa was a beauty no older than seventeen. She appeared to be of Middle Eastern or Mediterranean heritage with cascading hair so black that it seemed to flicker blue in the right light. She stood no taller than Gudrik’s arm pit and would have been light enough for him to easily toss about, but as Gudrik could attest, Teefa was one of the most deadly marksman Kahn had ever come across and she was as hard as a coffin nail.
“Finally, this is Neasa, the Mother of Bears,” said Kahn gesturing to an unassuming young woman. It was hard to see what about Neasa could have debilitated all of those men in the city. She was a tall, slim, leggy woman with flowing hair so red that it was almost fiery to the touch. Her name was familiar to Gudrik. A name which had been used in his time, in his home lands. However it was clear from her thick Irish droll that she was not of the northlands. She was not as strikingly beautiful as Teefa, but had a unique innocent look which drew the eye. Her milky white skin was peppered with fine speckled, freckles which clustered where her skin saw the sun. A softly spoken woman, she greeted him with a sweet and gentle voice.
All spoke the modern English fluently, yet all of their words had a distant taint which hinted at past lives in far away places.
“We are the Inscribed,” Kahn said, introducing the group as a whole.
“Only six?” grumbled Gudrik. Malaki snorted angrily and mumbled a melange of curses about a ‘big, hairy blueberry’.
“No,” replied Kahn. We also have a familiar embedded in Kyran’s organisation.” Again Malaki snorted contemptuously. “Not now,” Kahn snapped before glancing around quickly. “Where is Brood?”
“Where do you bloody well think?” replied Malaki in his grim tone.
“Well there is one more which you will meet later,” said Kahn. His voice crackled over masked frustration.
Gudrik wandered the grounds of the Inscribed safe house. It was nestled into a nook atop a small flattened hill. Two larger grass and forest carpeted peaks sheltered it at the
rear and beyond those to the west and north lay a waving green ocean of sugar cane. To each side stood two more hills, larger again which, while grassed on the western slopes, had sheer rock cliffs on the eastern seaward side where time and the ocean had eaten away at them. Extending from the cliffs out into the surf was a line of huge jagged rocks stabbing up into the air like fangs. The Inscribed referred to them as the Serpent’s Jaw. The name rumbled forth ancient memories of his father, ‘ormstunga’ a curse he often muttered meaning serpent’s tongue. A short walk from the front verandah the land dropped off sharply through sandy scrub to a beach below.
The drunken shed at the house’s rear was mostly empty other than a few oak barrels surrounding a large bronze still, a couple of antique wardrobes and a workbench scattered with miscellaneous tools. Beside the shed sat a donkey boiler which was constantly kept burning to heat rain water from the huge tin tank, perched high above the shed on a rotting, vine covered tank stand.
An outhouse lay a few meters from the homes’s back steps. Inside it was nothing more than a seat over a hole in the ground which emitted all manner of colourful, wafting odours. Beside the outhouse sat a wooden frame supporting a canvas privacy screen with a camp shower dangling from the top support beams.
The shack itself sat about half a metre off the ground on short, wobbly, wooden stumps. The bare iron sheeting had oxidised to an orangey-red colour on much of its surface and a few patches had even rusted right through. Salt crusted windows lined each wall; their wooden frames swung out and wedged open using off-cuts of timber. Cool, salty mist blew across the ocean and through the home.
Blue Words - Part I Page 6
