

## Blue Words - Part I

### M.C. Edwards

Copyright © 2014 M.C. Edwards

All rights reserved.

## Table of Contents

Prologue

Part I: A New Beginning

Rebirth

Evaporation

Inscribed

Isolation

Revelations

Escalations

A Confrontation for the Ages

Making Amends

Prologue

" _Every story must begin somewhere."_

Droplets trickled down the outside of the glass. Summer had arrived, the ice didn't last long enough to savour anymore. It had all but disappeared, eroded away into tiny seeds of chill soon to be no more. The taste of the scotch too had diminished, diluted by the ice's demise. Footsteps echoed through the dark. "Was he agreeable to the meeting?" he asked. His hand quivered and quickly began swirling the remnants of his drink; as if to hide it. His eyes never rose. His voice was calm, deep and firm.

"No Mr. Drake," replied a considerably sweeter voice. "He refuses to meet with any of our representatives, let alone you. He feels that anyone who sits down with you miraculously signs over the deal of a lifetime. 'Far too many deals and lifetimes to be above board' to use his words Sir," replied his young assistant as she stepped into the room.

Alicia Carter had bouncing curls of amber-blonde hair tumbling down to frame a fresh, innocent face. Her white dress left little to the imagination, clinging to her body and flowing shadows along her seductive size fourteen curves, oozing womanly charm. It was her eyes though, which truly stood mens' minds and bodies to attention. Large, deep portals of haunting grey which hypnotised and sparkled more and more the longer one gazed into them.

She was exactly Mr. Drakes' type, mind numbingly beautiful and round in all the right places. It was only an image though, a facade. Nothing more than a stereotype she had devised as a very effective cover. People often dismissed her upon first meeting, focussing on her appearance and pegging her as a 'dumb blonde' or a 'mindless fashionista'; a fatal mistake. Alicia was ruthless, conniving and brutal. She knew what was required of her and wielded intellect and charm as weapons. Career progression was her goal and failure was never an option. In the early days of her employment Mr. Drake had tried to seduce her, an offer she had flatly refused. "That's not the part of you I am paid to impress," she scolded, "Though impressed it would be if it ever got the chance."

"He's intuitive," mumbled Mr. Drake into his glass, still swirling to mask the shakes. "Shame. I want that contract signed. If the rhodium deposit is even half the size the geologists predict, it may as well be a never ending bucket of money."

"Its price per tonne has been dropping sir," reminded Alicia.

"It can still drop by half again and be worth more than anything else we pull out of the ground. Don't forget, I have the only other major rhodium lease. The customers are simply holding off, waiting for Grovern Industrial to start digging. What do you think will happen to the price once I own his lease as well?"

Drake appeared an ageless man; someone time had never seemed to catch up to. His hair was thick and black, his skin smooth, his build broad and muscular. However, his hands were mapped with fine criss-crossing scars and his eyes....his eyes spoke of countless years lived and of heavy burden. His strong hands still seemed to shake too with every drink, as if the glass were too heavy for him.

He gave Alicia a look, a slight raise of the eyebrows over prompting eyes, a silent command. "Would you like a vessel brought in sir?" asked a nearby shadow. A slim man oozed from a shadowed corner of the room. Alicia gave a jolt at the sudden emergence, but quickly stifled it to no more than a fuss of her hair. She burned a glare at the newcomer. A white dagger adorned the chest of his black security uniform, a pistol and blade hid together in the small of his back.

"Who do we have around at this time of night?" asked Mr. Drake.

"There's a janitor, a new guy. Douglas," breathed the shadow, his words whispers on the wind.

"What do we know about him?"

"He was chosen for the position with this in mind. He's part of the re-integration program from the Arthur Gorrie Correctional Centre."

"What did he do?" asked Alicia.

"Convicted of raping two sixteen year old girls in a park." She twisted her face in disgust.

"Perfect, bring him up." Mr. Drake turned to his assistant. "We'll take care of it from here, go call Douglas' facilitator and ask why he hasn't shown up tonight." He paused briefly. "Oh and take care of the cameras." Alicia sauntered out of the room.

The young assistant crossed the moonlit marble floor toward the elevator with the security officer and his silent footfalls close behind. They paused briefly before boarding an elevator car and descending to the office levels below.

Mr. Drake didn't like electric lights; he was old fashioned like that. He liked night to be night. He relied on the moonlight which drifted through the enormous glass skylight. Standing, he was an intimidating sight to behold. He was dominant and commanding, slick with charisma, but still his hands quivered. He climbed the stairs and stood on the rooftop terrace of his tower, the jewel of an empire he had worked a lifetime to build. An empire to make his father proud. He was a man of great knowledge, a man of great power and a man with a complicated history. Not a history you would read about in any book though.

He surveyed the heaving sea of lights before him, washing over an army of shadowed spires reaching for the stars, the skyline of the city. Far to the east, over the Pacific, the blue flicker and crackle of distant lighting flashed. "Deadly things always seem beautiful at a distance," he mumbled to himself.

The elevator chimed its return to the penthouse. Mr. Drake let out a heavy breath, almost a sigh and descended the stairs again. The quivering had spread. Rebellion grew in his legs and on the bottom step they faltered. His shaky hand thrust out and desperately caught the railing, re-gathering himself; preserving his pride. Drake took a brief and dignified pause before continuing on. Douglas dry washed his hands beneath submissive eyes. He pretended not to notice the slip and followed Mr. Drake into an office.

"I really appreciate you giving me this chance Mr. Drake. Especially knowing what I done and all," Douglas grovelled, his hands still wringing and wrenching. Mr. Drake squinted slightly as his eyes adjusted to the room's artificial light; lit only for his guest's benefit.

"Well you've served your time, paid your earthly penance and such haven't you?" he asked in a soft yet commanding voice.

"Yes sir, I'll never even think about doing nothing like that again," Douglas said, nodding his head wildly.

"I'll be blunt, I need a favour of you Douglas," he said, carefully handing the jittery man a picture. He allowed no time to respond. "Look very carefully at this picture; lock the face into your mind. Do you know who he is?"

"Razeik Grovern," Douglas jittered, "I seen him on TV, he owns Grovern Industrial." The response received a nod of encouragement from Mr. Drake. Douglas' rat like features glowed at the praise.

"Close your eyes," ordered Mr. Drake. Douglas followed the directions. He was reluctant, but a man like him simply didn't question a man like Julian Drake.

Douglas twitched as a warm liquid touched his forehead. Only a trickle at first, but soon the flow was heavier. It was thicker than water. The stream split and flowed around his nose before curling and seeping into the corners of his mouth. Douglas clenched his lips tightly, but still he found himself tasting the warm flow. Salty, almost metallic, it tasted like blood. It smelt like blood. Maddened with curiosity, Douglas snapped his eyes open and wiped his fingers across his cheek. They were smeared with a vivid blue liquid. His chest pumped and heaved with anxious breaths. "Don't be afraid Douglas. Hold that face in your mind. You are about to find out what it's like to be one of the world's most powerful men."

"What? I-I-I."

"You will understand soon." Mr. Drake took a deep breath. " _Vascustsus_." The word was foreign, a blending of a grunt and a hiss.

Douglas threw himself back into his seat as an intense headache stabbed at his skull. The blue liquid ignited into a penetrating glow. Douglas pushed his thumbs firmly into his temples and grated his yellowing teeth. Just as his eyes started to quiver uncontrollably, the glow suddenly fell away and with it went the daggers. As the pain cleared he noticed his vision was wrong. Separated.

It took a few moments to decipher, but he saw two rooms before him, two separate rooms; as if he existed simultaneously in two places. They overlapped each other, but he could still clearly see each one. He could also hear double and feel double; the other room was much warmer. It was as if he was two people at once. Douglas knew instantly whose body he was sharing, he knew immediately what the other man was thinking. He felt the other man's memories and knew the other man felt his. Disgust rattled around their shared consciousness as the other man felt the things Douglas had done; details none alive but Douglas knew. Douglas began to sweat.

"Can he hear me Douglas?" asked Mr. Drake, clicking his fingers in front of the startled man's eyes, "Is it Grovern?"

"Y-yes sir," he replied.

"Mr. Grovern, I gave you a chance to do this the easy way. I put forward a fair offer. You have forced my hand, forced me to use more _controversial_ methods."

"He says you can, um...." Douglas paused, fear in his eyes.

"It's ok Douglas," said Mr. Drake.

"He says you can.....um.... _do_ your mother."

"He can say what he wants; I will get that contract signed." Douglas' expression changed. "What's he saying Douglas?"

"Just ranting about how crazy you are." Drake was not fazed. He remained a picture of calm and patience.

Douglas settled under the calm, non-threatening stare of Mr. Drake. He grew ever so slightly more comfortable with his situation, even pondering on what he had heard. "Mr. Drake, sir," he whispered, as if it would stop the other man hearing, "I am not sure I can make him sign the contract for you. I can't seem to make him do anything at all."

"Very astute Douglas," complimented Drake. "You have no control over him, just as he has no control over you. But your minds are now intrinsically entwined, inseparable."

"Grovern wants to know how long this will last?" A lie, it was Douglas who asked that question.

"Once the connection is made, it cannot be broken. You are of one mind now." Douglas' face drooped.

"So I'm gonna be stuck in his head for the rest of my life?" Douglas slumped like a beaten dog. The other man cringed, seeing Douglas was far from rehabilitated.

"Yes," answered Mr. Drake placing a sympathetic hand on Douglas' shoulder. "But all is not lost Douglas. It won't be a long life." Douglas' colour deserted him. "Should anything happen to one of you it would leave the other's body nothing more than a dead husk."

Douglas began to murmur and beg so fast it was all but indecipherable. "You have done a service to the world today Douglas. This is not personal. As for you Mr. Grovern, don't think us fools. We know you fund the militants which continually attack my African facilities, not to mention that accursed Half Man and his Pack. I have ignored it out of respect, but for far too long. My sources tell me that your second in command is much more open to dealing with me. Let him have his moment in the sun."

Douglas leapt from his chair and desperately scampered for the door. The stranger in his head drove this dash for survival, Douglas still pleaded loudly for his life. Mr. Drake turned to his security officer and waved two fingers toward the terrified, blubbering man. "Dagger."

With that the man in black drew his pistol and with one single shot silenced Douglas' begging and ended Grovern's fight. He collapsed with a slap onto the elegant marble floor. "Take care of that. However you feel best, I trust your judgment," he said waving a hand at the body. Dagger nodded a reply and went to work.

Drake returned to his rooftop garden where he slid into a deck chair and drew a string of laboured breaths. He enjoyed the wafting scents of the city below until Alicia reappeared at the doors. "It's all taken care of sir. The car is waiting in the car park to take you to the airport. We have begun the shutdown of the South African facilities. The remaining security teams will be reassigned over the coming months." He simply nodded as he rose and headed towards the elevator, Alicia at his side.

The hum of music filled the space as they descended the numerous floors. "You look lovely tonight Alicia," said Mr. Drake. His hands seemed steadier all of a sudden.

"Thank you sir. I..." The elevator car began to shudder and creak. The lights flickered. The two glared at each other uneasily as it settled and continued on its way. All was silent for a few long seconds.

"Get the service guys in to look at that tomorrow. It's been happening for days now," Mr. Drake said as he fumbled with his tie. "Scares the crap out of me every time." Alicia nodded and plotted a note into her tablet. "Has the car park been swept? Those tattooed savages have been bold lately."

"Yes sir, the others are down there now. Dagger will remain here with a few men to guard..... _it_." Alicia licked her lips uneasily.

"The Relic my dear. The Relic."

The doors glided open and the pair was met by three hard looking men and a woman whose gaze could crack stone. They displayed a calm exterior, but the way they held their weapons whispered of coiled taipans ready to strike. Their uniforms mirrored Dagger's, but all bore different symbols in place of his white namesake.

The squad escorted them to a black limousine. The woman climbed in with Alicia and Mr. Drake while the men followed out of the car park in a second vehicle.

Part I

## A New Beginning

" _Even the most jagged of pasts can be atoned for if given a second chance."_

George raised her head and glared suspiciously at the alarm clock. It had to be playing games with her. For what felt like hours she had lain awake anxiously rehearsing the coming day and time had barely moved. Now after resting her heavy eyelids for what felt like seconds it had surged forward hours. Five A.M. already. Tabitha would be up soon.

She had recently developed a need to watch the sunrise with mummy every morning. George had found it cute at first, but the early starts had quickly bludgeoned that cuteness from existence. She had driven herself to the brink of madness trying to put a stop to the early morning intrusions, but still the two year old woke like clockwork at a quarter past five every morning. Mummy was eventually forced to accept it as part of her morning routine, although it would be lying to say that a slide bolt on the outside of Tabitha's door had never crossed George's mind.

Begrudgingly she switched the alarm off, forgoing her last fifteen minutes of precious sleep, and dragged herself out of bed. George slipped her gown on and tied back her long, black hair. She stared at her face in the mirror, poking and stretching at the darkened bags under her eyes. She grumbled something under her breath, gave the reflection a disapproving glare and set about preparing breakfast for Tabitha and herself. In the background the television mumbled and gossiped of events which had occured as she slept.

" _Mining magnate Razeik Grovern was found dead in his home overnight. Police have ruled out foul play citing natural causes as the probable cause of death."_

Right on time the munchkin emerged from her room. "Morning sweetie," said George as she filled two tall glasses with orange juice. Tabitha smiled and ran straight over to the large front window of their apartment where she excitedly threw the curtains open and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. George carried the tray of breakfast to the couch and took a seat. The two year old ran over and leapt up onto the couch beside her mother, bouncing a splash of orange juice over the lip of the glass and into George's lap.

Their apartment was nothing special to look at; dinted walls, flaking paint, stained carpet and a faint but persistent wet dog smell (despite never actually owning a dog). However, it did have an amazing eastward facing view of Brisbane. As much as George dreaded the early rises, there was no denying that she loved snuggling with Tabitha. She was also painfully aware that these experiences wouldn't last forever and were something to be treasured while they were an option. So she smiled and patiently endured her sticky lap. Mother and daughter watched as the golden, pink rays of fledgling sun light crept their warming fingers through the high rises of the city and across the river.

George was not a woman who glowed with maternal instincts. In fact George herself never believed she would ever be a mother. Very much a tomboy in her youth, she had never really been a baby lover; despite working with small children for a living. Before Tabitha had come along George had revelled in her reputation as a party girl with a very fiery temper. Her uni days had been a haze of wild, drunken nights dancing and drinking, followed by long, painful days sleeping and purging.

A relentlessly competitive spark within meant that she enjoyed staying fit, but an equally relentless desire to reject mainstream culture meant she preferred self defence classes at the local community hall to the city gym which most of her friends attended. The clientele there were far more accepting, with a wider range of ages, backgrounds and personalities to mix with rather than the name brand Barbies at the gym. She felt that her diverse training partners were far less judgmental and, well....bitchy; important to someone like George who so frequently rubbed others the wrong way.

George could have happily sat and soaked in the morning sun for hours with her daughter, but unfortunately there was no time to linger this morning. Today was the first day of her new job. George had been forced to desert her career as a primary school teacher after Tabitha was born. She loved teaching, but the wages alone simply weren't enough to support her and Tabitha. So, like many other teachers in recent years, she left education and sought out a position in the state's highly lucrative mining industry. Today George started her new role as the training co-ordinator of Drake Mineral Resources. The hours were longer, but the income was nearly double that of her former salary.

The change had not a been a simple one, but after hours of soul searching George had concluded that there was not much point in having a few extra hours a week to spend with Tabitha if she couldn't afford a home to spend them in.

George quickly washed and dressed Tabitha before carefully fitting her favourite pink bows into very precise points amongst her curls. Failure to get that right could signal a disastrous morning for all concerned. Tabitha twisted her head side to side in the mirror before accepting her mother's work. George exhaled a relieved sigh and plonked her in front of the television, so the morning cartoons could babysit.

George opened her closet to reveal the outfit she had wasted hours fussing over the night before, all meticulously hung out before her. A conservative, black, knee length dress formed the outfit's core with a newly purchased pair of shoes, which cost far too much, adding accent. She gave the mirror a wry smile, pleased with her selection, and began unsteadily applying her make-up.

Make up was not something that George often wore, not since Tabitha had been born anyway. Her deep, blue eyes and jet black hair were a striking combination and her faintly freckled cheeks added individuality. It was a natural, early twenties, girl next door beauty which blessed George, one which really didn't lend itself to heavy make-up. Normally she wouldn't have even bothered, but George decided she should make an effort; at least for the first few weeks of the new job. Finally she slipped a gold, delicately inscribed locket over her head. George placed a gentle kiss upon it before letting it fall and dangle gracefully between her breasts.

The clip-clop of high heels drowned out the television as George frantically gathering essentials into both her and Tabitha's bags respectively. Then, resembling an over laden pack mule she deftly swooped Tabitha up, flicked the cartoons off and slipped out the door; all in one fluent motion.

Once in the hall George only had to lug her load a few doors before she stopped and knocked at apartment 402. Muffled sounds were struck up from the other side of the door before a cheerful, white haired old lady appeared, her face alight with excitement. "Good morning princess Tabitha," she said with genuine enthusiasm. Tabitha giggled, her legs running wildly as George lowered her. The moment those feet touched ground she mumbled some gibberish and shot straight through the open door, not giving her mother a second thought.

"Use your big girl words honey," George cried after her. "Thank you so much Edna, I will try not to be late home." She handed Tabitha's bag over. Edna was one of her friends from self defense class.

"Don't even think twice about it dear, I love having her. Bring a nice bottle of red over this afternoon and fill me in on how things go." George waved goodbye and trotted down the hall to the elevators.

Footsteps echoed and danced through the concrete parking basement as George scurried over to her car and fussed with the keys to get in. She briefly paused as if ticking boxes on an imaginary list then turned the ignition.

Click, click, click, click.

The theatrics began instantly. "No, no, no, please, not today!" she pleaded.

Click, click, click, click.

"Arrrrrgh!" she screamed, slamming her fist into the steering wheel. The horn squealed in response startling her. George looked down to see Tabitha's portable DVD player on the floor, joyfully looping the Toy Story 3 DVD menu. She traced the cord through the seats to find its end plugged into the car's outlet. Woody and Buzz smiled mockingly at her and her misfortune.

Now, George had never reacted well in a panic; a personality flaw she was all too aware of. In fact she usually flipped out and started throwing punches at anyone stupid or ignorant enough to be within reach, but today was not an average day. Today was a day to keep her cool. So, George drew in a couple of quick breaths and talked herself down a little. "There is still plenty of time," she reasoned out loud to herself. "This is not the end of the world."

Calmly she climbed out of the car and gathered up her belongings. George took another breath, much deeper this time. She checked her reflection in the window and shot off like a mad woman across the parking basement. Now, there is nothing elegant about running in heels. In fact, as she scuttled along she actually resembled a hyperactive penguin, but at that stage George's urgency far outweighed her pride.

After being coughed over during the bus ride, awkwardly rubbed against on the ferry transfer and running more than she had in the past two years combined, George finally arrived at the Drake Mineral Resources building. The brand new, neck craning behemoth sat right on the edge of the winding Brisbane River. It towered above the neighbouring high rises, greedily obstructing their view of the lush waterway. At the peak of the concrete mountain it proudly touted the company logo in full neon splendour 'D.M.R.'. A dragon's tail wrapped from behind the R, settling around the bottom of the letters.

George entered the lusciously appointed lobby. A cavernous space absorbed her; alive with people shrouded in habitual morning routines, teeming in a seemingly infinite number of paths. Littered amongst the rabble were beautiful artefacts from throughout the world, all incarcerated in decorative glass cabinets. It was in one of those display cabinets that George briefly caught her reflection and flinched. A combination of the warm Queensland morning and all that running had caused her makeup to run and streak. "Grrrr...It looks like I have just staggered home from a dirty night of clubbing," George mumbled, raising eyebrows from passers by. Frantically, she searched the lobby for a restroom. In the far eastern corner she spied her salvation. George trotted through the crowd, past the elevators and into the bathroom.

A much, much more refreshed and collected woman emerged. She slipped straight into the nearest elevator, which sat empty, its doors open wide as if awaiting her arrival. Finally her luck was changing for the better. _"About time too!"_ she thought.

Unfortunately, George had failed to notice a small black sign elegantly framed in gold. It sat but a few meters out from her private elevator.

" _Service in progress.  
Please use other Elevators_"

As the doors glided closed George scanned the buttons. The numbers glowed in the soft, mood lighting of the lift, as the dulcet tones of elevator music hummed in George's ears. There were ten basement levels below the building and fifty odd floors above ground. The first twenty levels were labeled with the departments housed on them, while the next twenty had more obscure descriptions. From what George could gather, they were inhabited by board rooms and big wigs. The remaining floors were accessible only with key card permission and had no labelling at all.

George located the training department on the nineteenth floor and pressed the button. Nothing. She pressed the button again. Still no response. George sighed and mashed the 'Open Doors' button and the 'Emergency Call' button repeatedly as her frustration grew. Once again her efforts were met with absolutely no response. " _Ok don't panic. Be patient. I'm sure help will be along anytime now,_ " she silently assured herself.

That patience lasted for around two minutes. "Hello!" screamed George as she bashed on the tightly clamped doors. Unfortunately the loud bangs were all but impossible to hear from the outside of the shaft, lost amongst the noises of a busy Monday. Scrambling through her handbag George found her mobile and began trying to dial anyone she could think of. Alas the signal was all but nonexistent inside the elevator car and any calls she did manage to connect were nothing more than two people repeatedly shouting, "Can you hear me?" at each other. Defeated, George sent a confusing text message to her best friend and slumped onto the floor in the corner of the elevator car where she sat for what seemed like forever.

The power continued to run in the lift, so the lights shone; though it proved to be a mixed blessing. The power also allowed the music to chime ceaselessly and it soon evolved from a gentle hum to a screech with all the melodic pleasure of Chinese water torture. Before long, George found herself pining to be sitting in a pitch black and silent elevator car.

" _Ok relax. This is not my fault,"_ George told herself in silence, once again talking her blood down from its boil. " _They will understand. Won't they? It's not the end of the world. Is it? Stay positive."_

"Always try to find the silver lining," a counsellor had once told her.

" _Find the silver lining."_ George looked around, but struggled to find even the tiniest skerrick of anything positive about her current situation.

"Oh, at least I am stuck on the ground floor," she mumbled out loud, desperate to hear something other than the music.

" _I could think of nothing worse than being stuck in a malfunctioning elevator hundreds of meters up."_ Although it was nothing really, that one small thought did make George feel better. In her current mental state it was probably for the best that the existence of the ten basement levels below had escaped her reasoning.

Upon finishing her thought the elevator car suddenly whirred to life and began steadily climbing _._ "Why do I even bother opening my mouth," George groaned. She hastily leapt to her feet and began randomly poking at buttons again. Still the elevator seemed to be running on its own agenda. It climbed on to the nineteenth floor, where her only chance to salvage the job lay, and it continued. It moved on through the corporate floors and up into the restricted levels without any sign of hesitation. Finally at the very pinnacle of the building George came to rest and the elevator doors heaved opened.

She hadn't realised how hot and stuffy the elevator car had become until the fresh air from outside swirled in. She breathed the sweet chill deep as it beckoned her forth from the moving prison. Cautiously George looked out of the elevator doors and into a palatial penthouse. It was a level of luxury which George had never seen before, the kind of thing reserved for movie stars and royalty. "I should not be here," she whispered, poking her head further out the door. The elevator doors began to move again, and before she even had a chance to think, George instinctively leapt out. There was no way she wanted to be stuck in that tiny, dangling death trap again.

Once out though, George immediately regretted her instincts. Up until now she had merely failed to show up for her first day of work. Now, in an instant, she had managed to escalate it to trespassing in what appeared to be her new boss' home. _"How the hell did I manage this?"_ George thought. Her heart leapt into her throat with each nervous beat. She turned and quickly hit the elevator call button again and again. Still it misbehaved.

She crept awkwardly through the large entrance room, each step echoing through the space. Marble floors shone, reflecting the light pouring down through the massive glass skylight above. Small blue tiles inlaid into the floor caught that light and made it dance. They glimmered a geometric design woven of ancient, flowing characters spiralling in a circular pattern.

The artefacts and artworks which dressed this massive space defied belief and made the ones in the lobby downstairs resemble trinkets from Nanna's mantle in comparison. There were stairs running up to the next floor on each side of the room. The stairs were linked by a long balcony which regally overlooked the first floor lobby on one side and on the other opened through imposing, glass doors onto a rooftop garden. Under the balcony were many ornate arched doorways which led into the other decadently appointed rooms on the first level. Overall the dwelling was spectacular, as if someone had raised an ancient palace to the top of a skyscraper. "Hello!" George called shakily, "Is anyone here? The elevator isn't working." No answer came.

George set about exploring the penthouse in search of a stairwell or something which would allow her to escape and maybe even salvage the disaster of a morning. Most of the rooms were nothing really of interest to her. The first she ventured into was a bar. It was lined with shelves and stocked to the brim with every kind of booze you could imagine. Its walls were scattered with an eclectic mix of mantiques and assorted memorabilia. Running off that was a library, filled with hundreds of hardcovers, paperbacks and even leather bound tomes. Through the library lay an office. It was large and luxurious like everything in the building, but with nothing out of the ordinary, other than a speckled blue stain beneath one of the leather chairs. _"Enough!"_ George realised her curiosity was getting the better of her. _"I am trying to get out, not critiquing his taste."_

George returned to the main hall and continued along, glancing into doorways as she passed. The remainder of rooms seemed to consist of a large media room and a disturbing amount of bedrooms, each decked out like the set of a different cheesy porno; clearly the work of a man with far too much money for his own good. George moved quickly past those rooms. In the final space she poked her head into however, there was something which caught George's eye.

Against the far wall of the dimly lit room, there were some pieces of medical equipment and an I.V. rack with two empty blood bags dangling from it. Beside the medical equipment sat a long wooden bench. It was old and solid with a thick, red grain snaking through the timber. Into its sides were carved a series of symbols which would have been at home on some dusty, ancient tome. On top of the bench lay a long, low shape loosely veiled in back cloth. Curiosity stirred again. George took another glance around and crept in to investigate. She already held strong suspicions about what was under that black cloth, but on some level George refused to give heed to those suspicions, not until she had actually seen _it_.

She stood over the black shroud, her eyes running the length of it. A brass medallion sat atop the shape, encrusted with a number of crudely cut stones; a mixture of black gems and beads which resembled dollops of crystallised honey. The chunk of jewellery was not something George considered beautiful, but it was certainly interesting in a raw kind of way. Cautiously George leant closer; she licked her lips nervously and lifted the corner of the black sheet to steal a peek.

She stumbled away in fright, flicking the corner of the sheet back. "Fuck me!" she shrieked, immediately covering her mouth to push the words back in.

Under normal circumstances at home George would never drop the 'F' bomb, especially since Tabitha began parroting everything she said. This was very different but. George stood dumbstruck, staring at the exposed face now peering lifelessly at the ceiling with cold, clouded blue eyes. It was gaunt and pale with dark circles around the eyes, a thick, blonde beard and a scraggly mop of hair to match.

That was it; a patented George style meltdown was in action. Screw the job! George wanted out of this freaky building, with its penthouse corpse and demonic elevators. But as she turned, something snagged her. Nothing physical, but it may as well have been. The tantrum disintegrated, melted away, there was only the distraction. Calmness washed over her. The medallion seemed to glow, beautiful and blue. It was an incandescent glow which seemed to drive back the gloom of the dark room. It was a warm radiance which seemed to reach deep within and draw George on, encouraging her closer. It all but erased her natural instincts to flee, instead pushing them far to the back of her mind and replacing them with a tingly, comforting fuzz.

George moved closer to the medallion, her eyes transfixed on it as she closed in. She reached out. Her fingers quivered with anticipation, so strong was the inexplicable desire blooming within. Her fingers touched the alluring temptation, and encouraging words filled her mind and body, spurring her on, until...... "Step away from the relic!" The sudden voice was like a hammer in her mind, shattering the serenity of the room. The security guard was dressed all in grey, a scowl graced his face.

George was instantly snapped free of her trance, the fuzz gone. The amulet was once again cold and dark. She snatched her hand back and spun around in startled reaction. As she turned, George stumbled back slightly, bumping into the shrouded body. She shivered and cringed at its cold touch. As if stealing an opportunity, the amulet slid from the dead man's chest and straight into George's open handbag.

"Look I'm sorry," she responded, "But your elevator is crazy and I got stuck up here. I didn't touch anything, I was just looking at your little necrophilia playroom here," stammered George before being once again interrupted by the security guard.

"Hands where I can see them. Now!" His hand hovered above the gun on his hip. George took note and followed his directions. The guard snatched George's handbag from her as he glared angrily.

The cold steel of the cuffs crushed her wrists tightly behind her back as the guard led her through the apartment, along a maze of hallways and down a poorly lit flight of stairs. The one light which still illuminated the stairwell flickered and pulsed amongst its dead brethren. For some reason it bothered George immensely that no one had taken the time to replace the blown bulbs. It added to her frustration.

The guard shoved her forcefully into a small holding cell which was positioned a few meters before the 'Surveillance Room', as it was labelled. "Hands on the wall, feet apart," ordered the guard. George complied and he proceeded to pat her down in a _very_ thorough fashion. George patiently waited and bit her tongue as long as she could, which in George's case wasn't really very long at all.

"Look, you can rub my ass as many times as you want, but it's not going to change the fact that there's nothing there to find," she snarled. The guard ignored her completely, finished his search and locked the cell door before disappearing silently down the hall.

"Do I get a phone call or something?" she called after him, rubbing her freed wrists. Her own voice echoing down the empty corridor was the only reply she received.

## I am Gudrik

For eons I have laid like this. Trapped. Cursed. The last of my kind, the final Varth-lokkr, left to waste away as the world evolves without me.

For countless generations I have been forced to serve the one who dishonoured my line. Stuck in a form of silent torture, an endless segregation of mind and body. I have spent countless generations as livestock, my paralysed form harvested for the power within. I am aware and I am alert. I see all, hear all and I feel every throbbing ounce of pain they choose inflict on me. I have no need of sleep, no need of water and no need of food; yet I feel the yearning of a body deprived of all three. My life is pain. My life is torture. My very existence is a torment with no foreseeable conclusion. But it was not always so.

My life was once very different, happy, contented and even peaceful. That existence is now so distant it is barely a memory, instead lingering on the edge of consciousness like a long forgotten dream. It is something I miss dearly, so dearly I would give anything to get it back. But things are rarely so simple and it's not something which could ever be returned. I was forced to come to terms with that long ago. That life and everything which was part of it can never be anymore than a memory, a reality ripped from my grasp in a deed which I will one day repay.

Vengeance is a bitter cycle you may say, an ever spinning wheel of injustice. That's true. I was wronged in retaliation for something I had done, that act had been in retribution of an earlier wrong, and so it no doubt cycles back through history. They say a man who sets out for vengeance also forfeits his own life. Wise council, but nevertheless, any man who has truly been wronged in the way I have knows that his own life is a price he would gladly pay for a chance at revenge.

So now I wait, eagerly anticipating my chance to once again spin that twisted wheel. A chance to unleash my wrath and destroy everything he has built before killing him in ways even his dark mind could never imagine. But until that day I wait. For the one thing I do have......is time.

I am Gudrik of The Twelve.

Rebirth

" _Life is a war which rages from the second we are born."_

Coughs and splutters puffed dust clouds into the air. It had been a very long time since he had actually used his lungs, but with the weight of the amulet removed they were slowly beginning to remember their function. He raised his arm, creaking stiff joints and pulled the black shroud from his body. Joint by joint, muscle by muscle he painstakingly coaxed his ancient body back into life, but he could feel it was close, its presence still draining him. He quivered. Still tingling with pins and needles, he stood and staggered uneasily from the room on feet which seemed to have a mind of their own. They would have to do, time was of the essence. Hugging the wall for support he eased along. Feeling crept into his extremities and with it came dexterity, only a portion, but a welcomed portion. _"Clothes,"_ he thought. Blending in was going to be necessary.

The sudden light blinded him as he stumbled gingerly about the penthouse apartment; while feeble attempts to shield his eyes achieved nothing. The naked man searched room after room before staggering into the enormous master bedroom. He rifled through every cupboard and closet, madly tossing possessions aside until finally he hit the mother lode. The parquetry door swung open to reveal a huge walk in wardrobe. Both walls were lined with fine suits, designer casual wear and way more shoes than any straight man should ever own. He blindly selected a black, two piece, tailored suit and a crisp, white shirt. The fit was far from perfect. It was made for a thicker man and hung from his frame, but it did the job. He tried to add a tie to the ensemble as well, he had seen his captors wear them, but be damned if he could figure out how to use the damned thing.

He emerged from the room, barefoot and with buttons misaligned. His half tucked shirt draped over the trousers with the tie threaded through the belt loops and knotted above the open fly. He looked a mess, but was dressed nonetheless. He had rehearsed this day a million times in his imagination, but how well can you truly plan an escape having only ever seen one room of the prison? He followed the light and began gingerly climbing the stairs towards the rooftop garden; towards freedom. His hands shook as he slid them along the railing. Adrenaline surged, it was finally happening. _"Nothing will stop me this time."_

Two steps from the top he suddenly halted and looked back the way he had come. His teeth grated, a grimace cracked across his stoney face. _"The amulet,"_ screamed his thoughts as he hunched awkwardly on the stairway. A growl creaked from him; his dry throat was packed with razors. The banister shook as he slammed his fist down on it furiously.

He eased down the stairs and resumed his search of the penthouse, which produced no result. He staggered down a short off shoot of a hallway; it ended in a dark stairwell. As he descended the stairs, clinging tightly to the railing, he knew he had stumbled onto the trail. The amulet weighed heavier and heavier on him with each step, clawing at his muscles and pulling him to the ground. At the bottom of the stairs he found himself in yet another hall, extending in both directions. He turned to his right and dragged himself along the wall. The claws and weight massed as he progressed, his every muscle quivering with effort.

Eventually he came to a point where realisation poured over him. _"I can't get any closer."_ He looked around weakly and noticed a small cell set into the wall behind a heavy, barred door. Slumped into a defeated huddle in the corner was a young woman. She was so still and silent he hadn't even noticed her. Even through the tear scarred make up and dark cloud of depression which engulfed her, he was struck by her natural beauty. He gave a slight cough to clear his throat, "You must come with me," rumbled his gravelly whisper through the bars.

George, jolted by the sudden noise, lifted her head to see who had spoken. Her bloodshot blue eyes peered out through streaks of raven hair which clung to her tear dampened cheeks. Before her stood a hunched, quivering mass in an ill-fitted black suit and bare feet. Instantly she recognised the long, scruffy, blonde hair and beard.

"Argh. What is it with this place?" was all the response George could muster as she scampered back from the walking, talking corpse before her.

"Do not be afraid," he growled.

"Of course not, why would I be afraid of a walking corpse?" she replied.

"There is no time to explain. If you stay you will die," he grunted. Talking seemed an effort.

George couldn't run, so absent options, she thought about what she had just heard. This _relic_ (as the guard had called it) spoke English, though, through a deep guttural accent. It was far too crazy to believe. There was no way this _relic_ could be trusted. In fact, there was no way this _relic_ should even be walking. She had looked into its dead eyes. No breath had escaped it. It was, and therefore still should be, dead. But there was another side to the farcical situation. The man who owned the building did have this _relic_ stashed in his house, a _relic_ who was now standing in front of her giving ultimatums. That raised flags. No police had arrived yet and she had been in that cell for hours. More flags. _"Have the cops even been called?_ "

"How am I supposed to trust you?" asked George finally. She could barely believe what was coming from her mouth. "You could be a zombie trying to eat my brains." His blue eyes fixed on her for a moment in a look of frustrated duty before his lips opened again.

"I do not know what a 'zombie' is, but I can promise you that if I desired your brains I would be feasting as we speak."

They stared at each other, in a tense, eye locked standoff, neither sure exactly what to do. Each needed the other, yet none was willing to appear weak in the eyes of a stranger. It was then that George noticed its eyes had changed. They were no longer clouded and dead. The blue now gleamed and the fine capillaries in the whites of his eyes now crackled like white-blue lightning.

The relic moved first. He sunk his teeth into his hand, drawing blood. It drew a cringe from George, but the cringe was replaced with a wide eyed gape when she noticed the blood; it was not red. A vibrant, electric blue liquid seeped from his wound. He placed his bleeding hand on the lock of the cell door. " _Istravictus_ ," he grunted at no one in particular. Taken back by the bizarre behaviour, George crept further into her corner and watched on in silence as the azure blood ignited into an incandescent glow. The metal beneath it began to steam and hiss. The lock melted into a thick, viscous liquid which dripped in slow, gooey drops into a seething puddle on the floor. The door swung free.

"A good will gesture," he rumbled, stepping back from the door.

"Ok, how the hell did you do that?" George responded through restrained fear. "What are you?"

He gave a grunt of frustration and his face scowled. "There is no time. If you help me escape I will tell you all that you wish to know and probably much you don't." He was almost pleading now, urgency tarnished his rough voice.

"What on earth could I possibly do to help something that can melt a metal lock with its blood?" puzzled George.

"There is an amulet. You know what I speak of?" he grunted.

"The glowing one?" George replied.

"Aye. It is in your saddle bag, which I believe lies in there," he said as he motioned at the open surveillance room door ten paces down the hall. His hand shook.

" _My saddle bag??"_ George puzzled. He bit his hand again, reopening the wound which had begun to slowly close. " _Blarvictis cantra_."

Once again the blood glowed. The dripping wound stretched and distorted. He winced as the gash tore and spread until a black casket emerged. He ripped it free and his relief was evident. The fist sized container was crafted of a black, glassy stone. Ornate carvings dressed its edges with bizarre symbols.

"I need that amulet or he will use it to find us again. If I were to touch it or get too close, I would return to how you saw me earlier. This night stone will shield it slightly," he rumbled holding the casket out to her.

"Ok, that's very interesting, but what do you want me to do?" interrupted George. Her response threw him; he had assumed his need was clear.

"You have to get the amulet into the casket." George stared at him in disbelief. "You will also have to help me until we find somewhere safe to hide it. I will be quite useless until I am free of it," he rumbled.

"Are you serious?" she blurted. The hard look she received in response suggested he was always serious.

"I have no other option."

George was ready to walk at that point, but one thought kept her. Where would she go? With the contents of her handbag even an imbecile could track her down in no time. "Well, neither do I, I guess," she said snatching the black casket from him.

"Gratitude, I am Gudrik of The Twelve," the stranger breathed.

"Of course you are," replied George, immensely unimpressed.

George scowled as she removed her shoes, hitched her dress up and crept stealthily along the hall towards the surveillance room door. Very, very delicately she slipped her head around the door frame. Inside she saw two security guards. Both were chatting away in front of a bank of monitors which they seemed to be paying very little attention to. At the sight of them, George quickly snapped her head back around the corner and pressed her shoulders flat against the wall. _"What the hell am I thinking?"_ she thought as panic constricted her. _"I can't do this."_

As the wave of anxiety passed, George calmed herself and snuck another look. On second inspection, they didn't actually look that attentive at all, or even that intelligent really. _"I wouldn't mind belting that one who groped me across the back of the head,"_ she pondered, maniacally eyeing the fire extinguisher just inside the door. In the end she decided it would be best to bottle her anger and remain undetected.

She quickly scanned the room for her missing handbag. _"Come on, come on where are you?"_ Warm relief tingled as George spotted the handle of her bag protruding from a nearby box. It coldly retreated as she realised that the bag sat directly behind the left guard's chair. George rolled her eyes, after the day she had been through so far she should have realised this would be no simple task. She crouched lower and froze as her knees cracked. The guards' conversation continued undisturbed. With steady, controlled movements, she slipped into the room then eased closer and closer to the target. Her heart pounded so hard that she honestly thought the sound might betray her presence. Luckily the guards were so wrapped up in their conversation that she probably could have just sauntered in, taken her bag and stomped out without being noticed anyway.

"Did you see the chick I locked up before?" asked the left guard.

"Yeah, had a look when I went for coffee," replied the right guard.

"What do you think? Pretty hot yeah? Even scored myself a little feel, pretty sure she was into me," continued the left. George arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah alright I guess, a little out of shape but, a bit too much ass for me," replied the right.

" _Pfft, like you're a prize fighter you balding jerk,_ " thought George, swallowing her rage and fighting the urge to stand up and break his fat nose.

"Any sign of Dagger yet?" asked the balding jerk.

"Still nothing, the facial recognition software picked up one of those tattooed bastards on an external camera. He wanted to deal with it himself. Way easier with him gone anyway."

"Yeah can you imagine if we had of let her get that close to the relic while he was around?" Both gave a shudder.

She reached her target and gently grabbed the handle. Ever so carefully she lifted it out of the box. Inch by inch it slid out. For the first time ever, George found herself wishing for a smaller bag. Success! She backed out of the room, still keeping her movements tight and controlled so as not to attract any attention. Luckily, her nylon stockings slid smoothly on the hard, shiny floor, making movement much more fluent. She reached the door and slipped back out into the hall.

George desperately sucked in a string of deep breaths, she had all but forgotten to breathe the whole time she had been in the room. Triumphantly, George cantered back down the hall to Gudrik, desperate to get the whole ordeal over with. He held his hands up, frantically waving them, telling, warning, begging her to stop. But eager to get as far as possible from the scene of her great heist, his gestures were lost on her, she continued towards him. As George got closer he collapsed to his knees. Finally it clicked. "Ooh, right, right, amulet. Sorry," whispered George.

She stopped and dug through the bag for the amulet; purse, keys, phone, sunglasses, a full urban survival pack. Finally out it came, glowing wildly as if trying to save itself. George placed it into the glimmering night stone box and locked the lid in place. Gudrik's load lightened and he climbed to his feet. "Now get me far from this place," Gudrik grunted.

"You're welcome," she mumbled.

George slung the handbag over her shoulder and ran to Gudrik. She propped herself under his arm and began guiding him down the hall. The pair limped their way past the dark stairway which led back up to the penthouse and continued along the passage. Their shuffling echoed up and down the hall, playing tricks on George's anxious senses. She glanced over her shoulder at every echoed footstep. The corridor ended in a heavy, black door with a long, thin strip of reinforced glass for a window. George peeked through. She saw their salvation, a large emergency stairwell, the kind which would surely take them all the way to the ground. However, there were also two more armed guards on the other side of the door. "We need to find another way out," she whispered.

They made their way back up to the penthouse, back to the elevator. Finally some luck, it seemed to be working. Their ears suddenly pricked to the distinct drumming thud of boots stomping up the stairs. George glanced up and noticed a camera perched high on the wall, tattling their location to anyone caring to watch. "They're coming! Had to be the one second they were actually watching the screens," George grumbled loudly in a panicked tantrum. She looked at the L.C.D. screen above the elevator door. The car was still twenty floors away; there was no way it would be there in time. She glared in the direction of the incoming guards, then at Gudrik. He was barely able to walk, let alone help. There is no denying that at that particular moment in time, in that particular situation, George seriously considered dumping the relic there to fend for itself, if not for that tiny, nagging voice of morality in the back of her head of course.

Instead, George roared with frustration and turned. She dragged Gudrik up the stairs and out the large glass sliding door. Glancing back she noticed the two guards from the surveillance room and the two guards from the stairwell had converged at the elevator. The lift arrived and when the doors opened two more stepped out. Six guards, dressed in matching grey uniforms with their firearms drawn. Six men and six weapons. All to deal with a woman they know is unarmed and a relic that couldn't even walk? They were not planning on detaining her again, that was clear.

On the other side of the glass, George found herself in a roof top oasis. An awe inspiring view stretched before them. In every direction lay a spectacular sight to behold. The river snaked along one side, the city smothered the other. From that height both appeared far more glamorous and serene than they truly were at ground level. The rooftop gardens themselves were immaculately manicured beds crowded with a collage of exotic, vibrantly coloured flowers and tropical succulents. A long carpet of lush, green turf lay under foot and flowed to a luxurious gazebo, perched on the corner of the building, proudly overlooking the river. Along with a Jacuzzi and a small putting green, you could say it had everything. Everything except a way down that was. They were trapped. Guards back the way they came and nothing but a fatal drop in every other direction.

"Well, we're well and truly done!" George announced as the realisation sunk in. Gudrik shakily raised his head and looked around.

"No, this will do woman," he assured.

"Um, you can call me George. You know, rather than woman."

"You have done well George." The grim bastard almost smiled.

The six guards were by now at the large, glass doors. All had their guns trained on the pair. "Dagger is on his way up," she heard one mutter to the others.

"Hand over the amulet and the relic and you won't be harmed," yelled another gruffly. George pondered the offer for a few seconds, weighing up seemingly non-existent options. Summoning all the remaining strength he had, Gudrik suddenly snatched the night stone casket from George. "Don't move!" shouted one of the guards. With all his might Gudrik threw it over the railing and dropped to his knees.

The black casket hurtled down, twisting and rolling through the air and ending its journey with a splash. It sunk quickly and silently into the waters of the river below.

Gudrik's strength surged back. He climbed to his feet and rattled loose a fierce battle cry. The guards looked unsure how to react. George seized on the distraction and ran from firing line, straight to the glass paneling which fenced the roof. She peered down the sheer drop of glass, metal and concrete to Eagle Street far below. The guns stayed with Gudrik. George hoped and prayed with all of her might for a fire escape, a window washer's lift, anything. She saw nothing but a dead drop.

"Don't move or we'll fire," ordered one of the guards, his voice shook and his trigger finger twitched. Gudrik glared at him and swiftly shot towards George, who was now leaning over the stainless steel top rail, still scouring for an escape which didn't exist. The guards began to fire wildly at him. They may not have seemed overly competent, but they could shoot. Several projectiles tore through Gudrik's flesh as he moved, spattering blue onto the grass. Startled by the gunshots, George spun just in time to see the scruffy relic hurtling towards her. A bullet buried into Gudrik's knee. He stumbled. Before she had a chance to react, Gudrik crashed into George. His momentum forced her backwards, toppling them both indigently over the safety railing in a tangled mess of arms and legs.

The pair rocketed towards the ground. George screamed profanities so coarse that they blistered the very air around her. She scrambled and flailed as if trying to climb back up Gudrik's body. He wrapped himself tightly around her. " _Earvictius groot_ ," he bellowed.

His bullet wounds glowed, and the tender flesh surrounding them began to transform into cold, speckled granite. The stone rapidly spread along his limbs and across his abdomen, searing with pain as it went. He cringed and grated his teeth. As it spread across his chest and onto George she began to scream as though he were slashing chunks of flesh from her. Thankfully, the agony did not linger and in the blink of an eye, stone had completely swallowed both of them. No matter how hard she tried George could not move. It was both claustrophobic and frightening.

The living statues whistled closer and closer to the ground. Until......SMASH! They crashed unhindered onto the roof of a parked car. Glass and shrapnel exploded from the vehicle as they tore through the chassis and into the road beneath.

Just as painfully as it had spread, the rock retreated returning the flesh to its vulnerable state, leaving it sensitive and speckled with sweat. Both lay for a moment of recovery. Their chests heaved deeply as they came to terms with what had just happened. Gudrik crawled out of the mangled wreck and climbed to his feet. "Are you harmed?" he grunted, lifting George to her feet.

She was pale and disheveled with blank shock clouding her eyes. Time was of the essence. Gudrik slapped her across the cheek. Fire filled her blank eyes. She swung a punch, which he avoided. He grabbed her shoulders and repeated his question, "Are you harmed?"

"I-I'm confused as hell," she responded, panicked, but glad to be alive. "But fine. I think. Yes fine. Definitely ok," she stammered nervously, quickly checking her body over for injuries and pulling her dress down to cover the lacy black panties on show to the world. Her hand quickly went to her locket, checking it was still there. "Was I made of stone then?" Gudrik ignored her question. His attention was otherwise occupied. By that stage, a huge crowd of onlookers and good Samaritans had gathered around their impact point.

"We must keep moving."

He dragged his hand along a twisted shard of the car's metal shell and spoke, " _Unjallius_."

Gudrik groaned as huge, white wings tore from the flesh of his back in a puff of loose feathers and a splatter of blue. They stretched to a massive, elegant span and quivered in the sun. The suit jacket and shirt were left torn and tattered, spattered, stained and hanging in shreds from Gudrik's muscled shoulders. The stunned onlookers stepped back in awe. He grasped the confused woman tightly and with a few powerful beats of his mighty wings launched the two of them into the sky.

George clung tightly as they whipped and glided through the city. They weaved between the highrise buildings, slowly gaining altitude and suddenly plunging toward the ground as Gudrik negotiated the unpredictable up-drafts above the busy city streets. George was not as terrified as her brain insisted she should be. She loved the speed, she loved the wind and she loved the gaping faces of the populous below. It all exhilarated her. Gudrik's grasp was gentle and caring, but still so firm and reliable that there was no fear of falling.

Finally, Gudrik surged up and breached the top of the sky scrapers. The onlookers below were now nothing more than ants. George released her grip on Gudrik and shielded her eyes. The sun was much fiercer up there without the buildings' protection. She swivelled and squirmed as she gathered bearings. "Land on those cliffs over there," George said pointing at a small lookout point above the river.

Gudrik dived and swooped in, gently putting the two of them down on the grass in a rapid flutter of tiny wing beats. "Gratitude," Gudrik grunted as the wings collapsed into a sprinkling of blood.

"You're welcome," she replied. A strange look crept across George's face, a coy curiosity. "Why didn't you just do the whole, graceful angel wings thing when we were plummeting from the building?" she blurted, "You know, rather than turn me into a rock." He simply scowled and shrugged. "It was kind of embarrassing crawling out of the car wreck in front of everyone with my dress hiked up around my waist?" Gudrik glanced over his shoulder, ever wary.

George looked the relic up and down. It was much taller now that it stood straight and strong. She had torn feelings about this relic. Or creature. Or whatever the hell it was. Every fibre of her being wanted to lay blame for everything at its feet, but if it wasn't for it there was no telling what would have happened. George wanted to both embrace and slap him. _"It or him."_ In the end, rushed by the distant wail of sirens, she made a decision.

"Come with me, I live just a few blocks away," she said motioning down the road. Gudrik paused a moment and then nodded gratefully.

"I will see you to your home safely," he replied and began to walk in the direction she had indicated. Despite her reservations about Gudrik, she would see Tabitha again thanks to him, and for that George would be eternally grateful.

As they strolled down the road, George looked at the tattered remnants of jacket and shirt still flapping about Gudrik's shoulders in the breeze. "You look about my ex's size. I still have some of his clothes you can use."

"Gratitude," he rumbled.

Evaporation

" _Any obstacle can be overcome when one flows like mist."_

Tabitha answered the door with a smile. "Meeeeeoww," she purred, long, black whiskers streaking her cheeks.

"Hello baby, did you miss me?" George asked, scooping her up and smothering her with kisses.

"So.....interesting day then?" greeted Edna sarcastically, eyebrow arched at George's windswept hair.

"Ha," she pouted, "You don't even know the half of it." Edna glared at her with that all-knowing gaze older, wiser people give when they are just about to school you.

"Mummy, tee bee," squealed Tabitha clapping her hands. George wandered into the apartment and looked at the television. She bit her lip. An announcer prattled excitedly over shaky footage of Gudrik and his majestic wings carrying her off into the sky. George's heart began to miss every second beat.

"So who's your new friend?" asked Edna, eyeing off Gudrik, who was still standing politely in the hall, barefoot and shirtless.

"Oh sorry, this is Gudrik," she replied, beckoning him in.

"Nice to meet you Gudrik," replied Edna, picking up his hand and shaking it. "Next question, what is your new friend?" she continued, looking him up and down and rubbing her hands unashamedly over his chest and stomach muscles as she ushered him in.

"No idea Edna." Her attention shifted to him, "Gudrik, I believe you promised me an explanation to all of," George paused for a second, searching for the right words. "This," she finally added waving her hands theatrically. He examined the room.

"I am a Varth-lokkr," he rumbled. The room was silent as his his eyes darted from woman to woman. "A Magnus?" The faces remained blank. "Veneficus? Stregone? Djinn?" He paused and thought on it, curling his lips in vague disapproval. His mouth opened to continue, but Gudrik's attention was suddenly stolen. He looked up to see a familiar face on the televisiom, a face which halted him mid breath and sent his so far level temperament swinging violently. He lurched for the television attempting to snatch the man from out of it, his hand struck only glass.

"That's Julian Drake," said George, finally slapping Edna's probing hands off Gudrik. He was hosting a press conference in response to the day's very public events.

" _Thank you all for coming. Since my youth I have lived with a secret, a secret which today has managed to bubble its way to the surface. It is a secret I have kept simply because no one would have believed me anyway, had today's events not occurred. My line of ancestors can be traced back as far as history itself. We have long been charged as guardians. Along my bloodline has been passed the responsibility, the charge, the duty to protect the people of the world from a dark threat. A threat long believed to be myth by our society. The threat of Varth-lokkr or Warlocks."_

George and Edna's eyes widened, that was a name that they recognised.

" _Wizards, sorcerers, demons and witches. All are familiar with the mythology attached to these beings. The dark creatures which are the source of these tales and many more are in fact real and much, much worse than any tale could ever do justice. They once rained death and destruction upon the world and for an age they were unchallenged, until my ancestor rose against them. I believed them to be extinct, but this attack proves otherwise. Six good men died today._

Once again the world is shadowed in terror. I swear to uphold my bloodline's ancient charge and once again rid the world of this Warlock, even if it costs my life. I posses the knowledge, resources and weaponry, passed down through my family to combat this monster and I have agreed to work with the authorities in a symbiotic relationship to achieve our shared goal.

I urge everyone to be wary of this creature. It is an expert in lies and an artisan of deceit. I hold grave fears for the woman seen with it in the footage. No doubt it has convinced her by this time that it is in fact the victim in this situation. However, this creature will leave nothing but a trail of bodies in its wake. I implore her to distance herself from the creature immediately and seek help. The instant it has what it needs, she will join the dead, along with all whom she holds dear.

Anyone with information please contact the police immediately. I will be liaising closely with them and have offered my private forces to assist, as well as my elite paladins. These paladins have trained their whole lives, just as their fore fathers did, in preparation for the day this very situation arose. They are more than prepared to combat this creature and will prevail. Thank you.

The crowd of reporters erupted into a sea of flashes and waving hands. A chorus of questions roared, none being heard above the others.

The mood in Edna's lounge changed dramatically. There was now an uneasy silence as everyone digested what they had just heard. The shaky truths which George had made with her cynical subconscious had just been shattered. The air hung heavy with tension. George and Edna shot conspiring looks at each other across the room. _"What on Earth was I thinking, bringing this creature into my home?"_ thought George _._

"So does this mean that for once, I'm not the oldest person in the room?" japed Edna, awkwardly chipping at the silence. The women both chuckled uneasily, but not Gudrik. He sat still and silent, visibly shaking with anger.

"Ahh, Gudrik, why don't you come with me? We'll get you some new clothes and you can be on your way," urged George, shooting a 'you know what to do' look at Edna.

"Aye," he grunted, distant and angry. As soon as the door clicked closed Edna leapt for the phone.

George disappeared into her closet. All sorts of rummaging and crashing echoed as she searched. Eventually she reappeared holding a cardboard box labelled 'Brad's Clothes'. "I packed these up furiously and never did anything with them other than put them back in the closet," she said, her face part reminiscence and part anger. George slashed at the tape with a small, blue handled kitchen knife. "Stupid and sentimental, I know. I think I still hope the asshole may come back one day." Gudrik gave a short cough.

"The ability to forgive speaks to the quality of your character. Never be sorry for it. Few people, including me possess it," he rumbled quickly, the whole time avoiding eye contact.

George looked at the supposed Warlock, intrigued by the apparent wisdom which oozed from it. Or him? He spoke little, but when he did the words carried weight. If you stripped back the wild hair and beard Gudrik looked to be no older than her. She handed him some blue jeans and a t-shirt. "You can get changed in there." She motioned to the bathroom.

"Is there any truth to what Drake said Gudrik?" she asked through the wall after a short pause. Her suspicions had finally become too heavy to bear. Gudrik appeared at the bathroom door wearing only the jeans. He drew a deep but frustrated breath; he was at the edge of breaking.

"I have not lived a perfect life. It was and most likely still is a brutal world. To help people I had to be brutal as well. I have fought many battles and killed many, many men. Most deserved it, but I am sure that more than a few who met their death at my hands did not." He paused a moment, solemn and dark. "The most depraved man I ever killed was a warlord who waged a ridiculous holy war on a peaceful land of people because they held a different god. H-he would......the things he did to the children.........those things will never leave me. That is the heritage your Julian Drake boasts of."

"So his distant ancestor was a scumbag, doesn't mean he is too," replied George. Gudrik cocked one eyebrow at her. "Ok so he kept you prisoner, he's not completely innocent."

"His every word is a lie. Did I kill those six men on the roof as he claimed?"

"Well I'm not sure; it is all a bit of a haze. I fell off a skyscraper for Christ's sake." Gudrik shook his head and bared his teeth.

"It was not his ancestors which eradicated my kind, it was he. My only regret is allowing him to live on that day I killed his father." He stopped and pulled the t-shirt on backwards. Now it was George who cocked her eyebrow.

"So you're telling me that Drake is a Warlock too?" The word 'Warlock' seemed to stick in her throat.

"No, mortal," replied the Warlock as though it was a stupid question. "His real name is Kyran. Well...it was."

"That's where your story falls apart." Her voice was becoming agitated. "If what you say is true he must be well over a hundred years old or something."

Gudrik hardened his tone in response, "Believe what you will, but he is the monster who killed my kind and survived the following generations as a parasite, and it's well over a hundred years."

George had no idea what to say. The story was a lie, it had to be, yet there was so much passion in his statement. Then, wasn't that exactly what one would expect from an evil Warlock, a master deceiver? George's evaluation was soon cut short as a distraction rang. The sound of sirens closed in around them, stealing their attention. George ran to the window to see a mix of flashing squad cars and unmarked black sedans crowding the building. _"Thank you Edna."_

"Damn, I thought we would have had more time before they identified me from the footage. It's time to hand ourselves in and sort this out Gudrik," suggested George, praying he would take her advice and end this.

"No we must leave," he growled franticly. "These men are not to be trusted, Kyran has turned them." George rolled her eyes.

"Gudrik, things are different now. They are police out there, not his men. If you are innocent the system will protect you." Gudrik glared out the window watching the authorities surrounding the building, his doubts festered. He had seen firsthand the misinformed hysteria which mankind was capable of. Fear drives people to react without guidance. It was only out of respect for George and what she had done for him that he even considered what she was suggesting. Just as he was ready to reconcile himself with trusting her advice, a gunshot rang out down the hall of the building. George and Gudrik both sprang to alarm.

"Tabitha!" George screamed. Gudrik accepted her distress as permission to do things his way. He snatched the blue handled kitchen knife from her.

" _Karniu_!" he cried as he slashed its blade down his arm.

The blood glowed. Gudrik twitched and his body mass exploded, instantly shredding yet another set of clothes. Bones cracked, skin tore and muscles stretched as he shifted agonisingly into a large, black beast. The groans of pain changed into a feral growl as his vocal pipes grew. When the process had run its course, Gudrik dwarfed George and had an appearance which sat somewhere between that of a man and a bear. The beast snapped and salivated, leaving George to wonder whether or not Gudrik was even in charge of the gruesome monster. If she truly had any idea how tenuously Gudrik clung to his humanity, George would have fled in terror. The snarling monstrosity leant forward slamming its hands on the ground with a heavy thud. The wooden floor crunched as it dug its claws in twitching and coiling its thick muscles. Then without any warning the beast launched itself straight through the closed door.

Splinters sprayed out in all directions as the beast tore down the hallway toward the open door of Edna's apartment. It burst into the room. Through the sharpened, yellow hue of the beast's vision Gudrik saw two policemen and several of Kyran's grey men standing over Edna's lifeless body. One was holding Tabitha by the arm. She was screaming and blubbering in a confused terror. The men, whom had obviously by then noticed the hulking bear-human hybrid growling in the doorway, frantically drew their weapons and began firing. Gudrik leapt around the room with blurring speed. The shadows seemed to swarm to the creature as it moved, shrouding it. He avoided most of the initial shots and sprung from the wall onto the ceiling as if he had cast free the laws of gravity. The long talon like claws ripped through the brick and plasterboard as if they were butter, casting shrapnel and dust about the room as he scurried. Focusing on his targets he crawled along the ceiling on all fours, faster than the men could follow.

Spurred by the feral instincts of the beast, yet controlled by the Warlock's concern for the child, he launched into the group of men. With bloody grace he tore through them in a rabid flurry of claws and teeth, all the while desperately avoiding the delicate prize which stood amongst them.

Tabitha clenched her eyes tightly closed. Still she heard the screams, the snarls, the shots, the tearing of flesh and she felt the warmth of blood.

George entered to a scene of utter devastation. Her stomach turned, but she fought it back. Gudrik stood once again in his human form, naked and dripping with blood. He was surrounded by the mangled signs of carnage. Metallic taps rang out as bullet wounds spat their projectiles with puffs of blue spray and seeped closed. In his arms Gudrik delicately cradled a blood spattered Tabitha.

George screamed. The bodies panicked her, especially the ones with badges. Her protective instincts crept in. She shut the door to hide the crime and ran over to Gudrik, snatching her daughter from his blood soaked arms; they still quivered with the adrenaline of battle.

"She is unharmed," he growled drawing deep laboured breaths. George furiously wiped her distraught daughter clean and slathered her in cuddles and comfort. Holding Tabitha close to her chest George surveyed the mess of blood and distorted bodies on the ground, all the while still fighting to keep the contents of her stomach down.

"You can't just kill people Gudrik, there are consequences. These men have families.......well, had families."

Visibly annoyed at being scolded by a woman a millennia his younger, Gudrik bit back.

" _These men,_ killed her," he pointed at Edna lifelessly slumped in her chair, "and they would have killed the child too had I not interfered. The lawmen may have been honourable under normal circumstances, but you do not understand the power of his rhetoric," he shouted, slamming his fist on a nearby cabinet. "He convinces the ruling powers of my evil and sells them on his heroism and piety. The soldiers simply follow their misguided orders without question, as any good soldier must. That's how it happened then and it's how it will happen today. I am not pleased you were dragged into this, but it seems that the fates have chosen us to fight this battle together. You gave me my freedom and in honour of that I will keep the both of you alive as long as I can keep my head on my shoulders." George was taken aback by that comment. She had never had anyone dedicate their life to her. "But never question my methods of doing so again. Any hesitation on my part could end in your death, or even more tragically, the child's."

The fire was suddenly back in George's eyes. "I may not have been through all of...well...whatever _this_ is before," George screamed, waving her free hand dramatically, "but I understand the time we are in much better than you. People's beliefs are not so easily warped and controlled by fear as they were in your time. We are more intelligent, more civilised, more free thinking and more capable of making our own decisions."

Gudrik's patience had worn through by this stage. He didn't have time to waste. "You only demonstrate ignorance and arrogance with what you say. People are no more or less gullible than they have ever been. It seems they simply have a more inflated opinion of themselves today. If you cannot cope with what I will, and must do then walk away now and I will happily wash my hands and conscience of your deaths, which will come swiftly, believe me."

"Fine!" George yelled storming toward the door, child in hand. "Julian Drake was right about you, you are a monster!"

She furiously ripped the door open, nearly tearing it off its hinges. Abruptly a large, dark man loomed in the doorway and effortlessly bundled her back into the apartment where he clasped her and Tabitha tightly captive. Instinct moved Gudrik as he glanced for something, anything sharp. On the small table beside Edna's chair he spied her sewing scissors. In one swift motion he snatched them up and slashed their blade deeply across his bare chest. " _Spirtis-fawn_." A long flurry of black tentacles burst from his chest, twisting and reaching their way across the room straight at the mysterious intruder. The dark appendages wrapped tightly around his arms, coiling and clenching, until with a vice like grip they pried his grasp off George and Tabitha. They leapt free and took refuge in a corner of the room.

" _Histfush,"_ the stranger whispered. His entire form collapsed in on itself, distorting to a puff of hazy, blue mist. The tentacles flopped to the ground with a dull, moist thud. The cloud drifted across the room as the tentacles lashed at it. Blue swirls broke off with every strike. Suddenly it pulsed back into human form and the stranger once again stood before them. The twisted mass of tentacles snapped quickly back into Gudrik's chest. George still huddled in the corner, doing her best to shield Tabitha. She shot glances between the door and the stranger, wondering if she could make a break for it. The stranger was still too close.

Gudrik shouted at the stranger in tones which were foreign to George, all hisses and grunts. The stranger then replied in turn using the same obscure gibberish. The defiant shouting back and forth continued, until gradually their demeanour began to relax and an air of peace took the violence ravaged room.

"You must leave now Gudrik of The Twelve. There are more. Many more," said the mysterious stranger, switching his speech to thickly accented English.

"Who are you?" Gudrik rumbled sternly.

"Time is of the essence Varth-lokkr. There will be an explanation later, but right now I have a promise to keep, a promise to Scurt of The Twelve." He pulled a small metal and leather trinket from his coat pocket. Gudrik's eyes lit up. He recognised the peace offering instantly.

"Scurt's wand," grunted Gudrik.

George eyed the item. It was a small golden hilted knife. Ornate designs adorned its blade while the beautiful image of a naked, winged woman formed the handle. He ran his finger along the blade, still razor sharp. Its scabbard was a thick leather wrist cuff with runes inlaid into it. Gudrik took it from him gratefully and strapped it onto his left wrist.

George felt the situation had died down enough to emerge from her huddle; she was trying very hard to get back to her rage. "How on earth is that a wand?"

"Wand is spirit tongue for blade," Gudrik grunted, admiring his gift.

" _Spirit tongue?"_ wondered George.

"Each of us crafted their own to help use the craft. Mine was lost," grumbled the Warlock, drawing it again to admire. The blade glimmered flawlessly as if exaggerating the dim light of the room.

"As stories pass from generation to generation they inevitably change. In this case, the term 'wand' carried through, its appearance didn't," interrupted the stranger, visibly trying to hurry along what could have become a very long discussion. "We must get moving."

"What is The Twelve?" George asked gruffly. She was sick of getting half answers which simply raised more questions. She was ignored.

The stranger turned to George. "You are also in danger. The authorities are at panic stations. The likes of him has never even been considered," he said pointing at Gudrik. "They have no idea how to even handle the concept and have turned, in sheer desperation, to the closest thing they have to an expert, Julian Drake. As far as he is concerned you know too much and he has flagged you as part of the threat. I will not take you against your will, but I suggest that you allow me to help."

Right then, George wished more than anything that she had never even thought about that training job or gone anywhere near the Drake Mineral Resources building. She wished she were back in her noisy, chaos filled classroom, where the greatest risk to her life was Lachlan's snot covered fingers. Once again she found herself facing a life altering decision which needed to be dealt with on the spot. Once again she found herself blaming Gudrik for the situation she was in. While it wasn't as black and white as George's mind coloured it, blame is a much simpler emotion to embrace in times of stress.

The stranger removed his long coat and threw it to Gudrik. He snatched it from the air and covered his bloody, naked body before following the stranger down to the building's parking garage. He made no show of looking back, but Gudrik was acutely aware of George's footsteps trailing them. "My name is Kahn," said the stranger as he opened the large side door of a battered, white van.

Kahn's dark appearance had so far hidden his features amongst the poor light, but as the van opened light flooded out revealing him fully. His head was bald and gleamed in the light. His features were square and bold; at a guess, George placed his heritage as North African. He sported a thick black goatee and eyes of a brown so rich you might have called them black as well. George noticed intricate strings of tattoo creeping out of his long sleeved shirt and spilling onto his wrists. Similar strings peeped out of the shirt's neckline. His face was young but littered with raised scars, and the whites of his dark eyes were tinged yellow and seemed to suggest the weariness of a long life. Once the three fugitives were inside he climbed into the driver's seat and started the van. "There are others surrounding this place," Gudrik warned.

"They have been dealt with," responded Kahn.

As they drove out of the parking garage Gudrik stared anxiously out the window. Grown men scattered the street, huddled into foetal positions rocking, wailing and sobbing. "They met the Mother of Bears," smiled Kahn, "as will you."

"Where are we going?" asked George, trying to ease her suspicious nerves.

"Somewhere safe. It is very remote and more than a bit primitive, but it's well off the grid and is your best chance for survival," Kahn replied. The response didn't ease her mind in the slightest. In fact it only provoked a collection of new concerns.

"What! You mean us to run and hide like children!" snorted Gudrik, his eyes alive with rage. "I have waited far too long already. No more! I will have his head before the sun rises."

"That is not possible Varth-lokkr. We must get away and let things settle."

"No!" growled the Warlock. Kahn sighed loudly.

"The mortals are stirred by Kyran's fear mongering. The world has changed, changed in ways you cannot yet understand. Anything you do will be seen by the world instantly with no context applied, as with your escape. An attack would do nothing more than add fuel to his lies," replied Kahn.

"Dead tongues cannot lie."

"I can't let you. He's not even in this city anymore Gudrik."

Gudrik slumped back into his seat, his expression was stone. "Your trick is impressive Kahn, but you still breathe thanks only to my mercy. Do not think for a second you posses the strength to stop me," he threatened.

"I don't need to stop you Varth-lokkr. The oath does it for me." Gudrik fidgeted in his seat. "You swore to defend the innocent. In your current blind rage many innocents, including these two, would surely die, if you even found your target. I know you would never dishonour the blood oath over something as petty as a personal vendetta."

Gudrik went silent. He clearly had no recourse to combat Kahn's logic. "You speak like my uncle did. A few extra days will not hurt after centuries of waiting," Gudrik allowed, as he crossed his arms. However, before he let the matter lie he added, "But know that there is nothing petty about my vendetta."

"Understood," replied Kahn, flashing a smile in the rear-vision mirror. "I have spare clothes behind your seat Gudrik."

Gudrik reached back and grabbed them. He slipped the coat off and began dressing awkwardly in the restricted space. As he fumbled with the zipper of the jeans Gudrik briefly caught George's eyes on him. His lips curled into a cheeky smile.

"Don't flatter yourself. It was right there, I had to look," she snapped, turning to the window.

The van wound through the sprawl of urban streets and began turning north. It was a surprisingly quick trip through the city, there was almost no traffic on the road. George found it eerie to see the usually manic streets so quiet. The footage of Gudrik's escape had shaken people. It had been blasted across every channel and social media outlet imaginable. The masses were not sure what to make of this strange creature and when their confusion was coupled with Kyran's incitement it sent all but the bravest into hiding. Fortunately, the deserted roads gave Kahn a heightened awareness of his surroundings. He noticed a grey four by four which had been following them since shortly after they left George's building. It was being very careful to stay a long way back, but on the empty streets it stood out like a glowing beacon.

"We've got company," Kahn called. "It will certainly be Drake's men." Gudrik looked back. A distant vehicle was not something which he deemed as a threat.

"Why would they not just attack?" he added dismissively.

"They are still wary of you Gudrik and Drake would never waste an opportunity to locate one of our safe houses. With you free his agents will appear when we least expect it, so be on your guard." Kahn began looking around, "We'll need to lose them."

"You're a Warlock; just change our faces or something? Let them catch up and see they followed the wrong car," suggested George, stroking Tabitha's hair.

"No," was all she got in a grumbled reply from Gudrik.

"It's been done," said Kahn, recognising that she wanted more. "I've seen it, but once changed you could never return. Plus what you look like is unique, part of a larger package. Mind, form and spirit, it's all one. If he gave you someone's face and body, their memories and personality come with it, mixing with your own." He paused for a second checking the mirror again, "No, we need another way to lose them."

Gudrik casually sat forward, turned to his window and thrust his fist through it. Glass sprayed from the moving vehicle, peppering the road beneath them and crunching under the van's tyres. George and Kahn both jumped and snapped their attention toward him. The van swerved violently off the road before being quickly corrected in a screech of tyres. Both glared at the Warlock, too confused to speak. Thankfully Tabitha, who had finally nodded off, simply fidgeted and slept away, oblivious to the whole ordeal. Gudrik hung his arm out the window and dripped blood from his glass shredded fist onto the passing street as the wounds leached closed. He then watched intently behind as their grey stalker closed in. _"Qriktsus sune,"_ he whispered under his breath.

A huge wave of stone exploded out of the road right in front of the trailing car in a cloud of gravel and dust. It curled and slammed down on their pursuer with devastating force, crushing it like a pancake between its rocky crest and the street. George was by no means weak in the stomach, but she felt a cold sickness wash over her at the brutality of the incident. Task fulfilled and void of remorse, the massive slab slowly recoiled back into the earth, leaving nothing more than a large hole in the bitumen and a twisted car wreck.

Gudrik turned and settled again in his seat. Wind whistled through the broken window, wildly flicking at his untamed hair and beard. George still hadn't blinked, her eyes big, blue saucers. Gudrik had so far been completely unmoved by any of the gruesome sights which had littered the day. There was something disturbing about his complete lack of empathy. How could someone so completely desensitised to death be anything but a sociopath? Her doubts crept back up her spine and Drake's warning rang in her mind.

"Gudrik," Kahn prompted, attracting his attention. Gudrik looked up at him and Kahn demonstrated how his window rolled up and down. The Warlock released a deep grunt in response. His face went a faint shade of pink, the first sign of humanity through his stone shell.

The rest of the journey was all but silent. Tabitha slept, George dozed, Kahn drove and Gudrik stared vigilantly out the window, taking in the vast, sprawling landscape of the new world. It was vastly different to the lands he had seen before. The night sky sparked memories of the old life which had been ripped from him. He was half a world away from the land of his birth, a millennia removed from all whom he loved. Gudrik took the time to assure himself and his fallen kin that he had not abandoned his quest for revenge. It had merely been delayed.

## I am Gudrik

I wasn't always hated. I wasn't always feared. My eyes weren't even blue on the day I was born. In fact things have changed so much throughout my years that I can scarcely even remember the man I once was, the stranger sharing my memories. I guess the same is true for any man, he goes into the forge a raw lump of steel and it's the events of his life that truly shape him like a smith's hammer. Some hammer blows are decisive and intentional, others are beyond control, but both impact with equal effect. In the end every man stands a different creation, all comparable in splendour. Sword, hammer, spear, plough, goblet, crown, all serve their purpose, all are important. It's just.....well, sometimes a man does not become the creation he intends to be.

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 numbers 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.

Gudrik entered the shack's back door via four creaky, timber steps. Inside, the home consisted of a large central room and a single small bedroom. The main room was sectioned into kitchen, dining and living areas. A crude wood fired stove, a small wash tub and a long wooden dining table filled the western half of the space. A section of empty floor leading up to the front door was left as a sitting area. Against the southern wall stood a large silky oak cabinet which contained a small collection of arms, a few blades and bows, which Gudrik recognised to be of very fine quality, and a collection of modern weaponry which was foreign to him. Through the northern doorway lay the small bedroom, its floorboards hidden beneath a scattering of random mattresses and bedding material.

To Gudrik the accommodation was perfect, reminiscent of how he had lived much of his life. In fact he marvelled at the genius and luxury of the primitive boiler and crude pipe setup of the shower.

George on the other hand, had just wandered out of the car with Tabitha in her arms thinking Gudrik had forgotten all about her. She was appalled by the conditions of their refuge. She grunted, pouted and bitched about how it was inhumane for a child to stay in such third world conditions. She whined and whinged about every detail as she trudged along behind Gudrik following him through the beach house and out onto the front verandah. There her rant was silenced.

George stepped out of the front door and soaked in the incredible view which lay before them. The moon hovered majestically over the Pacific Ocean and cast its haunting light over the waves as they gracefully rolled in and crashed onto the beach. An unblemished blanket of sand sprawled out below; white in the moonlight at the feet of a line of twisted, swaying Casuarina trees. Their needles lightly tapped together with each breath of wind. The sky was clear and the stars shone uninhibited like a million holes pierced through a black blanket. A cool breeze rolled in across the water easing the stifling heat of the Queensland summer night and filled their nostrils with sweet, salty air.

"Aye," said Gudrik in reply to the silence.

"I guess this place isn't all bad," she relented, "But I'm not sure I will ever be able to use that disgusting toilet."

"Sooner or later you will," chuckled Gudrik. It was a deep, crackling rumble, and the first true laugh she had heard from him. Another welcomed hint of humanity.

When they walked back into the shack George and Gudrik were invited to sit around the table with the others while Malaki and Neasa furiously prepared a meal. It had been such an action packed day that George had not eaten anything since her sunrise breakfast with Tabitha. Now as the adrenaline started to trickle away, George suddenly noticed a burning hunger. Her stomach let out a loud gurgle, as if screaming for attention. Everyone's gaze shifted and she instantly went red. "It's been hours since I ate last," she piped, trying to excuse herself. George turned quickly and looked at Gudrik. "Do you eat? Warlocks I mean, do you eat or are you like vampires?"

The question was partially curiosity, but mostly it was a blatant effort to draw attention away from her vocal stomach. "Aye," grunted Gudrik. Her eyes stayed on him and he realised she expected more. "Yet I have not eaten a bite in around, hmmmmm......" He looked to Kahn for guidance.

"Around ten centuries since you were taken," piped in the Inscribed leader.

George's jaw dropped in disbelief, "Ten centuries??" she blurted.

"Close enough to, give or take a few decades," Kahn added. George closed her mouth, but her eyes remained as dinner plates.

"I feel hunger just as you do and have felt it desperately for longer than I can remember. I don't require food though," rumbled the Warlock.

"No such thing as vampires either," Teefa piped in putting her feet up on the table. "We started those stories long ago in Wallachia." George looked confused.

"Romania. That's what it's called now," Neasa added from the stove.

"Yeah....anyway, we overheard one of Kyran's men in a tavern mouthing off about how he stumbled upon him feeding on Gudrik. So we added a few of our own tweaks and stoked the flames. The wildfire spread," continued Teefa.

"Only time we've ever managed to muster a populous to help us," added Kahn.

"Wait, wait, feeding on Gudrik?" George's face looked like she had just bitten into a lemon.

"Drinking his blood," exclaimed Teefa, "How do you think he's lived so long? He still went under his father's standard back then, the old Blessed Dragon. Son of the Dragon they called him, Dracula in their native tongue."

"So, you guys are responsible for the tales of Dracula?" she said doubtfully.

Teefa nodded, "Well the original ones, it kind of grew itself from there. Some guy wrote a book about it centuries later."

"So no chance the glittery skinned teens are real then?" joked George with a giggle. The rest of the room stared blankly at her, either unfamiliar or unimpressed with the reference. "O-kay. So how many of you Warlocks are there?" Everyone looked at her blankly for a second before the Inscribed erupted in laughter. George went red again. "What?"

"They are not Warlocks," Gudrik said focusing on Kahn, "They speak the tongue, but are not of The Twelve. Last I knew there were no more Varth-lokkr."

Kahn looked at the other Inscribed and stood up, the laughter quickly died away. He removed his shirt and the others followed in suit. All had large artistic patterns of glyphs and runes tattooed over their bodies in a rich, blue ink. Long strings of characters swept off the centre mass of the designs, spiralling in numerous trails. The flickering candle light danced off their bodies and the shadows seemed to give life to the scribblings. "We are inscribed with armour to protect us," said Kahn.

There were many similarities in the armours, but no two were the same. All seemed to consist of similar symbols and patterns. None contained any pictures. To George's eyes they were beautiful to behold, and clearly not random. There were geometric patterns beautifully interlaced and built off one another. However, to Gudrik's eyes there was far more to behold. They were alive with meaning. He read words in the art, old words, ancient words. Words he was sure no one from this age could read. Words of the spirit tongue.

Spirit tongue was predominately an oral language. It was not easily written, which was probably the main factor in its disappearance. Despite sounding like short and sharp grunts, writing the words was extremely complex. Even the shortest of words, consisted of long strings of glyphs, runes and symbols. Altering the shape or pattern in which symbols were formed could even change their meaning and intention or infer a purpose.

Kahn had the most intricate designs and there were far more clusters inscribed on him than any of the others. They expanded from simple, spiral patterns on his chest and back into long twisting strings which entwined and crept down his extremities. When he moved the blue tentacles of text seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

Dorian's armour started like his father's, with spirals growing from the center of his chest and back. But they were far less crowded. Branching from both center spirals were four chains in a thicker curling script. Two snaked their way tightly down each arm while the other two slipped down into his jeans. Gudrik could see them emerge and creep out the cuffs onto the tops of his bare feet. Unlike Kahn's armour, Dorian's did not end at his wrists. Instead it swept on, tightly covering his hands, palms and fingers.

Paw's armour was much more heavily concentrated into thick weaves which ran down his back in uneven drips, as if it were a thick, viscous liquid poured over him. On his chest was only a small spiral covering his right pectoral muscle. Strings flailed wildly off it and stretched down his right arm and hand, branching in the way veins would beneath his skin.

Unlike the men, Teefa's armour was much finer with thin, delicate scripts which ran along her collar bones before plunging sharply between her perky, young breasts. There the two rune strings met a third which flowed between them. They ran parallel down the centre of her abdominal muscles, splitting only to snake around her naval and then flow at angles into her denim shorts. There the central line curled into a tight, complex spiral. Both of the outside chains reappeared running straight down the back of her legs, ending only when they licked at her heels. Two other fine spirals also hovered at the base of her spine, just showing above her waistband.

Malaki had no artwork on his back and chest other than a thin chain around his neck. His arms however were a different matter. They were all but completely covered from shoulder to wrist in ordered, clustered blue sleeves. The text flicked and lashed over the thick, sculpted curves of his muscles like tongues of flame.

Like Teefa, Neasa's armour was much more feminine. It started on top of her left shoulder with a small wheel of runes. From there four chains broke away, snaking in different paths across her back and wrapping around under her right breast. As they passed under Neasa's arm, one fine wisp of script crept a little higher, running up the soft curve and passing just under her nipple. The four chains then swept across her stomach and down the inside of her left hip bone where they disappeared into her skirt. Only one delicate chain emerged, trickling down the back of her leg before curling halfway down to the inside of her thigh. Two tight spirals also adorned her forearms; a single chain escaped each, the right running up to her shoulder, the left running down to her palm.

George noticed Gudrik's gaze drifting from one tattooed body to the next. She failed to realise that he was actually reading the armour. She noted that his look seemed to linger on Teefa and Neasa. Jealousy took her, though she could not really say why. "Boobies!" squeaked Tabitha, her eyes fluttering on mum's shoulder as she woke.

"Clearly neither of you have had children," George bitched at the firm perky breasts. Teefa's mouth snapped open, venom dripping from her teeth, but she was instantly silenced by a small gesture from Kahn. She exhaled loudly, gave a chilling glare and slipped her shirt back on. The others did the same, except for Dorian. He was the most chiselled of the group and enjoyed displaying it.

"You Warlocks stand part man, part spirit," Kahn began, "We on the other hand lie somewhere between man and Warlock. I knew your uncle Scurt. He took me in and treated me as if I were family when I was in need. Eventually he trained me in the old ways of the Varth-lokkr, which had been long forgotten." Kahn lowered himself back into his seat. Malaki and Neasa returned to the dinner preparation.

"Scurt always spoke of wanting to share The Twelve's craft with the world. He felt if it was in reach of the average man, people would no longer fear you." He smiled warmly as he spoke of Gudrik's uncle. "He came up with the idea to tattoo spirit tongue commands onto my skin using his blood. I became his guinea pig."

George was intrigued. "Did it work?" she interrupted excitedly. With a snort she realised the stupidity of her question and wished to suck it back in. Kahn and Gudrik both stared as she flushed red.

"I know, I know. My bad, please continue," she submitted as she hid her face in her hands.

"Obviously it worked to some extent, but the.....," he paused for a second and looked at George, " _schpals_."

"Spells?" she blurted.

"No, _schpals_!" The Inscribed corrected her pronunciation in chorus. " _Schp-arl-s_!"

"Spirit tongue for word," explained Gudrik.

"Told you we needed to stop using that term," grumbled Malaki, "People think we are Harry fucking Potter when they hear it. We just call them blue words."

"The _schpals_ , or blue words are watered down versions of what The Twelve were capable of." Kahn looked apologetically at Gudrik, "Sorry, are capable of. They differ from one Inscribed to the next, but they have given us an edge over the years."

"Kyran even tried it. Never worked though, he doesn't know enough of the tongue," added Teefa.

"Turned into a tradition but, he still tattoos a Warlock blood talon onto his paladins and any greys who distinguish themselves above the rest," said Dorian, sweeping his hair from his eyes.

"His father's men all had a Dragon's talon on their shields," grumbled Gudrik.

"We are all inscribed with _furthtu-rah_ ," said Kahn. He looked at George. "Ageless."

As Kahn spoke the blue word, a tight spiral of runes on Dorian's bare chest began to glow, shimmering and bathing the room in a brilliant, electric blue light. "The agelessness was intended to mimic your healing and immortality. However, while we do seem to be able to live indefinitely, we are still mortal. We do not fear age, disease, starvation or other similar ailments, but should one of us be seriously wounded in some way death is just as likely as any mortal. We have lost many brothers and sisters during the Inscribed's war with Kyran. Other than that we are all inscribed with around two other commands of our choosing. We select them after passing the trials."

"Why not just write 'immortal' on yourselves?" asked George.

"There is no word for it," answered Gudrik before any of the Inscribed. "They did well; ageless is the closest they could have hoped for."

"It's not really a word that eternal beings have a need for. It's just what they are," added Kahn.

"How many of you did Scurt inscribe before he was lost?" continued Gudrik.

"Four of us originally," said Kahn, "Of which I am the last survivor. However, Scurt also shed a pot of blood before his death."

"Our blood doesn't survive after death, I have seen it," interrupted Gudrik.

"The vessel he used was very carefully crafted and infused with fragments of Scurt's skin, bone and blood melded into the very brass it was forged from. Your uncle was simply experimenting, but it turned out to be a wise move. It kept his blood viable even after his death. I took the collection to allow us to continue our order. I guarded the blood and used it to inscribe only the most honourable of warriors who aided our cause. Our numbers once stood well above fifty, a veritable army. But the supply ran out long ago, the war didn't. Our numbers now stand at what you see before you," Kahn said lowering his head solemnly.

"Why stop at three blue words?" grunted Gudrik. "I read more than three on you."

"I have more, as did all of the original four, but there were complications. We don't understand it fully, but when drunk or poured onto wounds, anything where Warlock blood is used, it does miraculous things. When delivered in small amounts, like in our armour where it becomes part of the body, it behaves more like a poison. The human body seems to have some tolerance for it. It differs, most can take three inscriptions, some more, some less, but we stop whenever the fever starts to show."

"Fever?"

"A fever like nothing I've ever felt before. It felt like my flesh would melt." The memory sent shivers through Kahn.

"Food's nearly ready," called Malaki. Kahn nodded to him.

"Where was I....oh. Some Inscribed over the years were even left with only two and a half inscriptions because they began to show symptoms early. Others have tried adding extra blue words against recommendation. All hoped to fight through the fever, all died. See, after Scurt's death our supply was too small to use in the amounts needed for healing, but even with an endless supply there is the addiction to contend with."

"Addiction?" Gudrik asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The blood has be taken sparingly. Use it too frequently or in excess and the body becomes dependant on it. Your natural immune response slows to a halt and cravings plague you, it twists and warps the mind." It was all news to Gudrik.

Dorian spoke up, "As you can see Gudrik, we have as much reason as you to want Kyran's head. But we have to look past his death also. Should we kill him in the open, we would be hunted as criminals from there on. We really do need to wait for the right opportunity to arise. My father is no coward, I swear. When that chance comes we will be by your side to avenge the deaths of all those loved ones he has taken from you and us."

All went quiet as the group digested the heavy words, and pondered memories of the fallen. But the heavy silence was suddenly shattered as George's stomach once again piped in with a vicious rumble. Again she flushed red. "I'm sorry, but how's that food coming?"

The mood picked up and an air of merriment took the room. Malaki and Neasa littered the table with plates of local seafood and a selection of vegetables and salads plucked from Kahn's treasured garden; a garden he nurtured as if it were a child. "Hook in!" said Neasa, and that they did. Dorian poured steins of home-brewed honey mead drawn from casks in the shed. The mead soothed Gudrik's dry throat and summoned long forgotten memories. Kahn brewed it to Scurt's recipe and it shared ancestral traits with his father's. The strangers told tales, laughed and feasted happily while Tabitha, who was now wide awake, busily made shadow puppets with Paw in the flickering candlelight and giggled at the adults' drunken antics. The room was a merry cacophony of accents drawn together from all corners of the world.

All of the Inscribed, with the exception of Neasa were smokers, heavy smokers. Being ageless the long term effects had never been an issue. It was halfway through his third cigarette that Kahn suddenly noticed Tabitha playing away in a thick haze. The Inscribed quickly agreed that smoking was to take place outdoors when the child was around, though the reason completely escaped Gudrik's understanding.

Another of the Inscribed's vices was alcohol, and if there was ever an excuse to drink, Gudrik was it. Before long they were well lubricated and alongside the mead, their stories also began to flow. George absorbed their tales wondrously, piecing together what she could of their histories.

Unexpectedly, Teefa turned out to be the oldest Inscribed after Kahn. By the age of sixteen she had already spent many a year as a comfort slave, dragged from campaign to campaign for Kyran's higher ranking men. One night while being drunkenly pawed by one of his paladins, a man she referred to only as the Hammer, she snapped and drove his own dagger into his throat. Terrified, she fled into the forest surrounding the camp. There she had hid for hours, freezing in the frigid dark until she was stumbled upon by Regicide, another of Scurt's original four.

Malaki gruffly bragged of his prowess as a huntsman. "No man could read the woods and stalk prey as well as I!" he boasted, thumping the table and spilling mead everywhere. "I was known as the wolf in man's skin." Chance had one day brought him upon a stranger in the woods one dusk. The stranger was fighting six other men draped in grey military garb. Malaki, having no love for soldiers, who often confiscated his kills in the name of nobles or thrones, leapt to the stranger's aid. That stranger turned out to be Kahn, and his brave act earned him both a chance to study for the trials and a lifelong friend.

Fate brought Neasa to the group during the witch trials of the New World. Her caring nature had driven her to speak up for one of the accused, earning an accusation herself. She was incarcerated with Teefa and two other Inscribed who took her with them when they made their escape.

Paw had been a master swordsman and a notorious pirate. He was known and feared by all of the group's enemies, or so Teefa told the story anyway. In an unfortunate twist of fate he had been captured by Kyran in the tragic assault referred to as 'the Betrayal', a failed attack, during which the group had been betrayed by Trayue, another of Scurt's four. It had cost many casualties and decimated their ranks beyond imagination. "We do not mention that dog's name," spat Malaki sternly at Teefa, who was telling the story.

Her voice softened, but still she continued, "It was then that the paladins took his sword fingers and he bit off his tongue. He never spoke again, but his sword play......well that's a different story. Put it to the test and you will soon learn his left hand is as capable as the right."

Fond tales of his mother flowed from Dorian's slurring tongue. His swept hair had slumped drunkenly with the rest of his body and now covered one eye. She was a beauty born in the southern Japanese islands. Sakura was lost when he was a young child, leaving only faded memories of her face and tales from his friends. She had also been lost in the Betrayal. Though Kahn pretended not to hear, Gudrik noticed a sadness creep across his face as the tales of his beloved were told.

The light hearted mood continued late into the night and on through the early hours of morning. That night for the first time in over ten centuries, Gudrik slept. The feeling which overcame him as he lay his head down and closed his eyes was so embracing and warm that a child like smile crept across his chiselled face. Better still; dreams came to him that night. He had almost forgotten the power a dream could hold. Forgotten how much sense a nonsensical collage of people, places and events from one's past can make in the dream world. It was a window into his old life. He drank with his father once more, spoke with The Twelve, hunted in his beloved homeland and made love to his beautiful wife.

## I am Kahn

Many people see leadership as a crown, something glittering and golden; something which stands one man above another. However, anyone ever topped with such a crown knows that it is nothing more than a crushing weight of duty and sacrifice which slowly buries you. I am Kahn, the first of Scurt's familiars. The first of the Inscribed, a man eternally cursed with duty.

Familiar is an ancient spirit tongue term, "trusted one". It was something Scurt called me often, but in truth I was more like a son to him. Maybe not a son by blood, but having never known my birth family, I gladly claimed him as a father. Before he came along I had lived as a slave, stolen from my homeland and torn from my family in an event I can scarcely remember anymore.

Scurt was the first person who ever treated me as an equal......or even as a human really. It was a gesture which shone all the brighter when he shared the truth about how far from his equal I truly was. Suddenly, with one revealing slash of his wand I was thrust into a world which an orphaned slave boy could scarcely have dreamed existed. The Warlocks were no less than gods among men, beings shrouded in such a heavy veil of legend that they are still referred to unintentionally in the modern world by people who know them as nothing more than myth. The term 'blue bloods' stemmed from stories of their status. Numerous bible tales are twisted recounts of their deeds. Legends of werewolves and skin changers evolved from their beast transformations. Fables of Alchemists, Wizards, Druids, Witch Doctors and Sorcerers all have their origins in The Twelve. Even the traditions of beheading which survive in some cultures developed from the uprising against the Warlocks. In fact, they are the root of most supernatural folklore heard around the world today.

Scurt always hungered to help the world and his drive was stronger than any other I have met to this day. Though they didn't understand it at the time, and probably still wouldn't today, his death was a sharp loss to all of humanity. To me personally though, it was a crushing blow.

It's surprising the details which stay with you from a trauma like that. I remember things being wrong about the cottage when I arrived home that day. Little things, a pot knocked over, the door ajar and hanging crooked on its hinges, the thick smoke of a poorly tended fire in the hearth. I remember Scurt's body lying almost peacefully in front of his chair. I remember his eyes staring at me from the opposite side of the room, not blue as they had always been, but dead and hazel. I remember red blood, not blue soaking into the floorboards. But none of that is what springs to mind strongest about that day. No, what I remember perfectly, as if it happened only seconds ago is the breathless feeling. It overcame me as I entered our home and it froze me in the entrance. I couldn't move, I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe. To this day I couldn't even tell you how long I stood there. It wasn't until Trayue arrived, seconds, minutes, maybe even hours later that I reacted. It was the shame of being caught frozen, like a blubbering coward that finally coaxed me to move. What should I have done? No idea, but I'm pretty sure I should have done more than just stood there.

I had lost the only family member I had, the only family I had ever known. In tribute to my father, I set upon a mission to help the remaining Warlocks. A quest in which I and the other three original Inscribed failed miserably.

Beaten, but not defeated, I did not put my tail between my legs and flee. One of The Twelve had been taken captive. My goal was clear. Free Gudrik from the clutches of Kyran. After all, he was practically my cousin. It was a struggle which waged on and on. Our inscriptions gave us an edge in combat; our numbers though were our weakness. Finding trusted people to inscribe was near impossible. Kyran was worshiped as the striking hammer of god. To everyday people, we were but minions of the dark lords struggling to raise them from the hell Kyran had sent them to. We were forced to skulk in the shadows and hide our existence. Nevertheless people who saw him for what he was did surface from time to time and new members faced the trials. My wife was amongst them.

Whenever Kyran would move, we were there, right on his heels, waiting for an opportunity to strike. We followed him through Europe and the Middle East as he expanded his empire. Distraction and setback plagued us, but we fought on. In Wallachia we rallied support from locals and found sympathy and allies in neighbouring Hungarian forces. For the first time in our existence, our numbers almost matched his. It was the high point in the Inscribed's existence and we had never been so sure of ourselves. What followed was a crash so steep I am not sure we have ever truly recovered from it. It is simply remembered as the Betrayal.

To this day, I still don't understand why Trayue did it. Nothing about it made sense. He had always been dedicated to the cause; many times I even believed his dedication to be stronger than my own. The slaughter I saw on that day will be forever etched into me, a scar that will never fade. Though some of us escaped death, none escaped injury. As we retreated, half our forces were already impaled on stakes around his fortress, dead or dying, my wife amongst them. The differences between agelessness and immortality are never bolder than in the wake of something like that. Our only solace was that the traitor also found himself amongst the stakes once his purpose was served. We mourned our losses, fought our doubts and returned to the task. New Inscribed were found, but the blood ran low.

His empire soon moved to the New World, the Americas. Again we followed. There we successfully halted his operations for a time, fighting out of ancient forests. Again he proved resourceful. Again we suffered as he depleted our numbers. This time Kyran seized upon paranoia which was rife in the colonies. He used the guise of a fanatical witch hunt to identify and decimate our number, along with many innocent civilians. The smell of burning brothers and sisters is more baggage I carry, along their screams begging for help which we could not provide, such was the cost of remaining in the shadows. We used the last of our blood; no more would ever be Inscribed.

He shifted his seat of power again and again, following the demand for different minerals and resources, into Asia, Africa and finally Australia, where I find myself today. I am not alone in my losses, nor my grief. All Inscribed have suffered, all Inscribed have lost. Our thousand year struggle has been a bloody one. We have all watched those we care about ripped from our lives, either through battle or the ravages of age.

Did our focus ever falter from our sworn task? Of course it did, we're human. Of course we considered giving up, but then the dead would have been lost for nothing. We have fought a secret war, a war where we are forever rebels, forever terrorists. Should we ever be victorious, there will be no recognition of it. We will forever be in the shadows. The only solace we have is that the gods know.

As our numbers continued to shrink, our plight seemed more and more futile every day. We still made new friends, people who would have been inscribed had the situation been different, but we never seemed to get any closer to our goal. Until today. Today I witnessed Gudrik, last of The Twelve soaring majestically through high rise buildings. Finally the fates have conspired with us. Finally the tables have turned in our favour.

Isolation

" _Only when alone can your needs truly be felt."_

George woke the next day with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. It had been a long time since she'd had that much fun, not to mention drank that much. Kahn, Dorian and Malaki had collapsed in a scatter on the main living area floor. Teefa and Neasa had retired to hammocks slung from the rafters of the shed. Paw had passed out face down in the front yard and Gudrik dozed off in a chair on the verandah. This had left the small bedroom free for George and Tabitha, a gesture she appreciated. Gingerly she propped herself up against the wall, massaged her throbbing temples and remembered why she'd stopped drinking. The room spun as she looked around and gathered her senses. "Wakey, wakey," she sang, unwrapping the blankets to see how Tabitha was.

Panic! The blankets were empty. George leapt to her feet, all traces of hangover suddenly forced out of being. Blame flooded in, long before logic or reason could. _"What kind of mother am I?"_ she thought, mirroring her emotions of the previous day. _"How could I let them knock me out with booze. They could be anywhere by now, doing anything to her. God I hope there's no rape dungeon!"_

She flew from the room in a terror-fuelled rage, frantically turning the house, and then shed upside down. Nothing. The house stood eerily deserted, the Inscribed gone. The ground beside the shed, which was last night littered with cars, sat bare, fanning her fears further.

George shot up the side of the house. Tears began to fill her eyes. In the empty front yard she dropped to her knees, weak with worry. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. The mother's head fell into her hands and she sobbed uncontrollably, drowning in hopelessness. Seconds of grief felt like hours of torture in George's world. Her panic clouded mind left her paralysed, kneeling helplessly above a serene snap of paradise. Emptiness and regret, that was all George could muster. They consumed her entirely, but a distant sound soon slapped her free of her spiralling self pitty.

Her head shot up. Her eyes blinked free of their tears and focussed on the beach. Far below in the distance George spied solace. Three figures, one tall, one tiny and a dog. _"Wait...a dog?"_ The trio were skipping, running and frolicking along the water's edge, leaving long trails of footprints in the pristine, white-gold sands. She quickly shook the hopelessness off and darted down the winding path which snaked through the grass of the hillside. She passed through the cool shaded archway of entwined Casuarina limbs. George streaked along the sands which were just beginning to warm in the sun's early rays.

"Tabitha, Tabitha!" she screamed.

"Mummy!" came a cheerful squeal in reply. Tabitha tottered over and leapt into her mother's arms. George hugged the child tightly and peppered her with kisses. A crushing weight was set free seeing Tabitha safe and happy, but the bubbling mess of emotions which were surging and churning inside caused her only to cry even harder than before.

George hated crying in front of people, in fact she despised it and she had done far too much of it in the last twenty-four hours. _"Pathetic!"_ she thought.

Happy with the hug she had received and completely oblivious to her mother's emotional torment, Tabitha wriggled free of George's grasp and scampered back over to Gudrik. He was standing shin deep in the crystal clear water with an unnaturally large, black dog at his heels. Its eyes were a striking electric blue colour and its thick legs ended in the wet sand with shaggy paws large enough to have belonged to a bear. It stood staunch at the Warlock's side, ears pricked, intently staring at Tabitha, watching her every movement as she jumped and splashed playfully. No sooner had she run back over, then the dog had run up to her slathering a sloppy, wet lick across her cheek. Tabitha cackled loudly.

George was shaking with anger, her fists clenched tightly ready to tear strips off Gudrik and possibly knock a tooth or two out for scaring her. But as soon as George saw the blissful smile on Tabitha's face, she couldn't do it. Instead she took a deep breath, pushed her own feelings into the pit of her stomach and beckoned Gudrik closer. She forced a tight smile across her face. The Warlock splashed towards her, his tiny, adoring shadow trailing closely behind. "Are you well?" rumbled Gudrik, in the happiest tone his deep, gravely pipes could muster.

"Well, other than being sharply reminded why I swore never to drink again, I'm just hunky dory thanks." She rubbed her forehead.

"Keeping pace with Kahn in the art of drink is no feat to be dismissed."

George covered her face and groaned, "Ah that's right, the drinking competition. That's why it feels like someone is chiseling away at the inside of my skull."

She looked over at Tabitha who had her arms around the large dog, dangling joyfully from its thick, shaggy neck and kicking her legs. The strange animal's presence finally got the better of George. "Umm, why is my daughter hugging a stray dog?" she asked.

"He's a wolf," grunted Gudrik.

"Okay. Where did you find a wolf?"

"I bled him for Tabitha. His name is Fenrir."

"Jesus Gudrik, he's big enough to swallow her," George said, rolling her eyes.

"He won't harm her. He will protect her. Fenrir would follow Tabitha to the end of the earth and back again," reassured Gudrik. George didn't have the patience to continue the discussion right then.

"Ok Gudrik, but next time you feel the need to get her a gift, how about just a teddy bear or something?"

"I can make him into a bear if you wish," offered Gudrik. George rolled her eyes yet again.

"No he's perfect," she relented, "Anyway, let's go have some breakfast."

The four began the short, winding hike back up the hill to the house. "What was its name again?" asked George as they walked through the shaded arch, screwing her face up in thought. Gudrik flashed her a blank look. "The wolf," she added.

"Fenrir," he replied. Again there was a poorly restrained roll of the eyes.

"Gudrik, she struggles to say hello and goodbye. Tabitha will be twelve before she can pronounce that name."

"Fenrir is named after the father of wolves, a very noble name," he explained.

"Did you ever have any children Gudrik?" George asked.

"No. None of The Twelve ever did after the change." He paused. "I take your meaning.... about the name. I have told her how to say it many, many times. Still, she calls him pup pup."

So it was that the noble beast Fenrir was from that moment forth known to all who met him simply as 'Pup'.

Upon arriving back at the beach house they enjoyed a breakfast of fried eggs and toast. George also introduced Gudrik to something which he had never experienced before, coffee. "This is a drink which traditionally follows a night of.........indulgence in our culture," she lectured.

Even through the splitting ache of her hangover, George couldn't help but be reminded of weekend family breakfasts when she was a girl, the relaxed enjoyment of knowing there was nowhere anyone had to be. She had always loved them, and was grateful Tabitha was experiencing one too, even under such bizarre circumstances.

The uneven rumble of a rather old and rather large engine bubbled in, interrupting the peaceful breakfast. Pup was the first to react, pricking his ears and moving himself closer to Tabitha. The two adults then leapt to their feet and moved to the window, leaving Tabitha to fumble at the table alone. She proceeded to feed most of her meal to Pup.

A large, rusted out hulk of a truck had rolled up the drive and pulled in beside the drunken shed. There was a loud creak as the heavy steel door swung open and a man stepped out, stretching his arms, legs and back simultaneously, forming a crucifix. "Brood?" Gudrik rumbled.

"Hope so," George replied gesturing for him to go find out.

Gudrik trudged down the back steps and walked warily towards the man. "Greetings," he grunted as he approached the stranger. He was comforted to see a string of blue runes running up the back of the stranger's neck.

"Hello?" questioned the stranger's faded French accent as he spun around. He was just as wary as Gudrik. The Warlock halted halfway between the man and the shack, ensuring his hands were clearly visible.

"I am Gudrik."

"The Gudrik?" The stranger eyed the wand strapped to Gudrik's wrist.

"Um, of The Twelve," he grumbled awkwardly.

The stranger looked at the ground and stomped his foot. "Merde! Kahn is gonna be pissed at me. Baiser tout!" he said running his fingers through his short hair. "Well that explains all of the missed calls. They call me Brood."

Brood was a head shorter than Gudrik, a slim yet well toned man with a strong handshake. He was clean shaven with short, brown hair carefully styled with a sweeping part to the left. His large eyes were a green so light that they could almost be mistaken for grey in the wrong light. "Where are the others?" asked Brood as they headed inside.

"Kahn, Dorian and Malaki went to meet with some contact while Paw went for supplies with the two women. They will all be back later."

"We weren't meant to check in with Ami until next week," mumbled Brood. "I guess you being here shunted the schedule along. You had better fill me in."

The two men entered the house, where Brood joined the breakfast. Pup growled a deep menacing rumble at the stranger as they entered and looked to Gudrik for guidance. "Friend Pup," grunted the Warlock and the beast was satisfied, flopping back to the ground near Tabitha. The introductions were made and Brood was brought up to speed on the previous day.

Brood had been at one time a royal guard for the French monarch Louis VII or Louis the Young as he had been known. He was forced to flee his post when it became known that he had become too 'familiar' with his Queen. "That pious fool never touched her; someone had to keep her happy. Baiser tout!" he joked. His true name was Reme, but the Inscribed had taken to calling him Brood in tribute to the army of bastards he had surely fathered over his many promiscuous years. For far more powerful than any gift Warlock blood could bestow upon him was Brood's gift with women. He was a pretty boy with a charm so warm it could melt the iciest of hearts, a charm which he used any chance he got. He had been there less than half an hour and already he had George giggling and blushing like a school girl.

Around lunch time the other Inscribed began to return. First it was the girls and Paw. The girls lugged boxes of dry goods out of the car. Paw on the other hand trotted playfully up to Tabitha. He clicked and mumbled cheerfully as he held out some colourful sweets in his full hand. She giggled and hugged him as she took them, splitting his face ear to ear with an enormous toothy smile. A couple of hours later, the boys also returned. Pup suspiciously greeted each new set of arrivals with teeth and snarls until Gudrik vouched for their reliability.

Upon seeing his leader Brood lowered his head like a naughty child and wore a stripping down for going out chasing tail, before smiling ear to ear as he shared all the filthy details with the other men. George overheard the entire sordid tale and instantly understood why Neasa and Teefa had screwed their noses up when asked if they had ever been seduced by his charms. He spoke of acts so twisted and so perverse that she had never even considered their existence.

That afternoon, every afternoon for that matter, was spent training on the beach. Fitness and strength drills were a part of the Inscribed's daily existence, as well as combat training. There was a crude target range built on the beach, firing into a natural enclave of stone in the northern hill. It was useable only on the low tide, but was quite effective and it was Gudrik's first chance to see firearms close up. Kahn took the Inscribed's training very seriously. Agelessness was not immortality and unlike Gudrik the Inscribed could not afford to become inactive. Their bodies would grow soft and slow, just as any human would. "No matter how much the weaponry of the world may change," Kahn said, "One advantage we will always hold is time. Time to perfect skills, time to adapt skills and time to learn new skills. Patience and discipline will one day bring us victory."

Despite an unflinching expression, Gudrik was curious to see the Inscribed in action. He did not have to wait long. Kahn was happy to show off what his order could do, calling them up one by one like a proud father. Gudrik gladly volunteered as a sparring target. The Warlock was impressed, though he soon realised that many of the inscriptions had lost their edge as weaponry, technology, the world and warfare had evolved.

For instance there was Neasa's animal charm. She held the ability to draw wild beasts to her aid. Even the most rabid of creatures was a sleepy kitten in her hands and a deadly weapon to her enemies. Fighting from the wilderness of the New World, she had been able to call on wolves, bears and elk, all of which were devastating against men armed with blades and single shot muskets. That was where she had earned the title Mother of Bears. But most often now conflicts happened in urban areas where the best she could muster was a plague of rats and the odd house cat.

Amongst Kahn's collection was a blue word which allowed him to bestow unnatural speed and vigour onto any beast he rode. It was of huge benefit in his time, but its usefulness gradually declined as automobiles and telecommunications took hold.

Malaki possessed the ability to become a wolf. Not a grotesque cryptid like Gudrik's bear form, but a regular grey wolf. An incredibly powerful and majestic creature, but modern firearms limited its usefulness. Unlike Gudrik, Malaki's body didn't have the privilege of simply spitting out projectiles and healing. It was a talent which did still have its uses though. A wolf was swift and good for scouting. Unfortunately the trauma which the change put his body through left him in shock for sometime after, so it was rarely used.

Then there was the sad tale of Paw who, absent a tongue, could no long command any of his blue words. He had once been able to plunge the temperature of his blade to a cold so bitter it would sear upon touch and shatter other steel blades on contact. An avid seafarer, and at one time a notorious pirate, Paw also chose the ability to shape gusts of wind. A useful ability in battle, but on the ocean it truly shone. Paw could once propel a stricken vessel on its way or halt an assailing ships progress. Even his legendary swordsmanship plummeted in value as they entered the age of automatic rifles, so fatal from such distance.

With creativity and ingenuity, Teefa had managed to adapt one of her blue words to a modern purpose. She was able to infuse an intense burst of heat into arrow heads and daggers. On contact, they ignited into scalding blue-white flames hot enough to melt iron. Through practice she had transferred this ability, along with her natural marksmanship, to bullets.

There were also several blue words amongst the group which still held the same tactical value today as on inscription day. Kahn could briefly manipulate the density of his hands, though it was rarely used due to the accompanying pain. It was a gift which served many purposes, the chief of which had been medical. He often had to remove objects or projectiles from his troops over the centuries. While still unbelievably painful, his ghostly hands were far less intrusive than any other techniques of the time and had saved many lives.

Teefa was able to summon long sight. Her eyes would wash over a solid, glimmering blue on command. Her peripheral vision was reduced to zero, but it briefly made her eyes function like a scope seeing far beyond human limits, a perfect complement to her natural marksmanship. She was also one of the few Inscribed tough enough to withstand a fourth inscription. The final blue word chosen was ' _gractous_ '. Though float was its closest translation, it was more aptly described as 'fight gravity'. It was not as if she could fly, but should she fall from height, which is somewhere a marksman often found themselves, she could briefly bend gravity's influence slowing her enough for a safe landing.

Malaki and Brood could both use short bursts of berserk rage where their strength and agility was increased. Their reactions when enraged were fast enough to avoid scattered gun fire and once in close range they could clear a room in a few seconds. But the rage was blinding, they struggled to separate friend from foe and had to be given a wide berth. More often than not they ended up fighting each other when let loose in too close a proximity; as was the case while sparring Gudrik.

Both men slumped in the sand exhausted and bloodied as Brood half-heartedly held out his shield arm. On Kahn's order he mumbled. The tattoos on his outstretched arm glowed, sprouting jagged, triangular scales of durable night stone, or obsidian as he explained it was known as in the modern world. The transformation could only be held for a few seconds at a time, but proved useful during hand to hand combat.

In Gudrik's eyes though, Dorian had shown the most creativity and forethought in his selections. The other Inscribed had all used the literal meanings of words. Dorian on the other hand altered the meanings as he used them, something The Twelve did. Changing the meaning of a blue word completely wasn't possible, but it was possible to twist or stretch it slightly with concentration, something The Twelve had termed 'bending'. Bending the spirit tongue term for shift, Dorian could move from one point to another a short distance away in the blink of an eye. Harnessing a bent interpretation of a blue word which loosely translated as gather together, Dorian could force particles from the air around his hands together into tiny, highly charged shards or darts which he could throw with deadly accuracy.

Although insignificant at first pass, one of the most powerful of abilities belonged to Neasa. A shy, soft natured beauty, she chose ' _chortsian_ ' as her final inscription. It was blue word which instilled a crippling fear into enemies with no more than a look. It was not simply a fleeting shock or fright either. It was the kind of white knuckle terror which buckled knees and caused hardened men to collapse at her feet, soil themselves and blubber like babies. Brood reluctantly posed as the target for that particular demonstration, a penance for his indiscretion the night before. Everyone roared with laughter as he climbed to his feet and shuffled into the water to clean himself.

George sat wide eyed and silent for the entire afternoon as Tabitha and Pup played under the shady Casuarina trees. Gudrik had been impressed, but above the skill and discipline, the group's limitations leapt out at him. Limitations he saw as common to all of their blue words. It seemed the words of the spirit world were not meant for the frail bodies of mortals, none could be sustained. Most could be used for no more than a few seconds at a time before harming the familiar. More than two or at most three of Dorian's shifts in close succession had him coughing and spluttering blood as his body began to break down. More again left him almost catatonic; the same was true for the others as well.

The limitations only made Gudrik appreciate how much he took his own craft for granted. It amazed him that these Inscribed had battled against such inconceivable odds and numbers for centuries with the limited abilities they possessed. It only served to strengthen the respect he already held for these people. Their discipline and bravery were not to be discounted.

Once again they feasted and celebrated as a group that night and once again when George woke in the morning all but Tabitha, Gudrik and Pup were gone.

The days and nights blurred together and flowed into weeks. Slowly but surely George grew accustomed to living off the grid and the troubles which lay back in the city became more and more distant....began to weigh less and less on her mind. The isolation of the homestead created an artificial world, completely removed from modern reality. It was a world where she lived free of her cares, a world where money and status were of no consequence. The presence of Gudrik provided her and Tabitha with a traditional family, something which took her back to happier days. It was a family which was extended by coming and going Inscribed, who grew to be aunties, uncles, cousins and grandparents of the little princess. All loved her dearly, but it was Paw she grew closest too. It was Paw's visits she waited for. If Gudrik was the surrogate father then Paw had certainly assumed the mantle of grandfather. The two of them would sit on the beach for hours, waves licking at their feet, discussing the issues of the world in mumbles, gibberish and clicks which neither could understand.

For Gudrik the presence of Tabitha was a much needed distraction. He developed a soft spot for her cheerful wonder and bouncing, brown curls. He genuinely enjoyed his time with her. Tabitha provided him a sense of fatherhood, something which had seemed an impossibility in his life for so long. An impossibility he had until now begrudgingly accepted. However, at night in the absence of his precious, little distraction, his mind still bubbled and boiled with thoughts of revenge and more than a splash of guilt.

The hot summer days were filled with swimming, fishing and games; the nights, barbecues and bonfires. The Inscribed came and left sporadically during those times, either to drop off supplies, rest or simply to catch up. But much of the time it was only their little family. Tabitha tailed her "Googy" wherever he went. They collected eggs from the chicken coop behind the drunken shed, built gigantic sandcastles on the deserted beach and took long walks into the picturesque hills. George even emerged from a morning shower one day to find her only child being whooshed about high over the hills and ocean in the arms of a winged Gudrik. Following a standard George sized freakout, a torrent of curses and a lot of running around the yard in a towel; she managed to signal them down by waving her arms wildly. All the while she was playfully chased by a giant, frisky wolf.

Wherever Tabitha went Pup was at her heels. In the scalding midday heat he would patiently lay in the shed while she clambered all over him, cuddling, patting and pulling at his fur. George was not an animal person, but even she had to admit he was a pretty amazing pet, other than the fact that he ate as much as a grown man that was.

One day, on a whim, George suggested that they cut Gudrik's long, scraggly hair and beard off. She had wanted to see his face free of its wild, blonde mane for weeks. George had often admired his un-aged, battle-hardened body while he swum with Tabitha. _"I wish I could sleep for centuries and still have abs like that."_

Lock by lock the hair fell as George hacked away at his wiry mop using a dull pair of kitchen scissors. Once satisfied with the style, she flicked open Malaki's old cut-throat razor and set to work on his beard. That job was much harder than she had ever imagined it to be. In fact, if he wasn't a Warlock, Gudrik probably would have bled to death. "Oh god, I'm so sorry," she said dabbing blood off his chest, "Does it hurt?" Gudrik simply grunted through clenched teeth and twitched as the razor sliced him again.

Tabitha kicked and rocked on the kitchen chair chuckling ecstatically at Gudrik's predicament. George was no hairdresser, but she was satisfied with the outcome. The clean cut man which now sat in front of her was a stranger. She couldn't believe that behind that baby face lay countless years of life and experience. "What do you think?" asked Gudrik, running his hands over his newly short hair. His rough voice no longer suited his appearance.

"Well, you definitely look a lot less like an old, homeless man now," she replied.

Gudrik smiled and turned to Tabitha, "What about you?" She clapped wildly and ran over to him, giving a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

"I'd take that as a compliment if I were you," laughed George. "You really do look like a completely different person."

That small, throw away comment began Gudrik's mind ticking. He stared into the small round mirror which George offered him, examining the new face before him. It had never sat well with Gudrik that he was forced to sit by and wait for the Inscribed to bring him supplies. Sure he tried to do his bit, fishing for the large tropical fish which inhabited the surrounding waters, but it never felt like he was really pulling his weight. It also has to be said that he had a yearning curiosity about the world around him. When all was said and done though, deep down, much stronger than anything else, he knew that it was Kyran he truly yearned to find.

"I am going for a bit," he grunted suddenly, putting the mirror on the table.

"What?" George replied quickly, "Where?"

"I am not sure," he lied as he skipped down the back steps like an excited child.

"But-but we can't leave," George called trotting behind him.

"We aren't, you're staying here," he rumbled removing his blood stained shirt. Gudrik drew the wand from his wrist and released a spurt of blue. " _Unjallius_!"

Silvery, white wings reached skyward, shadowing George. "Y-you can't Gudrik, you are like the most wanted man in the world at the moment. People are searching everywhere for you!" she shouted at him.

"You said it yourself, I look like a new man," Gudrik grunted back with a childish grin and launched himself off into the sky.

Gudrik soared high, following the coastline south. He intended to find a smaller settlement, somewhere between the safe house and the city. Somewhere the authorities had only a small presence. From there it should be possible to find a less distinguishing transport than his wings to continue his journey to the city, to Kyran. The coast was widely undeveloped. There were a few small collections of shanties and fishing huts, but nothing substantial for quite a while. The Inscribed truly had found themselves an isolated hideout.

About half an hour into his journey Gudrik took his eyes from the land below and glimpsed a silhouette in the distance. He looked harder at its odd shape, squinting his eyes in the wind. He did not recognise it as an animal....well not any animal he had seen before. The strange object closed in and its bizarre form became more visible. It screamed an angry humming noise as it sped toward him, a noise clearly audible even over the sound of air rushing by his ears, speaking volumes of its level.

He stopped his forward motion and hovered, carefully beating his wings over an updraft to hold himself at altitude. Gudrik thought it best to gauge the creature's reaction to him. As it closed in alarm struck. This thing was not constructed from the soft curves of muscle and flesh. No, this thing was formed of the hard straight lines of metal. This thing was forged by the hands of men. The massive rotors created erratic draughts of air as it zoomed past and circled around. Gudrik struggled to hold his position, which didn't really matter, he held no intentions of lingering anyway.

Gudrik shot up into the air, pumping his giant wings as hard as he could and gaining altitude swiftly to hide in cloud. It was a great natural instinct, but for one unfortunate complication. A side effect of the beautiful, sunny Queensland weather was a distinct lack of clouds. With a panicked glance down he noticed the machine lifting after him.

Now this was a situation Gudrik had never been in before. In his time, the sky had never been man's domain. Even amongst The Twelve he was the only one who had regularly taken to flight. The others had always believed it reserved for their gods.

Gudrik tucked into a dive and rolled into fast, evasive weaving patterns to lose the metallic beast. He headed east, towards the ocean and south, away from home. The last thing he wished to do was draw his hunters to the safe house. Gudrik's speed and manoeuvrability allowed him to soon lose sight of the threat, but as he glided, still south, breathing heavily the return of silence did not ease his concern. How exactly he had been found in the first place?

The Warlock was about as far as possible from an expert in the modern day sciences, but that had been no coincidence. It was clear to him that he had been tracked by some means. Tracking in mid flight was a feat which had been impossible in his time, even for The Twelve. He wasn't about to go as far as saying that George was right about his trip being a bad decision, but from there on he decided to stay out of sight and head home.

Gudrik tucked his wings in and plunged toward the shimmering ocean waters below. As he fell he opened his veins. " _Aegirstus_!" he shouted. Gudrik's wings flittered into a trail of blue droplets as he stretched his arms out and broke the surface of the water.

Gliding deep into the refreshing embrace of the Pacific Ocean, Gudrik clenched and winced with pain as the change took hold. Enveloped in a cloud of bubbles, his fingers and toes cracked as they elongated and flaps of skin crept through the space between them. The flesh on his neck tore apart exposing long, bloody gashes which formed into flapping gills. He sped through the waters, staying deep and heading north, only emerging on occasion to check his surroundings for some landmark or feature which he recognised.

Once the pain of the transformation had passed the experience became quite pleasurable. Perfect water temperatures and pristine reef were a decadent feast for the senses and after a long, cooling swim through shoals of fish and tropical gardens of coral, he finally he found himself looking upon the jagged rock formations of the Serpent's Jaw.

He paused floating behind the breakers looking towards the beach house. A strained look covered his face, a look which his stoney face almost hid, a worried look. He dived down ploughing through the water to an overhanging piece of reef he often fished. He circled it several times before snatching a large cod out of its hole and heading ashore. The Warlock choked and fought for air as his body cracked and snapped back to normal. As he trudged up the sand, it clung tightly to his wet feet.

Whether he wished to admitted it or not, the experience had shaken him, forced the Warlock to accept that there was much in this modern world which he did not yet understand. His vast years of experience may count for far less than he believed. He may have to turn to the Inscribed or even George for more help than he intended, just as she had told him he would. That last thought put a burr in his throat. He coughed and shook himself dry. The Warlock walked back into the beach house, still damp and stomping a trail of water and sandy footprints as he went. "How did you go?" asked George, disapproval dripping from her face.

"Uneventful," he grunted. "Just ended up fishing." Gudrik slapped the cod down onto the table. There was no way he was ever going to admit George was right; Gudrik was far too stubborn for that. He left the room before questions could be asked.

For another fortnight, the makeshift family played and frolicked, free of all cares in their private tropical paradise, though the idyllic beach side retreat was not without its dramas. There was the frantic morning when one of Tabitha's precious little pink bows, which had to be in her hair everyday, disappeared. Tears streamed from her distraught little face and the roars of her woe drove even the hardest of Inscribed warriors to scamper around on their bellies searching every crack and crevasse. Paw was the hero of that campaign, trotting from under the table with the bow held high above his head in victory and chuckling his muffled laugh. He received a kiss on the cheek for his bravery.

Then there was scandal when George stumbled upon Teefa and Neasa kissing passionately in a hammock late one night. The discovery finally prompted the girls to announce a secret which Paw had kept for an eternity, declaring their love. Neasa blushed quietly while Teefa's furious eyes dared anyone to have a problem with it. Of course none did, in fact Brood suddenly developed a keen interest in their activities, always tagging along with them wherever they would go. "I knew all along," he boasted, when out of earshot of course, "It's the the only reason I've never _had_ either of them."

As the summer reached its peak, the Inscribed even surprised them with a special Christmas for the little princess, organising gifts, food and fun. George thanked them profusely, she hadn't even realised the date. "We aren't Christian, but we thought she would enjoy it," Kahn said as Tabitha received a pink kite from a crudely dressed Santa with no fingers on his right hand. The rest of the day was spent swimming and playing on the beach, until all were red and sunburnt.

Each was a small matter, but still they seemed to make for many laughs and helped to draw the group together.....to draw the family together. The safe house as it had always been known suddenly began to be referred to by all simply as 'home'.

A couple of nights later, New Year's night to the outside world, it was once again just the immediate family. They were sitting around a large meticulously stacked driftwood fire, as they often did. It crackled and burned brightly against the speckled night sky. The heat radiating from the licking flames provided a pleasant contrast as it fought with the cool breeze blowing in across the ocean. Tabitha lay on a towel beside Pup and her kite, curled up and deep in sleep, drained from the long day and lulled by the warmth of the fire. The needles of the Casuarinas rustled and rattled a gentle lullaby.

George stared into the crackling, orange tongues of flame. Her fingers fondled the locket which rested between her breasts, not by any conscious means, simply through pure habit. "It is precious to you?" came the Warlock's raspy voice out of the blue, his sudden words shattering the tranquil silence.

"What?" George replied.

He motioned to the locket, "I have often noticed you playing with it."

"Oh yeah. Brad gave it to me; it has a lock of his hair in it." She smiled into the fire. "Tabitha's father. She has his eyes," George added.

"Where is he?"

"Brad died almost two years ago," she replied. "Just after she was born."

"How?" George's smile left her.

"The dickhead wiped himself out driving home drunk from a buck's night," she spat it in her bitchiest tone. "They say he died instantly. Well I hope he did. The wreck burned to the ground with him in it."

"Things were not well with the two of you?" the Warlock inquired.

"No, quite the opposite. I loved him intensely and I have missed him every day since his death. But at the same time I hate him for making such a stupid decision, a decision which impacted his family so dramatically. The selfish prick." She shoved another branch onto the fire as if jabbing it into Brad's ribs, embers sprayed into the air.

"I doubt he meant to die," consoled Gudrik.

"Maybe not, but when all is said and done, Tabitha has to grow up without knowing him doesn't she?" she asked in reply. "Anyway, what about you? Ever had a wife?" asked George, jolting the conversation along, away from the emotional storm that was her life.

"Aye, long ago. An amazing woman. She was taken from me," Gudrik replied.

"I guess it was inevitable that she would age and you wouldn't," suggested George.

"It was, but Elya never had a chance to grow old. It was a choice I made a generation earlier which took her from me before her time." His eyes stared across the fire, as if there was something in the distance only he could see.

"Kyran?" George asked. Gudrik nodded, turning his deep blue eyes back to her.

The two stared awkwardly at each other; the crackle of flames and the slow crashing of waves the soundtrack to their moment. George placed her hand gently on Gudrik's knee. Slowly she leaned in towards him, gently licking her lips in anticipation. "We had better take the little one up to bed," said Gudrik suddenly in an effort to break the silence, completely and utterly ignorant to what had just been about to happen. George pulled back and nodded, fussing with her hair and hiding her reddening cheeks. Effortlessly, he scooped the small child up and cradled her in his strong arms. Pup led the way as they made the short trek back through the arch and up the hill. Gudrik gently laid Tabitha on her mattress and closed her door, cringing with every creak of the floorboards.

George sat down at the kitchen table tying to get her head around what had happened, or almost happened by the fire. Gudrik wandered down the old rear steps and returned with two massive steins of honey mead. George laughed and dropped her face into her hands. "You're a bad influence on me Gudrik of The Twelve. I am going to have a headache in the morning again, aren't I?"

"Aye, that you are," he said as he held his mug up for her to cheers. George clanged her pewter stein to his and took a long drink. The clang of three more meads quickly followed the first. They laughed, they joked and they flirted, enjoying each other's company until eventually, drunk and with all inhibitions lifted George suddenly leant toward Gudrik again. This time she did it with far more conviction, and kissed him on his lips; just lightly. She pulled back slightly and looked into his eyes, weighing his reaction. Goosebumps bristled all over her skin as she tingled with excitement. Gudrik, being a man, needed no more provocation than that and slipped his arm around the small of her back drawing her close and kissing her right back.

The kissing continued for some time, gradually becoming more and more passionate as the intimacy and urges grew. Clothing loosened and hands wandered, until Gudrik suddenly paused and slid back leaving a startled look on George's face.

"Are you sure you want to do this George?" he asked, eyeing the door separating them from the sleeping princess. His look was strained, like he was fighting within himself. George stared back at him for the briefest of seconds.

"Fuck yeah," she sighed loudly. "I am a single mother with a two year old kid. These opportunities don't come along very often, so shut up before you wake her."

The grin on Gudrik's face was so large it belonged on some absurd cartoon character. "I'm not really sure that your whole body was onboard with the chivalrous offer either," George added looking down at his hands which were still stubbornly clamped around her breasts.

## I am Gudrik

For two days we rode without rest. I was hungry and I was saddle sore. I was so tired that giving up was never more than a few steps away, then in the distance I saw the guard towers of Sovenglen peek above the horizon and my strength was renewed. Scurt led us up a winding goat track which meandered its way through the hills overlooking the city's fortified walls. There in a small, rock littered clearing I came upon it. To this day I can still recall it as clearly as that first bitter, cold afternoon, a sight to make a man realise his complete and utter insignificance in this world.

In the centre of the clearing was a large circle of flame being tended by two of Scurt's clan. In the centre of the fire ring stood a large flurry of blue light, violently throwing itself against the unnaturally tall flames. Every clash thundered and caused the very earth to shake beneath us, unsteadying the horses. The rest of the Varth-lokkr greeted us as we rode closer. Their relief was painted into their expressions. They had no doubt begun to give up hope Scurt would ever return. Before I had even dismounted, they began preparations for the ritual. There would be no time for rest and no time for recovery.

The twelve of us gathered at the northern point of the fire ring. All shed a drop of blood onto the amulet, a single drop for each of the stones; twelve bloodlines, twelve stones, twelve sacred words. This was no accident; twelve is a powerful number when dealing with the spirit realm. We began chanting the sacred words from the amulet.

The ritual seemed only to enrage the creature further and its actions became more and more violent. Finally as the crux of the ritual approached, Scurt thrust the bloodied amulet above his head, the group silenced. He placed it in the ring of fire and backed cautiously away. The presence of the amulet caused a break in the flames. The Valkyrie halted its rebellion for a second, as if eyeing the opening. Then, with blurring speed, the fragmented light poured through the gap intent on reaping vengeance upon us, its captors. I stepped back in fear as the incandescent splinters of blue flowed towards me, a sign of my inexperience. I questioned the sanity of what we were doing. This plan was based on a song from before my grandfathers' grandfathers' time. Though, not one of the other hardened Varth-lokkr even flinched. They stood steadfast staring the spirit down, eyes afire.

Before the Valkyrie could reach us it was halted mid flight, like a mad dog which had run out of rope. It seemed to have been snagged by the amulet. It struggled, roared and screamed, but could not budge an inch further. The stones on the amulet began to glow and the blue mass began to drag back, as its very form was being drawn into the amulet. The piercing screeches grew in volume and ferocity. The formerly incoherent clusters of light began to take on the form of fingers with long, crystalline talons. They scratched and clawed at the ground desperately. A very human face appeared from the disorder. A female face, one of the most beautiful I have ever laid eyes on. It looked into my eyes; it saw the doubt and fear in me. The woman reflected it right back, her eyes begged for help, her lips mouthed words I could not hear. I pitied her. I actually wanted to save her. Slowly, more and more of the spirit was devoured by the amulet, screeching as it went, until finally.......it was done. The ambient glow which had shrouded the amulet began to flicker and slowly fade.

The mood lightened. Confused glances turned to smiles, they spread amongst us. They were deserved smiles, we had done it. Father slapped me proudly on the back, I had never seen him more jovial. Scurt scooped the amulet from the ground. It exploded with light. The flash nearly blinded me. Shards of blue lightning shot forth from the amulet. I felt an instant of heat as one pierced my chest and flung my body back as if I were a small child. Everything went dark.

Slowly I woke. Was I dead? Was I about to see these "gods" the others believed in so strongly? I glanced around, below me was Sovenglen. Around me others were stirring on the ground or climbing to their feet. Not one of us had experienced anything like that before. We didn't know exactly what had happened, but the Valkyrie was gone and we lived, under the circumstances that was considered a success. Other than a blistered scar on my chest, I seemed to be unharmed.

The celebrations began. Over the following twelve days and nights we feasted and drank with the Jarl and citizens of Sovenglen to a standard which would rival the very halls of my father's gods themselves. On the final day, our minds still dusty with the memory of drink, Father and I said our goodbyes and continued on our own.

I looked at my father and smiled. His brow crinkled, "Since when have your eyes been blue?"

Revelations

" _When life is at its most perfect, complications are bound to reveal themselves."_

"Mummy!" came a familiar and excited call. George wrenched her eyes open. Her cheek was nestled into the pillow.

"Morning darling," she croaked back, raising her head. She rolled onto her back and yawned, a deep yawn which opened her mouth so wide that her eyes squinted closed again. This time when they opened, the ceiling was wrong. It was then she noticed the bed didn't feel like the one which had become so familiar. In an instant George realised that she wasn't where she usually woke up at all. Memories of last night instantly snapped back into the front of her mind. George was all of a sudden painfully aware of her current predicament; on a mattress, in the middle of the main room, as naked as the day of her birth.

George flung Gudrik's arm off, sprung up and began scampering around desperately searching for something to cover her nakedness. "Here love," said Kahn, holding up a large bright beach towel which had been draped over one of the chairs. He was sitting at the table enjoying a coffee and scratching Pup's head. Paw was beside him bubbling with crooked laughter.

"How long have you been here?" she growled, furiously snatching the towel from him and covering up.

"Got back from the city about an hour ago. You two looked so peaceful, I didn't want to disturb you. We'll be off again once I weed my garden. So you can get back to all.... _that_ again," he said winking at George. She huffed, scooped up Tabitha and trotted back towards the bedroom to get changed. On the way through, George swooped down and gave Gudrik's bare arse a firm slap, nearly losing her towel. His head shot up and groggily looked around the room.

"Fair warning, the girls and Brood will be back this afternoon!" Kahn called after her as she slammed the door. "You're lucky I wasn't Brood; he'd have been naked and snuggled in beside you before you could even flutter your eyelids open."

When George returned from dressing herself and Tabitha she was surprised to see Gudrik still naked, leaning against the wall and casually chatting with Kahn. He had taken the time to make a coffee of his own, but the notion to dress himself hadn't even crossed his mind yet. "Gudrik cover up, you'll scare Tabitha!" she yelled. He mumbled something that was meaningless to her ears while fishing his clothes from under the table. He quickly stepped into the jeans and buttoned them up. Before he could put his shirt on George interrupted him. "It's okay, you can leave the shirt off," she whispered with a steamy wink as she slipped past him to the stove, running her finger lightly across his stomach. Paw and Kahn chuckled to each other.

The heated romance raged on for the next two months. Both George and Gudrik all but forgot the lives they had left behind. George no longer stressed about how she would manage to provide for Tabitha on her own or thought about when they would return to the city, she loved not going to work. Gudrik shelved his dreams of revenge. With the blood source gone, the spectre of death would be constantly shadowing Kyran, salivating at the chance to claim one who had evaded it for so long. The return of this most mortal of fears would be more excruciating than any vengeance which Gudrik could have personally dealt him anyway. Both George and Gudrik were far more content in their current idyllic lifestyle. They seemed a perfect fit. Whether it was because they were soul mates, kindred spirits or thanks only to isolation and absence of choice, a tender love bloomed between them. Although both would be far too pigheaded to ever admit it.

One day after returning from a morning of fishing, Tabitha and Pup were in the shade of the drunken shed helping Gudrik, scale and clean the day's catch. George set about lighting and stoking the wood stove. Off in the distance, winding along the hilltop roads, Gudrik noticed the tell tale dust cloud of an approaching vehicle. "Kahn isn't supposed to be back for another few days," he grumbled to no one in particular. Gudrik's spine tingled.

"Tabitha, princess, take this in to mummy," he asked, handing her some fillets. It was an attempt to sound sweet, but when the words emerged from his gravely pipes they sounded more like something a serial killer would say. Cheerfully she complied anyway, skipping inside. "With her," he grunted sharply at Pup. The massive wolf obeyed instantly, striding into the house. Gudrik dragged the filleting knife across his hand and squeezed a small amount of blue blood free. " _Qriktsus_!" he shouted as the drops landed. Thick, towering walls of jagged stone and earth leapt from the ground, surrounding and defending the small home like battlements.

Gudrik kept the knife in his hands and walked towards the dusty driveway which wound with unnecessary complexity into the property. As the mysterious vehicle came into view, it was clear that this was not one he knew. The black sedan rapidly closed in on the house, its ageing engine spluttering and coughing as it went. Its suspension squeaking and scraping as it bounced from pothole to pothole, only skidding to a halt centimetres from Gudrik.

He glared at the heavy coating of dust crusting the windshield, but could only make out shadows within. The driver's door swung open and Gudrik's hand tightened around the handle of the knife. Malaki's head emerged. He relaxed his grip. The face which greeted him however was grim even for Malaki, not a face which foretold good news. Kahn climbed out of the passenger's seat, sharing the grim look.

With a crack and a cloud of dust the stone defences collapsed back into the ground, once again revealing the home. "You bring news?" the Warlock asked. Kahn nodded. The rear driver's side door of the car opened. Malaki glared furiously at Gudrik while his leader walked around the vehicle. Gudrik, not being one to retreat, glared just as hard back at him. Brood slid out of the back seat, just as grim and stained with blood. He turned and gently pulled Dorian's limp, lifeless body from the back seat of the car. The other men leant in to help.

Dorian was wrapped in a bloodstained bed sheet, his skin pale, his face awash with all the symptoms of death. "Get him inside, on the table!" grunted Gudrik storming through the kitchen door.

"A heads up would be nice next time Gudrik," snapped George as he walked in, "When those walls went up I nearly shi..."

"Not now George," Gudrik interupted.

George immediately recognised the urgency and calmly shut Tabitha in the bedroom before coming back to join them. "Does he live!?" asked Gudrik.

"Yes, but he is not long for this world," Kahn replied heaving his son up onto the thick, hardwood table.

"Open his mouth!" Gudrik sliced his hand open. Kahn clamped his son's jaw, holding his mouth open as Gudrik leant over Dorian and ran a trickle of blue blood into his mouth. Dorian coughed, spluttered and weakly fought as the warm, salty blood ran down his throat. Kahn forced Dorian's mouth closed so none could escape. Gudrik unwrapped the sheet, exposing Dorian's bare, crimson smeared chest. The blood was seeping from under a wad of red, soaked gauze which had been strapped to the right side of his chest. The Warlock cut the cloth while holding it in place, then gently removed the bundle. The bullet wound had already begun to repair itself. Again he opened his hand running a thin stream of blood directly onto the wound.

"He will heal," said Gudrik with a relieved sigh, "but the blood takes a toll when healing such a dire wound. He will need rest." Kahn gave a grateful nod. "How did this happen?" asked Gudrik.

Malaki had bitten his tongue up until then and remained unusually silent, but at that question he spoke instantly releasing all of his pent up aggression in a single focussed tirade. "How did this happen!?" he roared. "What the fuck do you think we do when we leave here? We are out there fighting that deranged prick. While you, a god damn immortal, play on the beach and brag about how many mighty battles you have won. But what have we seen from you? Heh?" Gudrik was frozen in fury. "Exactly," Malaki continued,"We haven't seen shit from you. All you do is fuck your little modern slut all day long!"

Blinded by rage, Gudrik leapt across the table, his fists clenched. However, before the blow could be landed, Malaki was on the ground, his nose streaming blood into his mouth. He grasped at his face and looked up at George standing over him rubbing her blood spattered fist. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me," she said glaring at Gudrik. He stepped back, fearing he may be next.

Gudrik sighed loudly as Malaki's words rang in his head. He may have been a bitter bastard, but he spoke the truth. Gudrik was the big gun in this, the one who could truly make the difference and turn the tables in the fight. Yet he had done nothing. These people had provided him sanctuary and friendship and requested of him nothing in returned.

"He's right," Gudrik muttered eventually.

"Do I have to hit you as well!?" George snapped at him with a look which could strip paint.

"Not about you being a slut," he quickly added, showing his hands as a sign of surrender. "I am oath bound to help these people in their struggle. He is an enemy of my creation."

"Our numbers are too few to stop him Gudrik," interjected Brood. He seemed broken, not his usual self. "We just spend our time nipping at his heels and pissing him off. We know he has been collecting ancient texts for centuries, trying to learn the secrets of your blood. He is up to something."

"He hasn't been looking for you as hard as we expected, it's almost as if he doesn't care you are gone," added Kahn.

"It's because the snivelling parasite is so close," spluttered Malaki through his hands.

"Without me to bleed, his empire and all his plans are already in decline. Time will kill him for you," Gudrik said, puzzled, "I don't understand the continued fight."

"Are you certain he swallowed everything he sucked from you?" asked Malaki. He had removed his hands but his crooked nose was still streaming blood.

The question set Gudrik's memory racing over centuries of faded memories. A cold chill ran through him. "He often bled extra from me," muttered the Warlock, to himself rather than the rest. "I always assumed he was collecting it for his troops."

"Does that sound like something he would do Gudrik?" proposed Brood. "We have shown that the blood can remain potent stored away from its source. Scurt even got some to last after his death."

Gudrik examined his feet in thought. _"It seems I'll have my revenge after all."_ It would be at the risk of his fragile new life, a life which finally contained everything he had ever dreamed of. _"But if Kyran could use the blood......well, then nowhere would be safe for his new family."_

Gudrik raised his eyes to look at the group. "Where do I find him?"

"Are you insane?" interrupted George. "Things are different now. There is a hell of a lot more ways to remove your head than a sword today, and I guarantee you he has them all."

"I am sure you're right George, but this needs to be done," he replied in a gruff, defensive tone.

"No Gudrik, I will not allow you to involve yourself," interjected Kahn looking at the panic in George's eyes. "I promised Scurt I would defend The Twelve. I am not going to allow the last one to perish under my watch."

The Warlock turned to Kahn, "I am forever in your debt Kahn, but as I told you on the day we met, do not think you have the power to stop me." It would have sounded threatening if not for the grateful smile on his face.

"Vision Haematological Engineering," a breathless rasp drifted from the table. Dorian tried to sit up, but shuddered and flopped back to the table. George propped a pillow under his head and he shakily swept his fringe aside.

"Cut off from your blood, we thought his human body would begin to deteriorate, but Paw, Teefa and Neasa have been keeping tabs on him since your escape. He is as fit as ever." Dorian coughed, grasping his chest. "It sparked a long held suspicion that he had been stock piling your blood Gudrik. We have been systematically infiltrating his facilities over the last few weeks. Looking for something, anything to tell us where this stock pile was."

"He has become very good at keeping his secrets over time," added Kahn.

Dorian nodded, "But last night, I think I may have found something. One of our friends stumbled upon the fact that Julian Drake is a silent partner in a company called Vision Haematological Engineering."

"I've heard of them," said George.

"He has shares in Apple too, doesn't mean that iPods are powered by bloody Warlock blood," snapped Malaki.

"Let me finish. The lengths he had gone to to hide it were excessive to say the least, but it gets better. They seem to specialise in biological R&D. They are worldwide, but the part which really sparked my interest was their multi-million dollar facility here in Australia. It was built right around the time Drake started moving his mining operations from Africa. Could be coincidence I know, but guess what this new facility specialises in." The room hung silent, though most had already guessed the answer. "Blood research."

Dorian fidgeted, and grimaced in pain. Gudrik studied the expressions around the room. He had taken little meaning from what had been said, though it seemed to make perfect sense to everyone else.

"It receives a lot of genuine research grants and has made some real progress in screening techniques and treatment of blood cancers, nothing that seems out of the ordinary." He paused, rubbing his healing wound; it was a smear of blue and red. "That's as far as I got before......well, this. The Sword got the jump on me before I could shift away; he's quick. Coincidence or not, I think it warrants further investigation."

"The fact that he even had a paladin there tells us a lot," added Brood.

"Where do I find this place?" asked Gudrik.

"In the city, I can take you there," replied Dorian trying unsuccessfully to stand.

"Grrr, you need to rest, I'll fucking take him," growled Malaki.

"No you stay with Dorian, I'll take Gudrik," ordered Kahn. Malaki looked a little more pissed off than usual at not being able to go, but he sucked it up and did as he was told.

As the day faded into afternoon Gudrik and Kahn climbed into the van and headed south toward the city. "Do you have anything even resembling a plan?" asked Kahn.

"No, I will judge this fortress when we arrive. Any idea of the numbers in garrison there?" he grumbled. Kahn ruffled his eyebrows and turned to the Warlock.

"Gudrik, you realise that our target is a place of science, right?"

"Oh." Gudrik became flustered and fought to hide reddening cheeks. "Many of your boy's words were unfamiliar to me. I didn't wish to appear simple in front of everyone, gratitude."

"Anytime Gudrik. To be honest, I am impressed with how well you handle the modern tongue. It is a far cry from the languages of our era."

"During my captivity, I had very little choice but to listen."

Random chit chat eased the boredom of the trip as Kahn tried filling Gudrik in on some of the landmark events he had missed during his captivity. With so much history to deal with Kahn chose only the most iconic parts and often found himself leaping backwards and forwards, jumbling Gudrik's timeline. The Warlock listened intently to just how far the world had evolved in his absence; it seemed the snippets he had picked up from George had been only the tip of the iceberg. Kahn truly had seen the world grow and blossom before beginning to fester and rot. Gudrik could scarcely believe the things some people got away with unchecked in the modern age. Before long the sun had given way to night and the bright lights of the city shone on the horizon.

Brisbane's streets were once again populated with traffic and party goers. Bright neon lit the buildings around them and thudding bass boomed from many. It was altogether a very different sight to when they had fled. Gudrik looked out the window at the large glowing moon hanging above. "A man has walked on that," he breathed. "That, Kahn is far more impressive than anything I have and probably ever will do in my life." Kahn smiled as he pulled the car over a discreet distance from an architectural marvel on the southern outskirts of the city.

The structure looked like something from a science fiction movie. Steel clad in glass with not a straight panel amongst its flowing lines. It sat sparkling decadently in a melange of moonlight from above and ambient streetlight from below.

"There it is," said Kahn, gesturing.

"Return home, I can get back alone," grunted Gudrik.

"You don't want help?" replied Kahn with concern. Gudrik ignored his question and Kahn sighed, "If you plan to fly, stay low. There is technology now which tracks movements in the sky."

" _Yes I have had some experience with that,"_ he thought, remembering his tussle with the helicopter. "Of course," was all that came out of his mouth. Gudrik climbed out of the car, and to Kahn's surprise wandered into an alley across the road rather than towards the target. Despite his curiosity in the Warlock's plan, Kahn did as he was instructed and left before the vehicle's presence could be noticed.

The alley was much darker than the street, shadowed by the large buildings on each side. He drew Scurt's wand and exposed a few droplets of blood. Gudrik closed his eyes and pictured himself on top of the building beside him. " _Sclivitan_!" he breathed. A prickly burn burst across every inch of his body. It lasted only a split second and as it subsided a stiff breeze was blowing into his face. It felt cold after the burst of heat, his skin tingled. Gudrik opened his eyes to find himself on top of the building. _"Well done Dorian."_

It was one of the things Gudrik loved most about what he was. Creativity evolved the craft. He had known that spirit tongue term since he was eleven, he had even used it to move heavy building materials in the past, but never had he have considered bending it in the way Dorian did.

From his rooftop vantage point the Warlock carefully surveyed the target. Once upon a time he would have simply burst in, axe in hand and hacked his way to the information he desired. But the technology of this new age.....well, let's just say it was a variable he had not yet come to terms with.

The first thing which struck Gudrik was the obvious lack of security. The glass walls betrayed much of the internal going ons of the building. He observed the premises for over an hour from his lofty perch and other than two guards near the huge front doors, he saw no patrols. The two in view seemed to do nothing more than sit at a large desk and occasionally go for coffee. _"Such incompetent warriors? There must be some form of science watching over this place."_

But standing there forever was not an option, the night was halfway through as it was. With a slash and a whisper, Gudrik appeared in a swirl of mist high atop the institute's curved roof. Again he bled, again he whispered, " _Xitzsus_."

With a shimmer and a groan, Gudrik's very being faded to but a shade of its former vibrancy, leaving him translucent and smokey. He began to drift gracefully down, passing through the solid glass roof as though it were water.

This shade took impeccable concentration to maintain and was accompanied by a pain which few could even imagine. If he pushed it too far his separating molecules completely lost their connection with gravity and he was left in place as the earth rotated away from him at blurring pace. If he didn't push hard enough he was unable to pass through solid objects. It was a delicate balancing act, but one which he had mastered long ago and the knack it seemed had not been lost. But the pain, it was something he would never become accustomed to.

On the inside of the building, Gudrik found himself in a laboratory. This kind of place was actually familiar to him, though it was certainly not a place he understood. He had been though rooms like this during his captivity. He drifted weightlessly through the room, passing effortlessly through any objects which found themselves in his way. Gudrik really had no idea what he was looking for and he certainly had no concept where to begin. He knew instantly that he should have taken up the offer of the Inscribed to join him. _"Ormstunga! Two thousand years old and still making the mistakes of youth."_

He paused in thought, pain flooded in. He fought and focussed to push the burning needles to the back of his mind. It was while fighting the pain that Gudrik noticed _it_.....a tiny, nagging tingle or urge in the back of his mind, something faint which was easily ignored. It was familiar, a ghost of something from his past, something which still put fear into him, though he couldn't say why. Now that the tingle had been drawn to his attention, there was no ignoring it. As he moved around the room _it_ changed, as if swelling and shrinking within him. Gudrik closed his eyes and focused as he drifted, following the swelling.

_It_ drew him to a point in the centre of a small office. From there any direction he moved simply weakened the feeling, yet nothing in the room led him any closer to understanding the source. Gudrik's frustration grew; again he had no idea what to do, again he regretted not having the Inscribed. He was at breaking point, ready to end the constant pain and find what he came for with the axe, when had a flash, an idea. The Warlock looked to the floor. He sunk through the levels and eventually the urge swelled and soon screamed at him so strongly that there was no ignoring it. Finally deep inside the facility, he laid eyes on the source.

Behind the glass of a small fridge door sat a test tube rack. On the rack, a series of small sealed crystal vials containing his blood. Gudrik swiped at the fridge, but his hand simply swished straight through it. He released the blue word and tried again.

It was a strange sensation staring at the blood in the vials. Gudrik could see it, he could feel it and knew it was his, but even without trying he knew that it wouldn't react. _"Protected maybe?"_

Gudrik set to searching for journals or papers explaining what was being done with his blood. There was little to be found and although speaking and understanding the language, he could not read a character of modern text. Eventually, his search left him scowling at a laptop beside the fridge. Gudrik had seen these before, but had no idea how to use one. He bashed, slapped and barked orders at the confusing box, all to no avail.

Defeated, Gudrik decided to take the samples and laptop and run. It was only a discreet shuffle that alerted him to something behind. "Hold it," came a stern, but calm voice. It was a deep voice, used to being listened to. Gudrik looked around to see a soldier with a rifle aimed at him. He was a tall man, easily as tall as Gudrik, but much thicker with muscle. His skin was almost as dark as Kahn's, and his head just as smooth and shiny.

"That weapon won't do you any good," rumbled Gudrik, attempting to intimidate him.

"I figured. Bet it still fucking hurts," sounded the reply, clearly intimidation was not going to work here. Another soldier dressed in identical greens joined him. He was as tall as the first, but slimmer with close cropped red hair and heavily freckled skin. These were not Kyran's men.

Gudrik laughed, "Aye, that it would."

"You know, I have been stuck in this facility for weeks now waiting for you to show up," complained the first soldier.

"Julian Drake is not to be trusted," rumbled Gudrik.

"No doubt, but I don't trust you either. Orders are to call in his team on sight."

"Do you always follow orders?" challenged the Warlock.

The soldier remained expressionless, "They're already here."

Gudrik barred his teeth and growled. The door to his left burst open and in rushed three of Kyran's greys, two men and a woman. They were tailed by a tall, golden-haired woman whose uniform set her apart from the others, above the others. Without a word, the woman in grey fired a blast from her shotgun. Gudrik spun away, but the pellets spread too far. His teeth clenched as they struck, ripping through his skin and forcing him back against the bench. He slid to the ground.

The wounds scalded and throbbed with every heartbeat. He reached for Scurt's wand instinctively, but it was kicked from his hand by a black boot. Gudrik, slumped his head back against the cupboards and plunged his finger into one of the blue seeping holes. Amongst the thick blue ooze was a crystal of rock salt.

Salt was something which was very familiar to any Varth-lokkr, it was useful in dealing with spirits, but he had never seen it used in this way. Before he could speak, the golden-haired woman fired a small dart into him. Gudrik instantly snatched it from his chest. "What is this?" he grunted flicking it back at her. The woman ignored him. Her body armour was jet black. Instead of the white dragon's tail which was emblazoned on the breast of all Kyran's greys she had a white spear tilting diagonally across her chest. Peeking out of her collar, just below her ear sat a blue tattoo, a dragon's talon.

Gudrik's body seemed to slow; an odd feeling crept over him. He felt heavy. "What is happening?" he demanded. Once again he was ignored. He struggled to move, he hissed commands. His wounds still sat open, but the salt contaminated blood refused to obey. Once again he let his head slump back.

"That really slowed him down," said the first soldier, bending down to closely look at the Warlock. Gudrik stared back at the dark man, helpless and too heavy to move. Behind the soldier the woman with the white spear drew her side arm. The greys did the same.

"Pity your gross incompetence let him get away," she said raising her gun to the red headed soldier's ear.

"What?" replied the crouching soldier, screwing his face up.

"Behind you," whispered Gudrik.

The crouching soldier glanced up and caught a reflection captured in a large glass dividing panel just in time to see his comrade shot. With lighting fast reflexes he spun around and disarmed the grey standing over him as she fired a shot. The bullet went wayward and struck Gudrik in the leg. The wound did not bleed. The soldier eyed the woman in black as his powerful arms clamped the grey's neck. A sickening crunch sounded through the room as he broke her spine and dropped the lifeless body to the ground.

He stared at the other three, willing them to make the next move. Make the next move they did, all training their weapons onto him. The soldier dived out of the line of fire in a desperate act of survival, but no shots were heard. Instead a small smash of glass rang out, along with a sharp spurt of guttural gibberish. The soldier shouldered his rifle and warily peeked over the desk he had taken cover behind. The remaining greys and the woman in black quivered and twitched impaled on massive, razor shards of glistening, black stone. Each shard sprouted from the same wet, blue stain on the carpet. Around it the floor was covered with delicate slithers of crystal vial which caught the light and sparkled.

The greys twisted and fought as they died, terror and agony burning in their eyes. Horrific gurgling sounds bubbled from them. The woman with the spear on her chest however, was a completely different story. She glared unflinchingly at Gudrik still trying to raise her weapon at him until the final second when life drained from her.

"What the fuck was that all about?" barked the soldier at Gudrik, checking the neck of his friend for a pulse, a pulse which was no longer there.

"Drake does not want me," he drew some deep, difficult breaths. "H-he does not want me captured by you. He simply wanted your help in locating me," Gudrik finally gasped out. The soldier looked at his fallen friend for a few seconds then picked up Gudri's wand. He paused a moment before handing it to the Warlock hilt first and helping him to his feet.

"That stuff they pumped into you shouldn't be permanent. It's a coagulant, silver nitrate. It shouldn't kill you, being an immortal and all, looks as though it stings a bit but." Gudrik gave him a dark glare. "Most importantly though, it stops you bleeding. I can explain this away, by blaming it on you," he continued looking around bodies, "but you need to get out of here now. More of this mercenary scum are on their way. Are you gonna be able to get away in this condition?"

"Aye," was all the answer Gudrik could muster.

With that Gudrik threw another of the sealed tubes onto ground, shattering it instantly. He muttered the blue word and pictured himself somewhere far away. He knew shifting probably wouldn't get him home, but it should get him further than Dorian was capable of. He blindly hoped it could at least get him to the northern outskirts of the city. The burn washed over him once again and the lab disappeared, but this time there was no cold exhilaration as he came out of it. This time when the heat faded it was replaced by an even more immobilising agony. It throbbed through his body like a hot sword slicing him long ways. Gudrik groaned and twisted, oblivious to what had happened. He looked down to see that his left arm, left leg and the portion of body between could no longer be seen. He seemed to have shifted into a brick wall.

Gudrik screamed as he tried to move his left extremities. Lumps of congealed, blue blood slopped down the wall, still refusing to acknowledge any commands barked at it. In his right hand Gudrik still clasp the samples. Furiously he fought through the pain and in a clumsy flutter of fingers worked one of the vials out of the rack. It fell onto the pavement. In a crushing blow of irony the fine crystal tube bounced, rattled, rolled and failed to break.

Gudrik let out another scream; this time as much frustration as suffering. Beads of sweat streaked down his forehead and he fought against the agony just to stay conscious. Slow, heavy heart beats struggled to force the thickened blue gloop through his body. Each thud resonated in his head, a wave of pain accompanying it. His vision began to grey, his head lightened. Mustering everything he had left, Gudrik heaved his right foot off the ground and in one last agonising act, slammed it onto the vial with all his might. The crystal crunched into shards under foot as his long separated blood flowed from its insulated prison. " _Xitzsus_ ," he uttered breathlessly. His physical body once again collapsed into a shade, allowing him to float his mutilated limbs free of the brick. Exhausted, his concentration waned. The world began to move. Quickly, Gudrik released the blue word, bringing his body back to full physical being and crashing his twisted remains to the ground in a rolling tangle. He passed into the dark embrace of sleep.

## I am Gudrik

Well......that's when everything changed, that's when I truly started being shaped into the weapon I would become. Our blue eyes were just the start of it, over the following seasons both my father and I noticed changes in us and in each other. Releasing spirits became easier, injuries healed instantly and illness seemed to be nonexistent. But most chilling of all, what really threw us into a panic, our blood now ran a ghostly blue.

It was obvious that the battle with the Valkyrie had changed us, but to what end? The stories of old didn't mention anything like this. The songs of legend all ended with Jäger's clan making the long journey to the land below. But we survived; there was no journey to the underworld for us. Anyway, shouldn't such brave heroes have gone up to the hall of the gods? We made the decision that more must be known about what had happened to us. We couldn't be the only ones; we set out to find Scurt's clan.

For many moons we rode, traipsing from city to city in our search. At every stop people knew of my uncle and his clan, but none had seen them in recent times. We had almost given up hope when my father spoke with uncharacteristic excitement. He remembered an ancient Varth-lokkr refuge in the cliffs of the northern coast. It had been a meeting point in old times, but had been unused for generations. He had been there once during his youth. Scurt knew of the refuge as well, there was a chance we could find the clan there. So off we set north, towards the bitter ice of the north coast.

We were soon running low on supplies, winter was in full force and game was scarce, it was not a journey usually made outside of summer. By the time we reached those jagged cliffs which fought back the North Sea, we were half starved. I formed camp in a sheltered nook of rock while my father climbed higher to gather his bearings and refresh his faded memory. "I am sure this is where it should be, but perhaps we are too far east," he said, surveying the area. "I cannot be certain. We will rest here tonight and see if morning brings new clues," he mumbled, clambering back down the rocks. We ate the last of our salted venison that night, the following days would be hard. Sleep didn't come easily, despite our exhaustion, but in the wee hours of the morning we both succumbed.

I was rudely awoken at sun rise the next morning by the jabbing of a walking staff. As the mist of sleep cleared, I recognised a familiar voice. "Ah brother, your memory always was better than mine. We traipsed this coast line for four days before I remembered where to go." We quickly emerged from our furs and greeted the clan members present. My father instantly sprung into theatrics.......well to be honest he only spoke quickly, but compared to his normal steely resolve, he was hysterical.

Uncle Scurt was swift to quash his rant. He calmed my father and explained that they had experienced the same changes, it was the reason they had come to the ancient refuge, to decipher what was happening.

They believed that the Valkyrie had been too powerful for the amulet to bind. They believed it had broken its restraints and attempted an escape. However, in a side effect they believed not even the creature had foreseen, its essence had been split, overflowing through the bloodlines and finally being bound within our bodies. The healing and vigour seemed to be side effects, but that was not their greatest discovery.

_One day while cutting herself and examining her ghostly blood, Kadlin mumbled a common Varth-lokkr health blessing, the words "_ Odin karrjk _," spirit tongue for 'Odin's fire'. As she spoke the word '_ karrjk _' the few droplets of blue blood which had managed to drip free of her wound hissed into flames before hitting the ground and fizzling out._

So we decided to stay. We studied and practised, and yes we failed......often, but in time we learned our craft. When I bled I exposed the essence of the creature bound within. Mixed with commands spoken in the spirit tongue and more than a dash of focused thought I had the recipe to affect the world as if I were of the other realm. Concentration and control allowed us to conjure and shape the casts in creative ways, bending the meaning of certain words and even focusing commands onto individual drops of blood. We were by no means as powerful as the Valkyrie bound to us, but compared to the common man we might as well have been gods.

Every slash I made and every blue word I cast brought pain with it, but woven through that pain with a mind numbing intricacy was always something else, something which far outweighed the suffering. That woven pleasure took me right back to that moment I first laid eyes on the Valkyrie, that moment when I realised mankind's complete and utter insignificance in the world. But now it was reversed; now I was the one looking down on mankind.

After hours of debate a decision was reached. We would go our separate ways and spread our craft throughout the world, holding to our Varth-lokkr blood oath. Though we no longer felt the need to travel in groups, we would always remain connected. You see spirits are all knowing beings. They do not search, they do not wonder, rather they operate as a collective consciousness or hive, what one knows all know. While I don't possess the full knowledge of the other realm, we could hear each other's minds. Should we feel the urge to tell each other something in haste or share an emotion, The Twelve instantly knew it. Actually, it took great practise and restraint before I learnt to keep my private thoughts just that.

So armed with our craft and pumped full of noble intentions we set forth individually and for the first time in my life I stepped into a journey without my father at my side. Centuries passed, age did not weary us, cold, sickness and war could not claim us. As the Viking warriors expanded their reach to distant lands we were there with them. The legend of The Twelve spread far and wide across the seas and into foreign lands. I traveled the known world and served jarls, warlords and commoners alike, anything I believed to be a just cause. I banished plagues, saved children, fought wars and won battles, but as the ages changed so did our roles.

In more peaceful times we gave up our status as a tool of warfare and took positions as advisors, healers and even teachers. As our name was spread through the different tongues of the many lands it also evolved and we were known by many names. We were revered for the services we gave to mankind.

However, as anyone who has seen years pass knows, all things one day end, and eventually the age of magic gave way to the age of religion. The mystically entwined gods of old, my father's gods were all but abandoned by man for single gods of their own invention. These new gods demanded more of their followers and promoted the segregation of those who did not follow the same teachings. The things I have seen done in the name of religion sickens me to this day.

These new religions seemed only to see the differences amongst each other, while to me it was their similarities which were blindingly obvious. Our powers went from being something which was revered and respected to something which was feared and hated. Led by the new holy men, uprisings began against The Twelve. Being immortal, the only injuries I bore were to my ego, but still we respected mankind's wishes and retreated from view, hiding amongst the people we once served.

My doubts about the gods grew. Yes I knew the other realm existed, but while to my father that affirmed his beliefs, it was the major catalyst for my doubts. I have never shaken the notion that these 'gods' mankind kneel themselves before are nothing more than spirits swollen into power by legend and rhetoric, but that's a matter for another time.

Some of The Twelve married mortals and settled, others continued with their work in secret, but for all it seemed our changes had made it impossible to produce any family. I met and married the daughter of a woodsman. Elya was an incredible woman, a pillar of beauty, strength and virtue. I was happy. I was in love. I had a home.

It was around that time the messages started.

Escalations

" _Sometimes even fate needs a jolt."_

Gudrik fluttered his eyes open as the warm kiss of morning sun gently stirred him. The pain was gone. He held his left hand in front of his face and wiggled his fingers in the light. A relieved sigh escaped his lips as he climbed to his feet, his torn jeans sagged and struggled to stay up. The test tube rack lay on the ground to his right, two samples still intact. He was in a narrow alley which was scattered with debris and mess. One of the brick walls still wore stains of the incident and streaks of blue gore ended abruptly where he stood.

He wandered down the alley and examined the street running off it. It was a quiet street, just a few cars and the odd couple of morning exercise nuts. Gudrik wandered back into the privacy of the alley and sliced his arm with Scurt's wand. He was relieved to see blue trickle down his forearm. He grunted his command. His fists clenched tight as majestic, white wings once again burst from his back and fluttered, flicking the blood from their feathers. With a few powerful beats he was airborne.

Gudrik gathered his bearings from the juvenile morning sun and rocketed north. At first he soared high, as was his natural instinct, he would appear no more than a bird to the people on the ground. But it wasn't long before Kahn's warning echoed, cold in his memory. He twitched his wings and plunged downward, losing altitude quickly and altering his course eastward over the ocean. Luckily by that stage he was already clear of the city.

Gudrik followed the coast line, skimming only inches above the water. From time to time a wave would reach higher than its brethren and he would lower his hand and drag it through the crest. Fine salt spray misted up, cooling his bare torso. It was a refreshingly uneventfully trip and before long Gudrik swooped up and over the weather worn roof of home.

He landed hard, with a thud in the front yard of the beach house. A flood of people spilled out, sporting red, swollen eyes. The Warlock sat on the verandah steps. George ran over and wrapped herself around him, nestling into his neck. After a few warm seconds she drew her head back and her haunting ice-blue eyes locked his lovingly. A smile cracked across Gudrik's stoney face. George's eyebrows dropped, the corner of her mouth curled into a sneer and she slammed her forehead into his nose. Gudrik's head flew back and smacked against the wooden railing.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I HAVE BEEN!" George screamed. Gudrik casually shook the fuzz away and wiped the trickle of blood from his nose.

A giggle rose from the group and after a moment Gudrik joined in. He filled the group in on the laboratory, the soldiers and the attackers. It took some coaxing from Kahn to get all of the details, but eventually Gudrik shared everything. "I am not certain if you can take any meaning from these or not. I cannot read it. It's strange, the blood in those vials seems protected from me or something."

Kahn took the specimen rack from him. "They're crystal. We aren't sure why, but it seems to mess with our abilities.....and yours too it seems." He began to turn one of the samples, examining the labels from every angle before passing it on to Dorian. "If nothing else Gudrik, it tells us that they are experimenting with your blood. I have no idea what he is up to, but frankly whatever it is, it can't be good."

"I don't know what you guys are getting all freaked out about," interrupted George, "It's magic, it's not like he is going to get anywhere." Kahn turned to her, his brow laden with concern.

"You have to realise George that there is not really any separation. What we do, what Gudrik does, there is some explanation for it. It is science; we just don't understand it yet."

Gudrik leant his voice, "I have glimpsed the incredible advances made by man since my time, things we would have considered magic. Do know that a man has walked on the moon?" he asked glancing at Kahn for support in case they didn't believe such an outlandish claim. George looked confused, missing his connection. "I fear that in this age Kyran may actually have the tools needed to unlock our craft."

"Okay fine, but why? He hates what you are, why copy it?" The Inscribed and the Warlock all shared blank looks.

"Look, he's a whole other level of bat shit crazy, let's not get caught up trying to understand why," snarled Malaki.

The room fell under a mist of silent contemplation as all parties grappled with the gravity of the situation. Until now the Inscribed had only ever conducted discreet, surgical attacks on Kyran, ensuring their struggle remained from public view. They lived in a secret world, a world of shadows, a world which only the Inscribed and Kyran's forces were privy to. The direction they were moving would change the face of their war for good. With the authorities and Gudrik involved this would become a much more public battle. It could be the end of the war, but at the very least it would be a major escalation which would certainly expose their existence to the world.

"Hey look at this label," Malaki said suddenly, flicking one of the vials to Teefa. "It's got a long number on it."

"Yeah so?" Dorian replied, shrugging his shoulders and flicking his fringe.

"Look at the letters which start it off."

"R-S-C?" Teefa read out.

"Recognise those initials?"

"Raven Skull Creek," Kahn interjected, his eyes igniting as he said it. It went right over Gudrik's head, which must have shown, because Malaki explained.

"It's one of the Drake mining leases, one we have had our suspicions about for some time. The parasite holds lots of mining leases around the world which have facilities on them. Most are completely above board, just regular mining operations. But a couple have raised all sorts of flags for us. Raven's Skull Creek is one of them."

"It could be just a coincidence," said Neasa.

"RSC could stand for Random Sample Collection, or Ravenswood Surf Club," added Teefa sarcastically.

"It's a long shot, but it's all we really have to go on. It would be asking for trouble going after the city facility again," said Dorian glancing at his father.

"Yeah, a dead soldier would have the military on high alert," agreed Teefa.

"Plus it sounds like Gudrik killed the Spear. That would have pissed Kyran right off. She only took over from the Spear with the eye patch a few months ago, plus another one died in that chopper crash a couple of years back. No potentials yet I'm guessing. He may have ended the blood line," suggested Brood.

"Shame, I would have loved to see the look on that bitch's face as she died," Teefa said looking into space, as if imagining it.

"She was kind of hot," smirked Brood. Teefa looked at him, disgusted. "In a vicious ice-bitch kind of way." He gave her a wink.

"You will have to explain the significance of this woman during the journey tomorrow," grumbled Gudrik.

"Where are we going?" asked Dorian.

"Tomorrow, we will look at this Raven Skull Creek site from a distance, weigh our options. Kyran is many things, but foolish is not one of them. If this place is what you believe it to be, then it will be well defended. Do you have any more troops you can call on?"

"Ami will break her cover, she is already in that facility," replied Kahn. Malaki gave him a disapproving glare.

"I've heard Half Man and his pack are in the country at the moment," muttered Brood.

"That's just a bloody rumour," snapped Malaki.

"His men would be good to have at our side, and he holds no love for Kyran," Brood added.

"True, but we are on a limited time frame here and even if the rumour is true we still have to find him," Kahn said squashing the idea.

"What about Crave?" piped in Teefa.

"For fuck's sake, what about him?" grunted Malaki furiously.

"He may be a drug addled nutter, but he is handy in a fight and despite everything, he is one of us," she replied.

"Do we even know where he is?" asked Kahn.

In the silence of the verandah, they could almost hear Brood's guilt. Kahn rolled his eyes.

"Yeah I know where he is staying. A little beach town just north of Sydney. I was drinking with him the night Gudrik joined us." There was a lot of sighing and head shaking amongst the group.

"You go get him," Kahn said to Brood. "Teefa go with him, make sure this doesn't turn into a bender." He thought for a second. "Neasa you go too, make sure Teefa doesn't kill either of them on the trip home. We can check it out without you, but be fast, we'll need you the following day."

"We'll be here," replied Neasa as they left.

"Tomorrow night we will plan our campaign," Gudrik said.

At dawn Gudrik, Kahn, Dorian and Malaki loaded into the black sedan which had sparked the new chapter of their saga. The back seats were still stained with patches of dry blood soaked into the fabric. They began the four and a half hour journey inland to the Raven's Skull Creek mine. George and Paw waved them off in the fledgling rays of the new day's sun, Pup stood loyally at their side. Tabitha was still asleep. Ironically this was the first sunrise she had missed in weeks. " _Probably best,_ " thought George. She would not be happy about her Googy going.

"We are meeting Ami out there," said Dorian, shattering the silence born of nerves and weariness.

"Huh!" protested Malaki abruptly. "You put far too much trust in her. She was in his service then, and she is now."

"Malaki!" growled Kahn, pulling rank. "Put it aside. We do not speak of other Inscribed in such a way. She passed the trials just as we all did and has proven herself on numerous occasions."

"He needs to put his feelings for her aside," replied Malaki, directing his remark at Dorian. Dorian gave him the finger in reply and lit a cigarette.

"This familiar was in Kyran's service?" Gudrik asked, siding with Malaki.

"Yes one of his paladins, the Sword. But she has been with us for over six hundred years now. In recent years she has infiltrated the Raven's Skull Creek facility as an employee," Dorian replied, defending Ami.

"Easily done when you are friends with the frigging boss," mumbled Malaki under his breath.

"Along with his legion of greys, Kyran also has five elite paladins, which rank just below their Forsaken Guardian, as they call Kyran," said Kahn ignoring Malaki's snipe and changing the focus of conversation. "The Hammer, the Spear, the Dagger, the Arrow and the Sword. He trusts them more than any other person on the planet. Yet he has never trusted them enough to share the blood. Instead he has systematically bred descendants of his original five with partners of his choosing to produce his next generation of paladins. Each paladin sires a nest of three potentials. Male or female is no issue; any of the bloodline capable of defeating the current paladin in single combat is promoted."

"The children are raised and trained in a convent referred to as The Forge," added Dorian.

"The Spear didn't put up much of a fight," scoffed Gudrik.

"The paladins of today are not as tough or as the ones of old, that is true, but do not underestimate them Gudrik. You got lucky with the Spear, sounds like you caught her off guard," counselled Kahn.

"How much of a fight does that Sword of yours give you Dorian?" snapped Malaki.

"Enough!" scolded Kahn. Both Malaki and Dorian muttered curses at each other, but the matter was left to rest.

The costal scrubland quickly gave way to thick forest as the road wound north-west away from the ocean. They snaked up and over a lush green mountain range. Time rolled past and as the forest began to disappear it was soon replaced by dry, sparse grassland, scattered with grazing cattle. As they grew closer and closer to their destination even the grass vanished, with the exception of the odd, spiky tuft which popped out of the dirt. The earth also changed, it took on a rich, red ochre, hinting that they were reaching the hot, bloody heart of the great, southern land.

The sun shone high in the sky as they reached their meeting point. The air was so hot and dry that it choked and suffocated Gudrik's lungs with every breath. Their destination turned out to be a lookout on one of the rare hill tops which thrust out of the flat, barren country. From this viewpoint Gudrik was able to see out in every direction. The vastness of the boundless red plains amazed even him. It was in stark contrast to the white land of his youth. To the north of their position sat the Raven's Skull Creek facility. Despite its name, there was no creek to be seen. The mine was an expansive, heavily fenced section of land, criss-crossed with dirt roads and scattered with pits so large that should they fill with water they would appear as enormous lakes. Imprisoned within the pits were gargantuan, mechanical creatures which gnashed and chewed at the earth, enlarging their subterranean cages. Some kilometres to the east was a city of transportable accommodation and a large airstrip, the camp which housed the mining personnel.

Far off on the western outskirts of the property was a large industrial shed. It was separately fenced and segregated from the rest of the facility. Unlike most of the mining lease, it was not a hive of activity. In fact, it was quite the opposite; there was almost no movement at all. "That's where I believe our target lies," said Kahn, noticing Gudrik's interest in the shed.

The four men waited until the scheduled meeting time, then far beyond it. By three hours past deadline everyone was getting anxious. Kahn and Dorian worried Ami's true loyalties had been uncovered. Malaki was constantly reminding everyone that he never trusted her anyway and Gudrik was trying to decide which team he was willing to join.

Just as they were ready to give up, Dorian pointed out a dust trail heading towards their location. A tense few minutes passed as they waited to see who it was headed their way. Eventually a large black motorcycle pulled up, its vivid chrome accents shining brightly in the sun, in bold defiance of their red dust coating. The female rider wore a high-viz work shirt, embroidered with the Drake Mineral Resources logo, a pair of cotton drill jeans and heavy, steel capped work boots. She climbed off the bike and removed her helmet. Long golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders. Ami had a sweet and dainty face and her thin neck sported a tattoo of a blue talon on its left side. Dorian's face lit with excitement and moved forward to embrace her. Kahn suddenly had to fetch something from the car.

"Hi Kahn," she said, pulling her lips from Dorian's. "Go fuck yourself Malaki," she continued, preempting exactly what he was thinking. Malaki simply flipped her the bird and slouched on the car bonnet, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Gudrik, this is Ami," Dorian said, proudly introducing the object of his poorly contained infatuation. Gudrik nodded a welcome to her as he inquisitively circled the motorcycle.

"So have you figured out the target yet?" Ami asked.

"Aye, the segregated section with no sign of life," replied Gudrik.

"That's it. Supposedly it's a sampling and testing facility. I have worked here four years now, and not a single gram of coal has been through it. We truck everything north to one of his other facilities."

"Really makes you wonder why it's sitting there deserted," Dorian butted in.

"Don't let appearances fool you. I have been on night shift all week, and there have been trucks rolling through under the cover of dark like it was a highway truck stop," Ami continued.

"The blood?" Kahn inquired.

"No - looked more like troops."

"The greys from the South African operations?" asked Dorian.

"Most likely. Probably the paladins too."

"It's almost as if though they _know_ we are planning to escalate our campaign or something Ami," spat Malaki accusingly.

"Enough Malaki!" ordered Kahn. He grumbled and grunted, but in the end obeyed.

"Getting in will not be easy, security is tight. Most of his workers fly directly onto site from his plants in Africa and the Philippines. He negotiated special dispensation from the government. His lease basically operates like a huge international airport that has a mine within its limits. The workers fly in, work and fly home without ever leaving the mine. No passing through immigration or even legally setting foot on Australian soil. The only workers paid under Australian law are the ones like me who pass from facility to facility driving trucks. Because of the dispensation he is also permitted to have armed private security contractors, obviously his greys, patrolling the borders ensuring they are not breached."

"Well how did you get out then?" snapped Malaki from the car bonnet.

"Have you seen how nice my tits are?" she snapped back opening the top buttons of her shirt and exposing the cleavage of a very ample bosom. "Not sure your hairy man nipples will convince any of the guys to let you in though." Malaki sneered and looked away.

The group stood around bickering about tactics in seemingly endless circles. Gudrik had understood little of Ami's information, and was now remembering why he had always fought on his own. He left the huddle, looking down, as if carefully examining the earth around the area. He settled on a patch of exposed stone rather than dirt and bent down, removing Scurt's wand from his wrist. He ran the blade the length of his palm and painted a collection of blue runes in a wheel shape on the stone.

Gudrik'd had enough. In the afternoon sun and glare, not to mention the dry heat, his mind wandered from task, distracted by thoughts of getting back to George and Tabitha. "Enough," the Warlock said as he stood up straight. "I have seen all I need to. We can still make it home by sunset." The others reluctantly agreed.

"Yeah I had better go get some sleep, I am on shift tonight," said Ami, walking back over to her bike. Dorian followed and they shared a quiet conversation, before exchanging kisses. Kahn was once again busy and quickly climbed into the car.

"Kahn seems uneasy," Gudrik whispered leaning over to Malaki.

"She is his ex," he replied. Gudrik looked at him, eyebrow cocked. "His ex lover," Malaki clarified.

"Ami?" croaked the Warlock.

"Pretty fucked up hey blueberry?" He lit the last of his cigarettes. "Though in Dorian's defence, her relationship with Kahn was over before he was born. Still weirds Kahn out, but he never says shit about it."

"The joys of immortality," grunted Gudrik.

Ami mounted her iron beast and coaxed it to life, letting loose a deep, gurgling roar. Off she went, flanked by a shadowing dust cloud along the red dirt road toward the worker's camp.

The drive home was quieter than the trip there. Gudrik could see the concern in Kahn's face, but it was not Gudrik's place to counsel him.....he felt Kahn was a much wiser soul than he. Malaki and Dorian sat in the back together, sharing the odd joke and discussion like the close friends they were, all the while dancing delicately around the topic of Ami, upon which they were eternally divided. As the car rolled into the driveway of the shack Gudrik found himself relieved. He had only ever known one place as a home before. Prior to Elya he had always lived a nomadic existence in both his mortal and immortal lives. He was excited to get home, excited to see his family again. This had been the longest he had been separated from them since the day which they met months ago.

The four men climbed out of the car, Gudrik headed straight for the door while the others went to the shed. It was black, pitch black. They had only just missed sunset. Tabitha should still be awake. _"The beach."_ He walked through the shack to the verandah; timber boards creaked and groaned in the black as he moved. The moon outside was bright, the wind was gentle, the waves danced and the ocean twinkled like the stars above, but there was no sign of any fire. If they were on the beach this time of night it would certainly have been for a fire. _"Maybe they left?"_ The thought shook him. It would make sense; things were changing, becoming more violent, more dangerous. George had to do what was best for the child.

He turned around and began walking back through the main room of the beach house. Gudrik didn't concern himself with lighting the gas lamps or candles, he had spent so much time there that he knew the layout by heart. But as he reached the midpoint of the room his foot brushed against something which he hadn't expected. It was something which wasn't supposed to be there.

He paused and slid his foot around, exploring a little further. Curiosity got the better of him. Gudrik drew his wand and shed a few small droplets of blood from his hand. " _Livitus_." His hand ignited in burning pain as it lit up like a fluorescent bulb, casting warm, white rays across the room and illuminating all the secrets which the black had concealed.

His heart leapt into his throat in reaction to the scene which lay before him and the burn was all but forgotten. The out of place object which had sparked his curiosity was actually the lifeless body of a grey. Alongside it, limbs flung askew, were two more. Lying in close vicinity, propped up against the wall was George. Gudrik ran straight to her. Her body was limp. She was unconscious, but breathing. Gudrik ran his luminous hand all over her body. She appeared to be uninjured, but for a bruise on her cheek. No doubt the blow which had left her unconscious. In George's right hand was a large, kitchen knife which wore telltale red stains. _"That's my girl."_ He trickled a small flow of ghostly, blue blood into her mouth, just to be certain she was fine.

Suddenly panic surged back through him. _"Tabitha!?"_ He stood and began waving his glowing hand around searching the dark corners of the room, all of her favourite hide and seek spots. It was a game Paw had played intentionally with her, to prepare for situations such as this. She was nowhere to be found. "Tabitha! Tabitha!" he called, trying hard to make his harsh voice sweet and calming like Neasa's.

"They took her," came a breathless response. "There were so many of them, from the beach." Gudrik shook his head wildly, as if not accepting the situation would change it. His eyes clouded and he became more agitated. It was all happening again.

"Pup, where is Pup?"

"He tried to protect her, but there were too many of them. I'm not sure where he ended up. I remember he and Paw chased them out to the verandah, but things are fuzzy after that." George held her cheek, which had since healed thanks to Gudrik's offering.

The Warlock rushed outside. There, just as George had described, lay the bodies of three severely mauled greys. Many more also lay open from long clean slashes. Wasting no time he continued to the beach. Another grey lay dead under the Casuarina arch. On the beach Gudrik found a mess of clustered boot and paw prints scattered across the sand. On the water's edge, being lapped by the gentle incoming waves, lay two more dead greys. Surrounding them, a collection of spent bullet casings, which had been pushed into a neat line by the incoming water. Both bodies had a twisted, bloody mess where their throats once were, definitely the work of Tabitha's Pup Pup.

Further along the beach alongside the long drag marks of small boat hulls, Gudrik found another group of corpses. These men were not mauled. They were all peppered with slashes and stab wounds, apart from one. That one was bullet riddled and dressed differently. Beside that corpse lay a blood smeared, silvery long sword with a leather wrapped grip. He rolled the body over. Paw's tongueless mouth hung open, his empty eyes glared into the starry skies above. Gudrik lifted him from the surf and carried him up the beach, gently laying him in the dry sand. He picked the wet strands of hair from his face. "You gave everything you could. May you be treated like the hero you are wherever you find yourself," said Gudrik, closing his eyes. Death was something even Warlock blood could not undo.

It was clear that from there that the trail led into the ocean. There was no trace of Tabitha, no sign of Pup. From there they could have gone anywhere.

By that time George, Kahn, Dorian and Malaki had joined Gudrik on the beach. "Is that...?"

"Aye," replied Gudrik before George could finish. Everyone lowered their head, but not for long enough to do the fallen warrior justice. Unfortunately there were more pressing matters. "The trail ends here," reported Gudrik.

"Like hell it does!" yelled George, "Use your blood, track her!"

"I can't!" he yelled frustratedly at her. "Don't you think I would have already done it if I could?"

"What, so you can conjure a giant frigging wolf from nothing, but you can't find a little girl?" she screamed, teetering on her tip-toes and trying to get nose to nose with him. He turned away and walked closer to the water.

"Spirits are all knowing beings," explained Kahn, "Aware of everything at all times, there is no need for words like find or search in their language." Dorian's phone began to ring and he moved away from the group to answer it.

"Well we can't just stand around here scratching our arses all night, they have my daughter," screamed George. Her outburst was ignored.

" _Where would he take her?"_ It was clear Kyran was up to his old tricks again, George being left alive was proof of that. If they had intended her dead she would be laying on the beach beside Paw. It was clear he wanted Gudrik to follow, or Tabitha would be dead as well. The Warlock was confident nothing would have happened to her yet. Confident may not have been as good as certain, but it was much better than the alternative. He would either take her somewhere Gudrik was aware of, or send some sort of clue to lure him in.

"Gudrik, that was Ami," called Dorian, interrupting his thought. "She says something weird is going on over there. Not long after dark Kyran's private helicopter arrived at Raven's Skull Creek."

"You can't be serious Dorian!" cried Malaki dramatically, storming over and yelling in his face. "She obviously used that meet today to distract us. Why do you think she kept us waiting so long? Now you want to go running the second she calls us back. Think with your brain instead of your cock for a second!" he continued frustratedly.

Dorian instantly saw red and swung his right fist hard into Malaki's jaw, spinning his head sideways. Malaki in turn drove his shoulder into Dorian's stomach, tackling him hard to the sand. They rolled around landing punch after punch on each other until both were bruised and bloody. Kahn and Gudrik separated them.

"Enough bickering!" grunted the Warlock. "Aye, it is certainly a trap, but that does not necessarily secure her guilt. Our options are few and it is more than likely where they would go. So it is all we have to work with. I will end this once and for all, alone. No more lives will be threatened by my actions."

He drew his wand and began to bleed himself, but he was sharply interrupted by George grabbing his arm. "She is my daughter; you don't get to make the decision whether or not I am involved."

"There is no way I would allow you to come," he grumbled.

"Women may have shut their mouths and done what they were told in your day Gudrik, but today pulling that crap just gets you kicked in the balls." Gudrik wretched his arm free and finished slashing his hand.

"You clearly know nothing about the women of my homeland. _Kiztarcus_." He drew a long, thin copper needle from the glowing wound on his hand. "Have it your way, but this is going to hurt."

George followed Gudrik back to the house with a pale, queasy look on her face while the other three hunted for dry driftwood to build a makeshift funeral pyre for Paw. _"She is safe. She is well. Don't rush the trap. Plan it well,"_ he told himself over and over again.

The Warlock used his blood to paint a large wheel of runes on the floor. He removed the needle from his pocket, took one of the final two crystal vials of his blood and turned to George. "Take off your shirt." George looked at him with a perplexed expression. "If you want to help, then you must do this. Otherwise you will be nothing more than a distraction."

Reluctantly she complied with his instructions. George folded the shirt and hung it over a chair. "Turn your back to me and kneel." Once again she followed his directions. Gudrik cut her bra strap; it sprung apart, exposing her back. George wrapped her arms around her breasts, holding the bra in place and concealing them. Gudrik dipped the point of the stretched, cone shaped needle into the vial of blood and placed his index finger over the tiny hole at its top, sucking a small amount of blood up. Carefully he pierced the delicate skin of her back, leaving a single dot which ran a small trail of purple down her spine. George tensed up. She clenched her teeth and grated them as Gudrik repeated the action over and over again, quickening his pace as he worked. After almost two agonising hours, the deed was done. Gudrik wiped the smear of mingled bloods away; exposing a spiralling collection of blue runes perched between her shoulder blades. He walked around and knelt in front of her, looking intensely into George's eyes.

"To give you a collection of blue words would have taken too much time, time we do not have. I have given you one inscription. You shall stay clear of the battle until Tabitha is in sight. Then when the opportunity arises you will grab her and utter these words. Memorise them, but do not," Gudrik paused for a moment to emphasise his point, his blue eyes shining into hers. "I repeat do not speak them until the moment you require their use. _Svanjanus vindiktus_."

George repeated the words over and over in her mind, locking them firmly into memory. _"Svanjanus vindiktus. Svanjanus vindiktus. Svanjanus vindiktus."_

The group gathered back on the beach around Paw's pyre. No words were said. Nothing needed to be said. Everyone knew the man lying before them; no mere words could do his life justice. For seven hundred and thirty seven years he had put the welfare of the group before his own. It was a character trait which had shone right up to his last breath. Kahn simply lit the wood while everyone watched on in silent tribute. The flames engulfed Paw's body, escorting him from the realm. Gudrik whispered a simple Varth-lokkr chant to guide his spirit from the earth. George hid her eyes. "No you must watch," said Kahn raising her chin, "Paw needs witnesses to his transition." The smoke curled gracefully toward the stars.

Once the hero had been farewelled, the group came together at the foot of the still roaring fire.

"Ami will join us at the meeting point in about four hours to help us gain access," said Kahn, "But I couldn't reach Teefa and the others."

"Probably in one of the dead spots along the highway," added Malaki.

"We're in too," said Dorian standing beside Malaki, both already looking worse for wear.

"No we can't risk you Dorian," responded Kahn. Dorian's eyes narrowed with confusion and he swept his hair aside.

"This could be the defining battle of our order, how can you deny me the chance to fight?"

"You will take over from me one day son, I nearly lost you once this week, I won't let it happen again."

"Take over when dad? You've been telling me that for three hundred years and yet here I am still being treated as a boy. I have proven my ability and loyalty time and time again," he spat blood from his mouth, "Or is this about keeping me away from Ami? You had your chance; she deserves the right to a happy life too."

"Watch your tone, you speak of things you don't understand," Kahn snarled. "My orders stand. Ami and I will accompany Gudrik, you will not."

"Fuck your orders; I'm coming to fight side by side with my woman! I will not let her die alone and outnumbered like my mother." Kahn lunged forward to strike his son, but Malaki caught his arm and drew him into a constricting embrace.

"Kahn, listen to me," he whispered into his friend's ear. "There has been enough fighting between our ranks tonight. I get to act like a drunken asshole, not you. He doesn't mean it. He's just pumping adrenaline. You know your blood; it flows through him as well. You would be at this fight no matter what. The same is true of him, and me."

Gudrik thought for a moment. He had intended to fight this battle alone, the Inscribed had done so much already, but with George added to the equation it made sense to have extra troops on the ground. He also thought back to the lab, and how he had regretted not accepting their help then.

"Your company would be appreciated," Gudrik replied. "Numbers should only improve our odds."

"Fine we all go. No heroics. Follow orders and keep George safe," Kahn ordered. He shared a lingering look with his son, a look which said much. It was a twenty minute discussion of apologies and forgiveness all spoken in an instant.

"Tell Ami to get there now," grunted Gudrik. Everyone looked at him queerly, but Dorian did as he was told.

Gudrik stood and faced the group. Their small cache of weaponry had been taken by the attackers. The corpses too had been stripped of any weapons, assumably by their comrades. So the Inscribed would enter this war armed only with their armour. "Make your peace with whatever gods you please, we leave soon."

The others prepared themselves before joining Gudrik at the water's edge. He painted war masks on them from a gash on his palm. It was warm and wet at first, but soon dried crisp on the skin.

"This will not be pleasant," he warned. The Warlock took George's hand; his palm still bled. He motioned for the Inscribed to join. They locked to form a circle. " _Svanjanus cirqes!_ "

The ground crumbled away below them and the group collapsed through it. There was a brief sensation of free fall before George felt a sharp change of direction. There was an intense radiant heat. George could feel herself moving at such speeds that her very being felt as though it was being distorted and separated, molecule by molecule. Her eyes were not able to focus enough to see anything other than a fiery, orange glow below. The journey lasted no more than few seconds and just when George felt like she would burn alive, her body was snapped violently upward, flinging her arms and legs down. She found herself lying face down on dry, red earth and rock, smoke rising off her back.

Intense nausea took her, and her last meal erupted before her. _"How embarrassing."_ It wasn't really the impression she had wished to make on her first campaign of battle, especially after her earlier empowerment speech. However, her wounded pride was soon mended as she looked up to see the men experiencing the same complications. Only the Warlock stood stoic, staring down from their vantage point towards the ambient glow of the brightly lit Raven's Skull Creek mining facility.

"What the hell was that?" spluttered George as she spat the foul taste from her mouth.

"The void, what we dubbed the low road. A passage of nothingness which separates the realms. We were between Midgard and what my father believed to be Muspellheim. I left an exit mark here earlier," he answered.

"That's impossible Gudrik," lectured George as she climbed to her feet. Gudrik looked about in a sarcastic, animated fashion.

"Yes.....impossible," he grumbled.

"Surprise, surprise, no sign of the bitch," sneered Malaki, spitting the taste from his mouth and dusting himself off.

"I wanted to wait till you had finished purging princess. Didn't want to get your dinner on my shoes," came Ami's voice as she emerged from the dark. "What's the plan?"

"From here we walk up to the fence and make our way inside," replied Gudrik.

"A full frontal assault hey, brave but a bit suicidal for us ageless don't you think Gudrik?" asked Ami. "I promise you he has a comprehensive force in there."

"It would be a glorious battle no doubt Ami, but having George with us I have an alternative plan. An open attack or breach of any kind would only give him time and warning," said Gudrik as he cut his palm with the wand. Ami cringed awkwardly as he smeared his blood across her face. She now matched the rest of the team.

" _Vitctziscus-noh!_ " Gudrik yelled. George felt the blood on her face react to his words. A sharp, burning chill spread out from it and swept across her, crawling along her flesh with tiny unseen talons all the way to her fingers and toes, before fading to nothing more than a slight pins and needles sensation which lingered. She looked around the hilltop, and was startled to realise that she was suddenly on her own.

"Gudrik!" she called frantically, "Gudrik!"

"Calm yourself, look at your hands," came the ghostly rumble of a familiar voice. She held her hands out in front and looked down at them. George saw only moonlit red earth. Glancing further down her body she noticed that it was no longer there.

"How long will this last?" asked George. She was enjoying the idea of being invisible, but was cautious of the long term ramifications.

"Don't know," was Gudrik's response. "I have done it for hours in the past, but never on more than just myself. So I suggest we hurry."

The answer didn't reassure George, but she kept her mouth shut. After all, she was responsible for arguing herself into this very position. "Follow me," the Warlock grunted.

George looked around the small plateau wildly, "How? I can't see you??"

Gudrik sighed loudly and scuffed his feet hard in the dirt to create a puff of dust. George and the rest of group quickly followed.

## I am Gudrik

For many winters I saw no sign of The Twelve. I lived a normal life, a relaxed life. I guess you could say I lived the life of a mortal. Until late one summer afternoon, while hunting in the woods around our cabin, the first of the visions struck. It dropped me to my knees, it had been so long since I had experienced one that I didn't even recognise it at first. A flash of grave fear followed quickly by feelings of intense pain and helplessness. It was a confusing bombardment of emotion, but there was no mistaking....it was uncle Scurt. The only decipherable meaning in the mess of pictures and emotions were, "uprising" and "amulet".

Instantly our minds went wild with discussion. We had all felt it, and all of us knew instantly that Scurt of The Twelve, my uncle, was dead. The feelings of fear and rage from The Twelve echoed on. For the first time we were forced to question the long held belief that we were immortal.

Most of The Twelve simply continued the lives they had been living since going underground, but my father was not that kind of man. He set out to investigate his brother's death. It wasn't long before he made contact with the group again to confirm what we already knew. Scurt was indeed dead, his killer, a man named Kyran. He seemed to have come from nowhere, a warrior who had made it his personal crusade to track down and eradicate our kind. Rumour had it he discovered a sacred amulet which gave him the power to slay immortal demons, apparently us. Father also confirmed that our amulet was missing from its resting place in the ancient refuge.

Slowly over the following moons my peaceful thoughts and dreams were torn apart by brutal visions mirroring the ones from Scurt. One by one The Twelve began to fall; until eventually, only my father and I remained. Kyran had made an art of killing Warlocks. He had also built a legendary status for himself. He had touted tales blaming Warlocks for all of the evils in the world. Dead crops, plagues, barren women, the very things we were once revered for fighting, we now wore the blame for all. The very word 'Warlock' soon conjured images of dark, twisted mages who perverted the world to their own desires. It has always been the way of mankind to blame their troubles on outside influences; Kyran simply gave them a new target.

Few people knew our true identities, but the power of Kyran's rhetoric had been enough even to turn the most trusted of friends towards betrayal. I truly began to fear for my safety, for my wife's safety, despite the remoteness of our home. One day I travelled to town for trade and overheard some villagers speaking of the glorious campaign of Kyran, son of the Dragon, slayer of demons. It shook me deep inside as the paranoia took hold. I dared not speak of it to Elya though.

_It was no more than one moon later that my fears came to a head. Long after dark there was a knock at the door. I snatched up my wand and slashed my palm. "_ Karrjk scwarve _," I whispered as I flung my hand forward releasing a spurt of ghostly, blue blood. At the command it glowed and changed, emerging as a flaming war axe which I caught in my hand. I saw terror in my love's eyes; she knew nothing of my past, of my craft. I moved Elya away from the door and cautiously opened it. You can imagine my surprise and relief at the sight of my father. The axe flittered back to droplets at my feet. "My son," he said, "I dared not contact you. He can hear."_

Elya returned to bed, though I know she did not sleep. "We have made grave miscalculations my son." We sat down to large mugs of honey mead. "This man will be our deaths."

" _He will never find us." I was dismissive. "No one knows my true self and you have been nothing more than an anonymous wanderer for many winters now. We are the last survivors because he cannot find us."_

" _It is the amulet which desires our deaths, this Kyran, is merely its tool. The Valkyrie, it has found a way to have its vengeance," he said shaking his head. "No, he has known our locations from the beginning; I fear it is no accident we were left until last."_

We didn't have to wait long for our day of judgment to arrive.

A Confrontation for the Ages

" _Sometimes a single death can achieve more than an ocean of corpses."_

It's difficult to describe the complexities of walking when invisible to someone who has never done it. It's uncanny how much of one's spacial awareness is dependent on their visual sense. Not only for sighting of obstacles around them, but also for manipulating their own body in relation to said obstacles. Most of the group coped well and quickly adapted to their new situation. George was not one of those. Yes, she was an active and co-ordinated individual under normal circumstances, but this was not a normal circumstance. She found herself tripping over and stumbling more than a one legged drunk. Nevertheless, after a series of stacks and spills, she found herself standing in one relatively unharmed piece at the outer fence of the compound.

It was a very different picture to earlier that day. The previously dead area now teemed with activity. A mixture of Kyran's private security and government forces patrolled the area. They seemed to have divided jurisdiction into two parts. The army, in their green fatigues, were patrolling the perimeter and grounds while Kyran's men, clad in their dark grey body armour, maintained security of the buildings and infrastructure. Gudrik shuddered at the lies which Kyran must have spun to get government resources defending his personal facilities. "Gudrik!" piped George's feral whisper from thin air. "Those soldiers are not part of Drake's forces. They are simply following orders. Promise me you won't hurt them."

The Warlock sighed a heavy breath. Her demands were growing tiresome and he snorted in distain, but George had a point. Kyran was touting lies about Gudrik's callous brutality whenever he was given the platform to do so. Slaughtering a troop of government soldiers wouldn't really aid his cause. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll leave the men in green, but the greys sealed their fate the second they signed to his cause."

Gudrik ran his hand down an invisible left arm until he reached his wrist. He removed the wand and released some blood. The trickle seemed to flow from nothing in the eyes of the shrouded onlookers, a tiny stream of blue running towards the ground. The floating trail drifted closer to the chain link fence until it was pressed against its wire diamonds. " _Xitzsus terr_ ," boomed a voice from nowhere. The links of the fence panel in front of them became faint, as if a thin veil separated the wire from their reality. "Quickly step through," came a gruff whisper.

Logic dictated that traces of their presence be kept to a minimum, so non destructive methods would be used for as long as possible.

Gudrik stepped through the faded panel first. As his shrouded presence passed through the fence it wisped and spiralled around him as if it consisted of nothing but smoke. The others cautiously followed, all the while trying to stay as silent as possible so as not to attract a nearby patrol. Gudrik kept an ever watchful eye. In fact, he was paying so much attention to the soldiers that he made a rare mistake. His trailing foot snagged a large rock. The Warlock stumbled and stomped trying to regain his balance. He failed, crashing heavily to the ground and freeing a large puff of dust. The wand was knocked from his hand. It made a metallic rattle as it skittered along the hard, dry earth. Gudrik quickly dragged himself forward, out of the way and began wildly searching for the invisible blade. He moved his hand side to side unsuccessfully until.....he brushed it with his hand. Once again it scuttled along the ground. This time the wand, along with a small slide of rocks and dust, cluttered into a curiously positioned grate. They tinkled and skittered down the metal pipe and beyond his reach.

The rest of the group had by that stage moved through the fence. Gudrik released the blue word. Unfortunately, the strange noises had already attracted the nearby soldiers. They cautiously approached the shrouded group, closely inspecting Gudrik's drag marks in the dirt. It may have been night, but the enormous floodlights left no lack of light. The invaders held their breath as they silently shuffled around, avoiding the soldiers' every movement and keeping their shadows hidden within the sheds. It is not an easy task to keep actions silent, not to mention the fine, red dust which excitedly leapt into the air, betraying the secrecy of their every movement. The soldiers continued their inspection, proceeding to the fence. They poked, prodded and pulled on it, looking for signs of tampering. Thankfully, Gudrik's plan had paid off and they were satisfied everything was above board. The men returned to their patrol.

Gudrik and his team of shrouded infiltrators crept stealthily through the yard, weaving their way through the strategic littering of armed men, always carefully hiding their telltale shadows. Their paths varied, but their target was the same, a large hangar style door leading into a gargantuan shed which dwarfed everything around it. The only buildings of its size in Gudrik's time had been stone castles and fortresses. Not the queer, smooth, seamless stone he had seen buildings made of in the city, but large blocks of raw, rough hewn stone. Never had he seen something so large constructed of metal.

Inside the cavernous steel structure stood an entire battalion of greys, positioned in small groups about the space. The eastern wall was lined with a staircase leading up to an office perched one storey above them. Beneath it stood a set of large storage shelves. Several military vehicles were parked in rows against the western side of the shed.

Gudrik's stomach fluttered, something was wrong. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Was it nerves? Was it danger? Why not, danger was all around him? Was it instinct telling him he was on the right path? There was no way to be certain, but it was somehow familiar and right now within this structure it was screaming at him.

"Under the stairs," whispered Gudrik to the group. The message passed along an invisible chain. The light breath of speech spooked a nearby grey to attention. He whipped his head around, scanning the direction which the sound had come from. His suspicions even drove him to wander over and investigate, but by that stage the group had moved on. Travel was easier inside the shed. The lighting cast shadows in all directions, their shadows simply mixed and blended with those of the greys.

It was difficult coordinating a group of shrouded insurgents, especially in near silence. But huddled away in their refuge under the stairs, Gudrik felt safe to engage his troops. "Everyone check in." In turn they whispered their name, acknowledging their presence.

"George."

"Kahn."

"Malaki."

"Ami." Everyone paused, anxiously awaiting the one remaining name.

"Dorian!" prompted Gudrik, slightly louder than before. Still no answer came.

"Look," whispered Ami, "the ground, towards the jeep." The others quickly began searching the area. There amongst the writhing weave of shadows Gudrik noticed tiny gravel stones, dragged in on tyres and boots, being disturbed and scattered, a sight which would have easily escaped notice if not for Ami's keen eyes.

"Get him Ami," ordered Gudrik. The group anxiously stared into an empty patch of space, praying two shrouded lovers, separated by a hostile environment found each other. They soon lost the whereabouts of both amongst the movements of the greys. Minutes passed, they seemed lifetimes. Frantically, Gudrik swept his eyes from side to side scouring the ground. He even found himself whispering hushed promises to gods he didn't believe in. You might imagine his surprise when they were actually answered.

All of a sudden, they were just there. In a previously empty patch of space, there they suddenly were, as clear as day. First Dorian, mid-step creeping forwards, then Ami lurching along, her arms stretched out feeling after him. He was less than a pace in front of her. Dorian froze, completely visible and hopelessly vulnerable. The greys shot to attention, raising a barrage of rifle barrels.

The look on Dorian's face was fierce, but it was a forced ferocity masking panic below. Ami on the other hand was a picture of serenity. She slowly straightened her body and gave the greys a look which made them question whether their numbers were enough for this fight. There was no panic or fear beneath her expression.

The greys shouted a frantic montage of commands and threats at them from all directions. Malaki and Kahn sprung from their hiding spot, screaming to their stricken comrades' aid. Ghostly cries bellowed from their invisible bodies and filled the hangar with echoes. The greys swept their guns from side to side madly following the sounds. Malaki raged and greys began to fly as he parted the crowd. But just as the commotion reached Dorian and Ami, the rescuers too emerged from their shrouded state and into plain sight. Malaki's rage fizzled. All the Inscribed shouted blue words, their inscriptions simply failed to respond.

Gudrik looked curiously at his hands. He was still shrouded. "Stay where you are George, we may need you," Gudrik whispered, creeping from the refuge. He was much more wary than the others had been. The Inscribed still stood in a battle ready standoff, surrounded by heavily armed greys and ignoring all commands barked at them. Gudrik weaved his way carefully through the grey uniforms, working toward his friends. There just before the point of their final stand Gudrik sighted the problem. An old Varth-lokkr trick. Something so simple it was nothing short of ironic that it could contain such inhuman power. _"Clever boy."_

Before the Warlock's feet lay a thick ring of salt which surrounded the centre section of the shed space, essentially creating a dead zone. It may have wreaked havoc with his plan, but it did tell Gudrik something very important. They were on the right track. There was something there which Kyran wanted to protect. Something he needed to defend.

One of the greys eventually took command and began to bark orders at the Inscribed. "Are there any more of you?" The familiars did not respond. "Get on the ground or we **will** fire on you."

The four Inscribed refused to submit. Instead, Dorian and Malaki looked at each other and in an act of defiance they removed their shirts, proudly displaying their inscriptions. They were dead anyway if they surrendered, Kyran would never let them live. Gudrik bit his hand. Three more times the grey repeated his order. Gudrik slid his foot forward breaking the salt line. The order came, "Fire!"

" _Qriktsus!_ " Gudrik's growl echoed loudly through the warehouse as he flicked blood onto the ground. Thick walls of stone and earth burst from the ground, shattering the thick concrete floor like a thundering quake and knocking the greys off their feet. The swarm of bullets thudded harmlessly into jagged stone battlements which now surrounded the Inscribed.

Gudrik dropped his shroud. The confused greys anxiously leapt up and turned their weapons on him. Before the bite wound could heal Gudrik rumbled for his axe. The tongues of flame licked at his flesh as it tore from his hand. In a single, swift motion fluent enough to be called dance the axe was buried in the closest grey. Gun fire erupted. The Warlock wrenched it free and sent it spinning through the air at another. Blue words spurred blood from fresh wounds into more axes which flashed in his hands, gliding and slashing through one man then the next, he grinned through the pain as red and blue splashed together at his feet.

The hysteria and gunfire caught the soldiers' attention and they flooded in, adding their weapons to the ruckus. The sight of their green fatigues cut through Gudrik's giddy battle fog, and George's request suddenly reverberated in his mind. He exhaled heavily and rolled his eyes. _"The things I do for that woman."_

" _Santarktsus_ ," he whispered, igniting his numerous bullet wounds. Soldiers and greys alike, collapsed heavily to the ground. Weapons rattled onto the fractured concrete slab as they all fell unconscious. If the warriors he once fought alongside could see Gudrik now, he would never have lived it down. It was not what he would have called an honourable victory.

The stone wall dropped. Dorian appeared to his left in a whirl of mist, Malaki charged out and halted, looking about wild eyed. All they found was peace and quiet. They seemed disappointed at the lack of battle. A shape emerged from a long stretch of shadow which lay in the Warlock's right periphery. He sunk his teeth into his hand. The beautiful blonde haired head of Ami suddenly showed through the dark. She paused briefly in a low crouch as the dark seemed to cling to her body. She eyed the sleeping bodies. Gudrik arched an eyebrow at her with intrigue.

"Yeah, it's pretty handy," Ami bragged, standing up. The shadows fell away from her. Gudrik gave a small, but genuine nod of acknowledgment. "Has its advantages," she said kicking one of the sleeping greys.

"Enough chatter!" roared George's voice from thin air.

"Agreed," said Kahn who was crouched inspecting the remnants of the salt trap. Gudrik removed the remaining shroud and George appeared. There was no longer any need for secrecy; anyone not touched by the blood was now despondent in slumber.

George stormed up the stairs to the small office, while the Inscribed spread out, searching the vehicles and stripping some weapons and equipment from the sleeping men. Gudrik climbed the stairs; George met him at the top. "She's not here Gudrik!" George muttered repeatedly, "She's not here! She's not here!"

"Nothing Gudrik!" Kahn called up from the ground, the space echoed.

"I fucking told you, the bitch just drew us into a trap!" spat Malaki pointing at Ami.

"Screw you Malaki," she replied, storming towards him. There was no fear in Ami's eyes, despite the fact each of his arms were the girth of her legs.

"Hold it!" interrupted Dorian. Ami halted. He was between two rows of vehicles. "I've got something." He held his hand up above his head. All who had met her recognised Tabitha's red sandal instantly. George ran down to him, clutching the shoe as if it were her missing daughter.

The group looked about desperately; there was nothing in there, nowhere to go. _"Was it merely a trap? Or am I missing something?"_ The Warlock's thoughts were scattered and frantic. He was genuinely afraid, something which he was not overly experienced with. Looking down from his elevated position, the basic outline of the salt ring still stood out amongst the scattering of dead and sleeping bodies. He followed the arc around. There was only really one thing within the ring which was worthy of their attention, a large metal plate. Gudrik leapt over the rail. Once on the ground he walked over and stood on it. He stamped his foot. It resonated with a hollow thud. "Go through your shadows, see what's on the other side," Gudrik growled at Ami.

"Doesn't work like that Gudrik. I choose the shadow I go into, I've got no control which one I come out of," she replied.

"Dorian?" Kahn asked.

"Can't," replied Dorian flicking his hair, "I don't know what's on the other side, you'd have to be an idiot to shift blind." He grinned childishly at Gudrik. The Warlock gave a grunt in reply.

"It's Alright boys, I've always got a backup plan," replied Ami.

"Yeah all sorts of shifty shit going on in your head," added Malaki.

"Oh I'm sorry sweetie, did you wanna get all angry and bash it for a while?"

"Just fucking open it," he grumbled, zipping up a scavenged grey tactical vest.

" _Schendiline_ ," she mumbled walking towards the plate. Strings of runes which spiralled around her forearms and fingers burned bright blue as shards of crystal burst from her skin and spread, leaving her with long crystalline talons extending from her fingertips. They gleamed blue and shimmered with heat. In a few quick, powerful slashes they sliced through the heavy steel plate as if it was made of butter. The crystal plunged back into her flesh, the wounds seared closed quickly, but her arms were left bloody and the smell of burnt flesh hung in the air. Ami showed no visible signs of pain, or even discomfort for that matter.

"I still don't understand how you stay conscious during that babe," said Dorian.

"You boys are all pussies," she shot back, wiping the blood from her forearms. Malaki shook his head in reluctant admiration and stamped on the hatch. There was a series of heavy clangs as the dislodged piece of metal bounced down a stairway, the slashes still glowed red with heat.

The group looked down into the basement of the facility. The stairwell ran deep and was poorly lit, but light streamed through the arch at the end of it. George started off down the steps without hesitation and the rest quickly followed. "A dingy subterranean lair? A bit cliché," mumbled Dorian to Ami.

At the bottom they found themselves in not a room, but an earthen corridor which extended east to west. The passage was carved directly out of the heavy bedrock with tangled arteries of wires and piping snaking along the roof. It was much cooler down there insulated from the blustery night above.

Gudrik led the group towards the eastern end of the tunnel, rounding slightly towards the north. There was a sudden flicker in the lights, flashing long sporadic shadows throughout the cavern. The train halted and George bumped into Gudrik's back. They eyed the fluorescent bulb above them. The light hung bright for a moment, then disappeared completely. Black swarmed in flooding the passage. If not for the faint glow fighting its way down the stairwell they would not have been able to see their hand an inch before their eyes. "Don't suppose that was just coincidence?" smirked Malaki.

"Do we go back?" asked Dorian. George stomped off down the black hall in answer, Gudrik grabbed her shoulder.

"Ami, take the lead with Gudrik, Dorian put George between us, Malaki on rear guard." ordered Kahn. With military precision, the Inscribed obeyed.

"Thought you put them all to sleep?" whispered Malaki.

"So did I," grunted Gudrik, "Anyone not touched by the blood should be out."

The Inscribed flicked on the torches clamped to the barrels of their confiscated rifles and the group continued their exploration. "The lights will give us away in the dark," said Dorian.

"They already know where we are," Gudrik grunted back. The butts of the weapons were pressed firmly to the Inscribed's shoulders as they crept their way through the labyrinth. Small passages broke off along the way and down each one shadow crept and slinked as the torch beams passed.

The first substantial room they found themselves in was a long concrete floored space which was lined with enormous stainless steel tanks. Light sprinkled the walls as the torch beams shone off them. The feeling which had been bubbling within Gudrik since his arrival was now a screeching roar. It was a feeling he had only ever felt once before, a feeling which he had dubbed the _urge_. It was now clear that this was the same _urge_ he had felt in the lab, but on a much grander scale. There was no question in Gudrik's mind what was in these tanks. Considering the power only a few drops of his blood held, in the wrong hands this stockpile was probably one of the greatest threats which humanity had ever faced.

"We've found the blood store," said Gudrik. Kahn simply nodded in response. He had suspected what the tanks contained, but at the same time prayed he was wrong. There was a pitter patter behind. All the gun barrels swung towards it, but the beams of light hit only emptiness.

"Worry about the blood later, we need to find Tabitha," George reminded them, anxiously walking ahead.

They snaked from room to room, investigating as they went, Malaki creeping backwards panning his light side to side at their black tail, Ami doing the same from the front. The design of the underground level was uniform, but still confusing. A long curving hallway chiselled out of the earth, peppered with smaller off-shoots towards the inside of the arc. Each hall ended in a wider chamber. At the end of each of those chambers was an archway leading into yet another hall. The rooms which the team had passed through by that stage were all lined with tanks. The size of Kyran's stockpile was truly staggering. It soon became disorientating moving through the subterranean cavern and dèjá vu was rife. It felt as though they were circling around, but it was impossible to tell how far around the circle they were. Eventually the creeping snake moved beyond the storage areas and into some larger and much more civilised rooms.

These were lined on the roof and walls and if they didn't know better, the group could have been in any normal surface building. The first two rooms which they passed through were established laboratories, very similar to the ones Gudrik had raided only twenty four hours earlier.

"Why have this facility if he already has the medical labs in the city?" asked Dorian. "It seems excessive."

"I assume he uses the official facility mainly for recruiting and cover, I am sure any really edgy stuff is done here. Here secrecy can be assured with more force than a non-disclosure agreement," whispered Ami.

"Where are the people?" George added shakily.

"He knew we were coming," grunted Gudrik sharply. "Now be silent." Malaki let a snort sound from rear guard. He was ignored.

In the final room of the laboratory set, one major difference leapt out. There was a long wooden bookshelf along the inside wall. It's warm, oaken appearance was in sharp contrast to the cold, stainless steel of the rest of the room's furniture. There was contrast too between its contents and that of the other surfaces. Instead of bizarre scientific instruments whose uses baffled them, it contained the fragile parchment and paper of numerous ancient texts.

Gudrik lit his hand and rifled through the rolled scrolls, wooden cased volumes and delicately bound tomes. Memories danced through his mind. A smile cracked his hard face. They were in a wide collection of languages, most of which Gudrik was able to read. They truly were ancient, almost as ancient as him. Through the warmth of reminiscence one chilling theme cut though.....they were all about The Twelve. This was a facility with a single purpose, to merge the ancient knowledge with the technology of the time. This was a facilitly to manipulate the blood.

BANG, BANG! Two gunshots echoed through the tunnel. The second sounded like a ricochet, but the first had ended in a meaty thunk. Dorian threw George behind a bench as they instinctually dropped into cover. Confusion spread. The rapid moving lights strobed and flickered about the room. "Who's hit?" called Kahn as he fired in the direction of the shots.

"Me! Shoulder!" shouted Malaki.

A scuffle echoed from behind them, disappearing down the tunnel. Another was heard ahead of them. Gudrik leapt from his cover and chased the sound into the tunnel ahead; bullets held no fear for him. In the tunnel he paused, Kahn joined him. "No!" called Ami. The scuffle echoed again down one of the tunnel's off-shoots. As Kahn shone the beam down it; a boot was glimpsed rounding the corner. Gudrik took off after it, the bobbing light of Kahn at his heels. Another long straight tunnel of shadow, no sign of the enemy. More gun shots rang out through the black cavern. These were not scattered, these were a firefight. "They were just trying to separate us!" grunted Gudrik, sprinting back the way they had come. _"Ormstunga!"_

The two men emerged back into the larger main tunnel. Gudrik looked to the room they had been in, no lights, no sound. More shots echoed from further along the passage, then silence returned, lasting only for the briefest of moments. Soon moans and sounds of pain filled the air with ghostly wailing echoes. Kahn put his hand over the barrel light, dulling its effect and they crept down the passage.

They moved swiftly through two more rooms and passed three more offshoot tunnels. Occasionally one would brush spent shell casings with their feet. Gudrik bit down into his wrist and whispered a command. At the words, the trickle spilling from his wound took form and gained mass falling towards the ground. In one fluent motion he caught it and rolled the axe a few times, remembering its weight and feel. It ignited spontaneously. The flames from the axe head flickered a montage of light and shadow across the walls.

Gudrik stopped and pressed hard to the wall before the next archway. Moaning could be heard from the next room. He carefully peeked around. In the faint, flickering light he saw a bare space. No furniture, earth floor, earth walls. Simply a raw cavity carved from the very Earth herself with a small ventilation shaft in the roof. Three Inscribed sat inside, restrained and gagged. Dorian struggled on his knees, fighting at his bonds as blood streamed from his nose and mouth. The other two Inscribed showed far less fight. Ami appeared dead, lifelessly lying in a large, red puddle. Malaki writhed weakly and muttered delusional ramblings. He too was leaking red. A dead grey lay beside him, another in the entrance to the other tunnel. Their weapons had been swept to the side. Two live greys, a man and a woman, stood over them, glaring at Gudrik, daring an attack.

The fact that warriors of the Inscribed's caliber lay captured, indicated a beautifully planned and executed trap. He dared not take the bait. Gudrik looked at his feet. Once again their host had cleverly used salt. Across the doorway was a thick line which followed the edge of the room around, forming an unbroken ring. An arched Perspex bridge covered the salt ring at the doorways, shielding it and cleverly protecting it from foot traffic.

Footsteps echoed through the black of the opposite tunnel. Gudrik stayed clear of the salt trap. His fingers twitched with eagerness around the axe shaft. Life flickered in the lights and they once again shone. The Warlock squinted. The footsteps grew louder and clearer until finally a man stepped into the room. He seemed out of place in his fine tailored suit down in the dusty, bare cavern. He was flanked by two men, one huge, the other smaller than Gudrik. The smaller was a grey; the giant however, was clad in heavy, black body armour, body armour which Gudrik had seen before, but with one subtle difference. The huge man at his right wore armour emblazoned with a great white hammer. One of Dorian's darts protruded from his shoulder. His black body armour was slick with blood but he seemed unconcerned. He was a moving mountain who had to lower his head to pass through the tunnels. His arms were as thick as Gudrik's legs and they made the massive .905 calibre assault rifle he held look tiny. A long ginger goatee hung braided from his chin, brushing on his chest and was the only hair to be found on his bulbous head.

The suited man stepped forward to speak. There was no denying, it was Kyran.....or Drake, whatever he wished to be called, his was a face forever etched into Gudrik's memory. He spoke, his expression hard and emotionless, "Greetings Gudrik of The Tw-/."

Before the welcome was finished Gudrik sent his axe spinning. It hurtled in a swirling vortex of white, yellow and orange straight at Kyran. The shot struck with a heavy thud and buried itself deep into his chest, the impact so great that it launched Kyran back into the grey at his rear. The instant the axe left his grip, the Hammer opened fire.

SMACK! Gudrik was struck hard in the shoulder by a projectile. It jarred him back as it shattered the bone, he staggered. Pain shot through his body, worse even than the rock salt. The first shot was rapidly accompanied by a second, third and fourth strike as well. He felt the strength leech from his body. He dropped to his knees. Kahn's finger twitched on his shouldered rifle, but was halted by a voice from behind, "I wouldn't if I were you." Another man had circled around behind them. He stood clad in black body armour, a snub nosed rifle hanging from his shoulder, his side arm to George's head. Peeking from behind George's body was the white hilt of a sword etched on his chest. Realising any move he made now would certainly end in George's demise; Kahn held his arms up in surrender and let the rifle clatter to the ground.

## I am Gudrik

It was the beginning of the end, though I hadn't realised it. Elya fled to her aunt in a neighbouring town, she was terrified.....it was for the best. I hoped it would free the greatest thing which had ever entered my life from what was coming.

The glorious final stand which Father and I had planned never came to be. Late one night I woke to a manic scream inside my head. I shot up in bed and quickly realised that the scream echoed in the air around me. It was my father. And there he stood, the legendary warrior himself, standing over him, sword buried to the hilt in my father's stomach. I snatched up my wand and lunged at his throat. My actions were halted un-heroically as Kyran grabbed my arm and flung me effortlessly aside. The amulet draped around his neck glowed ecstatically as the Valkyrie deep within pulsed with excitement. I was a blubbering child, so weak I could do nothing. I was powerless.

" _I doubt you have any idea who I am Gudrik of The Twelve." I tried to spit at him, but it dribbled feebly down my chin. "But I know you. I've seen you at your worst. I was a boy when last we met, the son of a great knight chosen to reclaim holy lands from its heathen invaders. Kyranus, the Blessed Dragon and his army was unchallenged until our enemies signed a blood pact with you."_

Such a small part in the scheme of my life. I had all but forgotten the battle against Kyranus' army, the Blessed Dragon as his men had called him. Just another fight amongst hundreds.

" _Kyranus was a monster, I feel nothing but satisfaction that he is dead by my hands," I replied._

" _He was a knight, a hero! I was there that day; I watched as you, a monster, used your demon blood to cut through an army of hardened knights like they were children. I burned with anger and wondered how a man could ever rise up against such evil as you. But it found me, mankind's freedom."_

The whole time, the amulet spoke within me, resonating through my blood. A sweet sound, yet the resonance made me feel ill, uneasy. Kyran thought the amulet to be his tool, little did he know that the roles were in fact reversed. It taunted me, threatened me. With the death of each of The Twelve it grew closer to its former strength as the amulet which held it grew weaker with the loss of each bloodline. The presence inside the amulet longed to have the rest of its essence returned. Now with the final two infidels in sight, it salivated at the thought of bursting free from its prison and wreaking its bloodlust on the world once again.

However, Kyran was not the mindless barbarian the amulet believed him to be. He had his father's ambition within him, but he also had something Kyranus had lacked. Kyran had his mother's cunning. The powers of our blue blood had intrigued him and he had noticed things about it.

" _I have two punishments for you Gudrik of The Twelve. The first shall mirror the wrong done to me." I screamed as Kyran drew his sword from my father's stomach and with one mighty swing cleft his head from his body. As I roared and wept a mist of blue wafted from his open neck only to be drawn to the amulet as if caught in a draft. The blood leaking from my father's corpse lost its blue glow and was once again a crimson red._

" _Secondly, you shall watch for eternity, imprisoned and guarded to ensure that your kind never again plagues the world." At this the amulet began to flicker and pulse erratically. "Silence your whispers!" yelled Kyran, apparently speaking to no one. "I am no fool. I will not replace one demon with another."_

I gave up. I know it's not heroic, but there's no other way to describe it. He had taken everything from me. I was bound into slavery, in the service of my mortal enemy. As a final insult, to break my will completely Kyran ordered his first in command to 'show me the surprise'. From a filthy sack he produced a blood smeared gold band, Elya's wedding ring.

_Right there that night he cut me for the first time and drank my blood. The will to live drained from my body but seemed to lift him. Once he had drunk his fill he let my arm fall lifeless beside me. Blood ran from the wound as my body, hampered by the amulet's presence, slowly struggled to close it. "_ Jarkurthra _," I whispered, hoping to excite my falling blood.....revenge. The amulet was too powerful. The blood merely ran through the joins in the floorboards and pooled, before being soaked into the cold earth beneath._

Throughout the coming ages my blood sustained Kyran, providing him with eternal life. From century to century I was moved from palace to palace as his empire expanded, evolved and moved. Always the amulet sat upon my chest, unnaturally heavy, destroying any hopes of freedom.

For an age I did nothing but wish for death, something he would never allow. The hunger, thirst and pain were maddening. Did I lose my mind? Of course I did, any man would have. There were times that my escape would have meant me scorching the earth of all life. But I was captive for a long, long time, a timespan which any mortal's mind will scarcely comprehend. So much time in fact that I managed to fall apart and then painstakingly, piece myself back together again.

Throughout the centuries I willed pain and suffering on all of mankind for abandoning us, for turning on us. But one bright summer's day when I was being moved, I was reminded of the beauty and wonder of which I was deprived, while the monster Kyran lived the life of a king. Elya would have been disgusted with what I had become. My father would have been ashamed. I realized it was only Kyran who truly deserved my hate. On that day I vowed, no matter how long I had to wait, I would have revenge for my father, for my wife, for my uncle, for The Twelve and for myself.

Making Amends

" _There are some mistakes which must be atoned for."_

The smell of burning flesh drifted on the air as the flaming axe did its duty. The pain soon took its toll and Gudrik's concentration wained, the axe collapsed back into flittering droplets of blue. Kyran began to squirm and sat up, eventually climbing to his feet. Dusting himself off, he walked to Gudrik, flanked by his troops. The front of his suit was scorched and hung open revealing the slowly closing wound. Blood still ran from the deep gash as it healed. Not red human blood, rich, blue Warlock blood. Panic widened Gudrik's eyes, as much as he tried not to show it.

"You aren't the only one who can avoid death Gudrik of The Twelve," he said with an eerie calmness. "The arrogance of Warlocks has always astounded me. For so long you simply assumed you were immortal....invincible." He walked closer to Gudrik, circling him. "I experimented on your kin, as I worked my way through them you know. A wise warrior knows his enemies as intimately as he knows himself." Kyran kneeled beside the Warlock, clearly unafraid. "I found that under the right influence you are as frail as the rest of us. The amulet was my guide; all of its materials had some effect. Most simply slowed your healing or subdued your abilities, but night stone, now night stone on the other hand really allowed me to inflict pain. It was almost as toxic to your kind as the amulet itself. That's what you have lodged in you as we speak, burning with its toxic reaction."

He turned to his troops and barked an order, "Secure them!"

"Silver nitrate?" the big man boomed. Kyran shook his head. The Hammer walked up to Gudrik and punched him in the face with his giant fist. The blow was crushing, knocking him flat onto his back. Meanwhile his counterparts dealt with George and Kahn. Gudrik's vision blurred. He felt himself being dragged by his foot. His awareness became distant. He soon faded from consciousness into the black embrace of sleep.

A firm slap suddenly snatched Gudrik back from his dream world, back into the throbbing agony of reality. Before him he saw that George and Kahn had joined the others. The pain streaking throughout his body was blinding. He was no stranger to suffering, his healing gifts had never allowed him respite from pain, but this was hard to block out. No matter what barriers he put in place, this pain seemed to ooze through. His veins were pumping fire throughout his body.

He carefully searched the room, quivering with effort as he willed his head to rise from the ground. He was now lying within the thick ring of salt. Combined with the night stone lodged in his flesh, he may as well have had the amulet resting on his chest once again. He tried to move, but restraints held his wrists and ankles tightly fixed together.

"He's back with us sir," boomed The Hammer, towering over him. Gudrik spied the blue talon tattooed on his neck, identical to Ami's. Suddenly he understood why these troops were not sleeping with the rest.

"If I knew for sure my blood grafts were permanent you would have been beheaded by now," said Kyran, who had relieved himself of his soiled jacket and shirt.

"Strong words," strained Gudrik, "but we both know a mortal life would be the least of your problems should I die."

"Possibly. In truth I cannot know for sure what would happen. It could be a catastrophe, it could be nothing," he said, wandering amongst the captives and examining them. "The world is a much bigger place now Gudrik. If it was to be released, I could allow it to have this land and simply move my empire to the other side of the globe."

"You! Woman!" Gudrik gasped looking up at one of the greys. "Put one of those bullets between my eyes now so I don't have to listen to **this** any longer." Kyran ignored him.

"Tell Alicia to bring me a new shirt," he said calmly to the Sword.

Coarse hair covered Kyran's heavily muscled chest. He was much broader than Gudrik, yet just as tall. He appeared small alongside the Hammer, but was his own giant when standing over George. His clean shaven face and styled black hair made him pleasant to look upon. He did not look decrepit or ragged, but he had aged since that night a thousand years ago, no doubt avoiding the addiction had taken some toll.

As Kyran spoke, a possible salvation revealed itself to the Warlock, a faint glimmer of hope. A small ventilation shaft sat directly above Gudrik. It was flowing a light breath of fresh air into the room. That breath had been very gently eroding away at the salt trap. Just behind Gudrik, obscured from view by a small pile of rocks and dust, the thick line was now just a thin strand. _"Keep him talking and we may yet be free of this."_ The man seemed to love the sound of his own voice; surely it wouldn't be too hard?

"Where is the child?" Gudrik demanded with newly found strength.

"You've gotten soft over the years Gudrik. Trying to distract me with some false humanity?" he chuckled.

"I care nothing for it, but I'd hate to see you enjoy its company as much as your father would have." Kyran's face reddened.

"My father did no such thing!" he snapped, "He was a holy knight, a defender of the faithful, the Blessed Dragon. Those tales were nothing but Warlock lies." He paused and ran his fingers through his hair; realising Gudrik was simply inciting him. Kyran collected himself. "You are in no position to demand any information of me. She may be alive, she may be dead. Either way, none of you will ever see her again."

"You monster!" screamed George. "I'll kill you if you've hurt her." The grey closest to her punched George in the mouth, opening her lip.

"You did this to her when you took up cause with the demon," scolded Kyran. She spat blood at him. He glared at her in disgust as he wiped it from his face.

"How did you find us?" Gudrik asked. The room was still, the breath of air from the surface had stopped. _"Come on!"_

"Find you? I have known your location since the day you escaped. I simply let you be, nurtured public fear. As long as you weren't causing any hassle I was going to leave you to your own devices. You really have no idea just how insignificant you are. Pathetic. With my weaponry you're not even a treat anymore. It was only your visit to my research centre which prompted this." He turned towards Kahn, "Even familiars have their price."

"Lies!" Kahn roared in response. The Sword stepped forward and smashed him across the face with the butt of his rifle.

Kyran ignored Kahn and moved to the two wounded Inscribed. His attentions turned to Ami and he dropped to one knee beside her, stroking her hair gently. "Such a beautiful girl, she has always been my favourite, such loyalty." Kyran turned to the Sword. "You two share a bloodline you know."

Kahn's face washed pale. Despite their long and twisted history, he had always defended her loyalty unflinchingly. _"Has my guilt clouded my judgment all these years?"_ Kahn thought. He could hear what Malaki would be saying right now. The greatest scorn however, was seen on the face of Dorian. His feelings were not contained. Tears streamed down his cheeks cutting paths through the blue war paint, as he struggled with the writhing clutter of emotions. Gudrik glanced at the salt circle. The vent had almost finished its work, but the air remained still.

Kyran then moved to Malaki and looked around. His brow furrowed and his look darkened. He gestured to the Hammer, who stomped over. Kyran wrenched the dart from his shoulder; not even a flinch from the big man. He returned to his post over Gudrik as if nothing had happened. Kahn struggled at his bonds furiously, earning another thump from the Sword's rifle butt.

"How is it you bleed blue?" asked Gudrik trying to distract him. Kyran lowered the razor shard to his side.

"Not sure if you were aware under that amulet or not Gudrik, but I stopped feeding on you almost a decade ago. I won't bore you with the details, but as I said earlier, the research is the only reason we are still speaking."

Gudrik did not really have any concept of time during his captivity, but Kyran did speak the truth. For a long time he had seen only minions or greys come to bleed him.

"After the grafting, the amulet's presence began to affect me as well. I am actually glad to see it gone. A circle of salt and some large obsidian spikes should work just as well anyway. Though I dare say it won't be as pleasant for you."

"The blood is useless without the language," Gudrik rumbled.

"True. My familiar is fluent though," he glanced at Kahn who glared back, killing him numerous ways in thought, "But I'm no Bond villain. I am not going to regale you with my scheme." He turned to the Sword. "Any word from Alicia?"

"Still at least an hour away sir."

It didn't matter. Gudrik felt the welcome breath of a column of air from the surface. The moment he had been waiting for arrived. The ring was broken. " _Xitzsus_ ," he breathed. There was no reaction, despite the constant trickle of blood seeping from his bullet wounds. He repeated his command, but the outcome was no different. _"The night stone."_ He began searching for a means to draw fresh, untainted blood. Normally Gudrik would have simply bitten his hand, but the bindings prevented that.

Kyran bent down, hovering over Malaki, shard in hand. "Where's my daughter!" George screamed again, sick of hearing him talk.

"Now I have a problem with this woman," he said pointing the shard at George. He forgot Malaki and began to walk towards her. "You came into my home and stole from me."

"First of all dickhead," she cursed through tears, "It was an accident and considering the messed up shit you are into I don't think you should be so critical. Where's my fucking daughter!?" George's anger fought through the anguish and fear.

"You are a prime example of what is wrong with this world now," he said ignoring her. "I may have saved it from Gudrik's kind, but a new scourge is rampart. Whores like yourself who lust after worthless men and flood society with undisciplined bastard children. People openly worship false gods and flaunt common decency and respect without being punished for it. The treasure I fought for turned to shit in my hands without me even noticing."

"You have known your share of loose women," snarled Kahn.

"True, thanks to the addiction." He nodded in ashamed agreement. "It held me for a long time, but my soul was already sacrificed anyway."

"Have you ever actually listened to the crap that comes out of your mouth?" George yelled, tears of anguish leeching from her eyes, "WHERE'S MY DAUGHTER!?"

Something in Kyran snapped. He stormed over to George and stood above her, still clutching the shard. He wrenched the distraught mother to her feet by her hair and wrapped his fingers around her throat. He pressed the shard to her cheek. His face burned red, his teeth clenched wildly. Blood ran and dripped from her chin. Gudrik tried to intervene. "Stop! I will go willingly with you if you allow her to go free."

"YOU WILL COME ANYWAY!" Kyran roared at him. Slowly he dragged the shard down George's cheek.

Gudrik fidgeted harder than before struggling as if he was being cut, struggling to free his hands. He rolled and kicked and his fingers dragged through a small pile rocks and dirt. His hand bumped something, something which he hadn't expected. A small, metal object. He ran his fingers over the familiar curves and lines, Scurt's wand. He glared up at the vent. _"Fates be praised."_ He scooped it into his bound hands.

Gudrik glared at Kahn signalling him for help, a distraction. Kahn's centuries of experience led him to read the intention perfectly. "I'LL KILL YOU!" he screamed, struggling to get up. Once again he earned a heavy strike from the Sword. This one was delivered with much more force. This one left him unconscious in the dirt. The Sword gave a small giggle which drew the gaze of everyone in the room. Seizing upon the opportunity, Gudrik ran his finger along the blade and issued the blue word under breath. The fresh, untainted blood reacted instantly. His body faded. The obsidian slugs dropped through him sounding four light thuds as they hit the dirt. The bindings fell free of his wrists. He restored his physical state just as the gazes returned. Gudrik's body healed. His strength returned, for the moment, he kept his secret.

Kyran pressed the shard against George's other cheek. His hand closed tighter around her throat. Gudrik quickly weighed his options as he scanned the troops and weapons around the room. "Where's - my - daughter!" snarled George breathlessly. She swung her right knee up, landing it firm and square between Kyran's legs. His face twitched, his grip crumbled and he slouched forward. George growled and slammed the peak of her forehead into the bridge of his nose, her bound hands clenching with rage behind her back. Blood burst from Kyran's nose, spraying onto her face. Instantly Gudrik felt the _urge_. Not the lingering _urge_ from the tanks but. Whatever Kyran had done to himself, that was still _his_ blood. " _Blartvictus_!" he roared as George fell aside. The order resonated within the small stream of blue liquid leaking from Kyran's nose then surged throughout the body. It excited all but a few meticulously spared drops into action. Large spikes of night stone tore through his flesh in every conceivable direction, exploding out from inside him.

Dorian realised the salt trap had been breached. He glared at the two greys which had stood by Kyran. They quickly snatched their weapons up to fire at Gudrik. Dorian shifted from where he lay, leaving his bindings on the ground. With a heavy puff of blue mist he appeared behind them, one hand on each of their grey shoulders. In an instant he was gone again, this time taking the greys with him. Another puff echoed through the chamber. Dorian appeared once again, close to the wall of the tunnel with the greys twisting and writhing, their bodies partially embedded within the rock wall.

The greys' demise left the room in a tense standoff. The Sword and the Hammer were not regular men. Fear did not take them; the powers did not intimidate them. They were level headed enough to react strategically, even under intense situations. The Hammer scooped George up gripping her so that one small twitch from his massive arms would shatter her fine neck. The shard Kyran had held protruded from between her left ribs, a final strike none had noticed. The Sword had positioned himself over Ami, his right foot stomped on her head, the muzzle of his rifle firm at her temple.

"This can't end well for any of us," said the Sword calmly, "I think you had better drop the knife Warlock and we can sort something out." Gudrik gave no reply, but he let the wand fall from his hand, clattering on the ground at his feet. "I'll leave this one as a good faith gesture," he said nodding at Ami. "The other one comes with us. As long as no one follows she'll be left unharmed."

Gudrik stared hard at him. Ami was near death, Malaki had stopped rolling and flinching, George was looking pale. Dorian was already quivering after his two shifts. Gudrik however, was not concerned. He knew something the others did not.

A fine blue mist wafted around the giant of a man and suddenly burst into form between the Hammer and his captive, shoving her from his grasp and unceremoniously into the dirt. George's head firmly struck a small rock bursting blood from her forehead and rolling her eyes back to white. Kahn went pale, Gudrik's eyes widened. The Hammer lunged landing a mammoth fist across Kahn's jaw, knocking him to the ground. Gudrik flinched toward Kahn. "Don't worry about me you fool!" he called, "Deal with her!"

Kahn slid between The Hammer's towering legs and popped up behind him. He swung a lighting fast kick into The Hammer's lower right ribs. Even through the body armour, they crunched. It didn't faze the giant. He swung around, launching a flurry of punches at Kahn. For such a large man, he was quick. Kahn deftly avoided his blows, throwing many of his own in between. The Hammer blocked all but a few.

The Sword smiled, revelling in the fight for a moment. Dorian seized the opportunity. " _Rizarous_ ," he whispered. A long thin shard grew in his hand, crackling with light.

"Shame," said the Sword looking back to Ami. His finger twitched on the trigger. Dorian loosed his shard directly at the Sword's throat. The paladin reacted with freakish speed, he drew the rifle up as he fired, intercepting the crude dart and ricocheting it into the wall. The bullet, from his interrupted shot, plunged into Ami's shoulder. It wasn't a perfect save, but was better than the alternative.

Gudrik charged to George and dragged her as clear of the battle as was possible. He ripped the shard from her side and quickly bled into her mouth. He was not used to playing medic in battle; his instincts did not serve him well in that role. He was nervous, jittery and over thinking everything. Combat was what he knew, what he was comfortable with. Nevertheless, he stayed by George.

Dorian rolled aside as the Sword fired shots at him. He dropped low and loosed another dart, but the paladin once again removed his head from its line, using the rifle to defend. However, this time the dart struck a gloved finger. He dropped the weapon. Blood leaked from Dorian's mouth, nose and ears. His body was breaking down. Rather than flinch, Sword drew his combat knife and launched into close combat. Dorian bounced to his feet, wrenched the ricocheted shard from the wall and met him. Both were well trained and both were blooded, giving and receiving blows and slashes without end. But Dorian was weakening quickly. His technique was becoming sloppy. His reactions slowed.

George opened her eyes. Relief. Gudrik lay her down and looked to the fray. The Hammer had managed to wrap his iron hard fingers around Kahn's neck and begun to crush. Kahn's face was turning blue, his eyes red. Gudrik snatched up the giant's rifle which lay only a few paces away. He fired at the Hammer. A terrible shot, it kicked like a mule, launching out of Gudrik's grasp and clattering back to the ground. The shot sailed harmlessly past its target. The noise however, distracted the Hammer. He stepped back, his monstrous boot looming over Ami's head. Gudrik moved towards her, but before he could get there Dorian had shifted in and out with her, leaving the Sword to slice at thin air. Distracted, his grip on Kahn's throat loosened enough for the Inscribed leader to utter a single word aloud, " _Histfush_."

He collapsed back into mist and the Hammer's fingers interlocked. The blue vapours wafted briefly about his bulbous head before a heaving snort from the giant breathed a puff in. The remainder of the blue mist surged in after it as the Hammer coughed and spluttered in protest. His eyes grew wide, his body twitched. Red gore erupted. The room was showered with warmth. The remnants of the Hammer flopped to the ground with a wet slap. Kahn was left standing in his place momentarily, but he too collapsed to the ground, weak, weary and wounded.

The Sword was gone, the distraction of his brethren's death enough time for a hasty escape. Gudrik wasted no time. He scooped the wand from the ground and bled for all his comrades. He went to Ami and Malaki first as he triaged the injuries. All bar George were in need of his help. Dorian was now barely maintaining consciousness, four shifts and two darts in such a short amount of time was far too much for his fragile human form, it was a miracle he lived at all. Beneath the coating of bodily fluids, Kahn too was injured from the battle, fractured chunks of Hammer's bones protruded from him. Gudrik wrenched them free as the blood healed.

The father and son recovered quickly. Kahn wiped his face and cut George's bonds. "I saw a large room at the end of that offshoot we gave chase down," announced Kahn with haste.

"Go, find Tabitha," called Gudrik as Kahn helped George up. "I will follow soon, but be alert." George ran after Kahn, Dorian too. Malaki slowly recovered and climbed to his feet, weak but grateful to be alive. He looked down at Ami who was much more severely injured than he. Gudrik was inspecting her injuries. He held his ear close to Ami's mouth. Her breath was almost nonexistent, but it was there and that was all the blood needed. "The wounds have closed, she will be fine with rest," rumbled Gudrik, "I only have two exit glyphs, one on the hill overlooking here and one at the safe house. There is no point sending her to the hill, and we know the safe house is all but safe now. I want you with her," said Gudrik.

"Of course," replied Malaki as Gudrik freshened their war masks.

" _Svanjanus vindiktsus_." Malaki and Ami's unconscious body collapsed into the low road.

Gudrik stood back up and walked over to Kyran. Despite the mutilations and protrusions, he still lived. The small measure of blood Gudrik spared had seen to that. He was obviously in inexplicable pain, but unable to vocalise anything other than a moist, gurgling hum due to the razor sharp shard of night stone bursting through his throat. Gudrik did not end this blue word. Instead he stared at the morbid, stone urchin in front of him. Gudrik pictured all whom he had lost at the hands of this man over the centuries and savoured the picture for them.

"Where is the child?" Gudrik asked. The response was nothing more than gargled splutter. "Where is the child?" he repeated. Kyran began scratching in the dirt with his left index finger. Gudrik could not read the word; it was in the modern tongue. He locked eyes with the tortured, twisted mess and reproduced his axe. Kyran's right hand twitched free from his pocket, it was closed into a fist. In one silent swing Gudrik closed that chapter of his life and made his peace with the past.

A blue mist lifted off the trickle of blood which escaped and it faded back to red. It brought a fitting symmetry to the saga. As he passed Kyran's tightly clasped fist fell open. The object he had grasped from his pocket rolled free. Gudrik scooped it up. He stared at the tiny trinket in the palm of his hand and a queer look of realisation washed over him, he quickly slipped it into his pocket. Distant screaming echoed through the tunnels, drawing his focus back to the present and he ran after George and the Inscribed.

The underground facility was much larger than he had originally thought, but eventually after moving through room upon room he found himself back at the stairs. The screams still echoed from the ground level above. Gudrik emerged from the hatch to see George screaming and furiously punching a grey that she had managed to slap awake. His hands were merged with the concrete, clearly Dorian's doing. Other sleepers were beginning to stir as well.

"Pull her off," grunted Gudrik. Dorian dragged George away kicking and screaming.

"Where's my daughter?" she screeched repeatedly at him. "Where's my daughter?"

"Take her outside please Dorian?" asked Gudrik. He paused a moment until George was out of earshot. Gudrik stooped down staring into the eyes of the young grey. The dust on his face was streaked with trails of blood, sweat and tears. His teeth were gritted so hard that they were on the verge of shattering. "I know your pain is great. I have experienced it myself. The fact you are still conscious demonstrates how staunch you are. For that you have my respect." Gudrik paused and dropped his head in a bow. "As a man of battle I am sure you would never beg for your life, so I will not humiliate you by offering it. What I will offer you is a warrior's death, rather than the mournfully slow one which lies before you."

"I-don't-want, ugh, anything from you," he strained out, "The Forsaken Guardian will wipe your filth from the planet."

" _She had to choose one that actually believes in the cause,"_ thought Gudrik. "Your Forsaken Guardian is dead I am afraid."

"Drake may be gone, but this is not over, as-as-long as you live others will take up the charge." Gudrik ignored his rhetoric.

"This is the last time I will offer my bargain. Tell me what became of the girl and I shall help you in your passing."

"She is gone, just as the rest of your twisted followers will be when the Heir--/." Gudrik drove his left hand into the young grey's mouth and stretched his tongue out. Using his free hand Gudrik snatched the wand from his wrist scabbard and sliced the tongue free.

"Die in silence then."

Gudrik looked up to Kahn, the young grey still rolling on the ground beside him. "What meaning do these characters hold?" he asked, painting Kyran's final word onto the concrete in the young grey's blood. Kahn's face went very pale and he looked horrifically at Gudrik.

"They say 'dead' Gudrik."

"I feared as much," he whispered breathlessly. Gudrik pulled the trinket from his pocket and showed it to Kahn. One tiny pink bow, the corner stained with one small drop of blood. A single tear rolled down the Warlock's cheek as he returned it to his pocket. Kahn reached out to embrace him, and in a very out of character action, Gudrik accepted, if only for a second. "We had better tell George," he said, wiping the moisture from his cheek.

Kahn walked to the doors and signalled for George to come back in. She walked up to Gudrik and he embraced her. The Warlock leaned in close and whispered into her ear. "Kyran told me what happened to Tabitha before I ended him." George pulled back a little so she could see Gudrik's face. A hopeful glimmer sparkled in her eyes, not the reaction he had intended to draw. What had to follow would be all the more difficult now.

"I am sorry. She's gone," he said quickly drawing her into his chest as she erupted with grief.

"No!" she spluttered. "No, no, no, no!" Her cries grew louder. She pushed herself away from him suddenly. She looked around erratically, finally focussing on the Warlock before her. "This is your fault!" George screamed punching him across the jaw. "You have ruined my life and cost Tabitha hers." He stood expressionless, a tiny blue trickle dripping from his lip. "Look at you. You don't even care. Mr. Immortal, a trail of grief and death at your feet, but you just stomp from life to life unaffected. We're worthless to you. Aren't we!?" She paused, as if waiting for a response which didn't come. "Stay away from me!" she raged, stepping back from him again. "This blood is on your hands." She pointed accusingly at Gudrik, her tears torrents streaming down her cheeks. " _Svanjanus vindiktsus!_ " George yelled. As she collapsed into the void George's eyes pierced Gudrik deeper and more painfully than any blade had in his expanse of days.

He stood sullen in the sudden silence of the warehouse. Kahn approached him. "She doesn't mean it Gudrik, it's the grief. She knows how much you loved Tabitha." Groggy men began to stir around them, their eyelids fluttering.

"No she's right, it was my fault. There's no denying it, Tabitha is gone because I entered her life. The hatred will help to soften her grief."

"True, but what about you Gudrik. This loss is yours too. If you continue down this path her hatred will grow and fester. You will lose George forever as well. I know how you feel towards her."

"I cannot attach myself emotionally. For men of endless days like us it only ever leads to...," he paused briefly, scratching his stubble and considering his words, "....difficulty. Know that I count you as a brother Kahn and I am eternally grateful for all you have done. Consider your oath fulfilled. Should you ever need anything, you need only seek me out." Kahn simply nodded in response and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Take care of her," the Warlock said before plunging Kahn through the void.

The distant thrum of helicopter rotors filled the air. Some of the sleepers were now climbing to their feet. Dorian walked over and placed his hand on Gudrik's shoulder. He said nothing, but the softness of his touch spoke a thousand words. "You will make a formidable leader," said Gudrik as he returned him home.

Gudrik walked out of the shed. He looked around at the foreign land he found himself in. The lights from a fleet of helicopters were closing in and some of the sleepers were now wandering with hazy awareness. He closed his eyes and fell into deep concentration. " _Qrixtsus_ ," he whispered.

A deep rumble shook from below and tiny rocks danced and jittered on the fractured concrete slab as the tonnes of blood trapped within tanks became stone and buckled their supporting legs. One of the stumbling soldiers groggily raised his gun to Gudrik. The Warlock gave him a stern, stone-faced glance, sprouted his wings and took to the skies. He was a single, solitary figure soaring west, towards the arid, red heart of the land.

## I am Kyran

I write the following as a declaration, as an assurance that my intentions will never be misunderstood after my sacrifice is made. I have been called many things in my time, monster, tyrant, guardian, madman and hero. I would be lying if I said that all weren't titles I have earned. But like everyone, my life is not so simple as that. There is so much I need to say. I guess I should just start as all things do, at the beginning.

I was a sickly child, strong of mind but weak of body. My mother gave her life to bring me into the world, a level of sacrifice no man could ever dream of equalling. My father raised my brother and I, Kyranus the Blessed Dragon, a knight dedicated to protecting the innocent. Kyra meant dragon in the dialect of my father's village. He was named after a famous beast of legend, as was I and my brother Kyrark. His beliefs were strong. "When you do god's work even demons themselves cannot stop you," he would say.

When I was ten, my father left on a crusade to reclaim holy lands lost for a generation to godless heathens. My brother and I travelled with him and his army, a band of knights whose honour and loyalty was iron clad. They fought battle after battle and won one victory after another. I worshipped them, believed them invincible, but our day of reckoning inevitably came. It was a day which still sends sparks of rage prickling along my spine.

On that day, I saw my father and his band of brothers decimated. Not in a glorious battle against a noble foe, no there would have been honour in that, glory. He and his army fell against a solitary man, no creature. The heathens had signed a blood pact with a Warlock, Gudrik of The Twelve. He laughed and revelled mercilessly in the barbaric slaughter. By the end he was red with the blood of my family.

I ran, my eyes streaming with tears, death filled the air. Amongst the carpet of fallen, I came upon my brother. He was eight years my senior, still only a teenager himself. He lay twisted and broken, a distorted look of anguish frozen across his face, a look so distraught that I could feel it myself.

More than anything I wished to collapse beside him. I was laden with grief, though anger also burned within me, an anger which soon took hold outweighing the sorrow. I scooped up my brother's sword and struggled to hold it up as I charged screaming at the monster. It simply grunted and slapped me aside as if I were nothing. I tried to threaten it, abuse it, chastise it, but no sound came out. I was weak, frozen, and craven. In fact I was so pathetic the beast simply took to the skies and left me to starve on his field of slaughter.

I sat for a time beside the body of my father, broken and brooding, waiting for death, all the while terrified of it coming. After two days it had not arrived. I decided I had been spared; it must have been for a reason, perhaps a greater purpose. I took my father's dagger; it was like a sword in my small hands. I took his tunic; it was warm, but hung ragged from my tiny frame. It bore his sigil, a crimson dragon etched onto a white field. I walked away leaving my self-pity to rot along with my family.

My hatred for the creature fuelled me for years after that, forced me to survive. I begged, stole and fought through wilderness and city alike. As I grew, my hatred grew with me. The Warlocks were a product of the old pagan gods and had no place in the new world of my father's one almighty lord. Over time, I discovered I was not alone.

Supported by the church, people everywhere began to rise up against them and eventually the bravery of mortal men forced the creatures into hiding. I saw an opportunity. The people needed a catalyst for change, a hero to head their rebellion. The church leaders were working hard to eliminate the threat, but they were just holy men. What they needed was a warrior to lead the charge, a striking hand of god. I certainly had the ambition and my years of survival had made me hard, fast and strong, a far cry from the weak boy I left to die on the battlefield. All I lacked was the ability to kill them. So I began searching for that means, in fact it's what I dedicated my life to.

I travelled to the bitter, white northern lands. They were long rumoured to be the birthplace of the scourge. It was late, sleep had taken me, not the warm embracing sleep that most know, but the frigid sporadic sleep which is the best one can hope for in that icy, inhospitable world. That's when it first called to me. A maiden's voice melodic and soulful, it echoed through my body. Its every sound resonated warmly within me, calming my raging soul.

The disembodied voice had sensed a shared hatred between us. It spoke of its own quest for vengeance, but most importantly, it offered me an option. It claimed to have the power I needed, the power I desired more than anything else. I simply had to liberate it from its resting place, a service which I provided without hesitation. Whether this mysterious voice was to be trusted or not, it was not an opportunity which could be ignored.

I guess you could say that's when the quest which would shape my future truly began. I was sanctified by the church and given a small band of knights to aid me. It was not hard to track the Warlocks. Some were still blatantly practicing their dark craft in the open; they were the first to fall. Others were hiding, deeply entrenched amongst the people, but the amulet lived up to its promise.

I held my rage at bay. Despite my eagerness, I left Gudrik and his father until last. I would force them to come together to make him suffer in the same way I did.

Ending the life of an immortal creature is a humbling experience, one you never get used too. The power of the amulet seemed to nullify them, make them as helpless as I had been on the day I met Gudrik. It was this power that originally sparked my suspicions. The amulet claimed to be a gift of heaven's creation, but its words were far too sugary. It was clearly linked to The Twelve; it could scarcely contain its excitement whenever one was slain.

I first witnessed the unique properties of their blue blood while torturing Swarnat of The Twelve. A splash landed upon a gash in my hand, it closed in seconds and my flesh was as if it had never been injured. Though I am ashamed to admit it, they were properties I used to my advantage, treating wounds on myself and my men, my goal stood above my pride. Bottling it was the next logical step. Alas, any blood collected from The Twelve returned to a useless mortal red when the Warlock was killed.

By the time I had finished off ten of The Twelve I had managed to squeeze two words out of them, two of their filthy blue words. I had also formulated a plan for the future. One which would rid the world of the Warlock scourge. One which would defy the begging of whatever it was that inhabited the amulet, there was no way I was going to be used by an evil no better than the creature. A plan which would spare any others the trauma I suffered.

The moment I first entered that house and laid eyes on Gudrik, the little boy in me sprung out from the dark depths of my soul. His fear swept over me and it was as though I was back on that battle field again. It took every ounce of courage and strength I had to push him back down and do what needed to be done.

I soon had my retribution, but even more important than my own needs, I had eliminated the threat and contained whatever the other......thing was. Though, in a bizarre twist, I actually found myself pitying the creature. Its torment at its father's demise was more heartfelt than I had expected, almost human. I even decided I could not issue the master insult I had saved. It would be too cruel and far beyond reconciling my own loss. You see, two days earlier a young woman had come to me with knowledge of Gudrik, begging me to kill the Warlock and pledging herself to me in repayment. Her name was Elya. I felt it gentler to tell it I killed her. No man, human or not deserves the dagger of his most beloved wishing his demise. I never took her to my bed, but she did bear me the first nest of Swords.

So what next? Should the amulet ever be removed, darkness would once again take the world. Should Gudrik ever be killed, a new unmeasured threat would rise. Someone would need to guard the hibernating monster.

The weight of its defence could not be placed upon the shoulders of generations who had never seen its wrath. I was chosen to unseat it from power; perhaps it was I who was intended to be the people's guardian. The thoughts weighed me down, heavier than any armour. Hour upon hour I sat, watching the sleeping demon. As long as I thought, compared and reasoned, only one option seemed to show itself, one option that would leave me no better than the beast.

I made a vow. To shield the innocent from darkness, warriors of the light are sometimes forced to taint themselves. I sacrificed my soul and I sacrificed my salvation, heaven's gate would be forever closed to me. That night I began my new life, a damned life, a corrupted life, a forsaken life. I fed for the first time on the demon's blood. It turned my stomach, thick, warm and salty. I threw up the first dose, but I persisted. The second time I forced myself to keep it down. It became a practice which I repeated for centuries stretching my life to an ungodly length.

The church paid me handsomely for my achievement, the seed which my empire sprouted from, but they disavowed all knowledge of my new quest, leaving it to fade into the gloom of history and myth. It mattered not. I would live, the earth's secret protector, ever vigilante for Warlock threats. I was dubbed the Forsaken Guardian. My ever loyal knights were promoted to paladins. The five swore to live out eternity with me and would have happily gone to hell at my side, I forbade it. One corrupted soul is enough sacrifice for this cause. Instead, as a tribute to them I continued to tend their bloodlines through the centuries, upholding the honourable warrior traditions they lived by, keeping their lines strong and healthy. It was the least I could do for the loyalest of friends.

Of course there were always opponents to my new position. A group calling themselves The Inscribed arose. Valiant warriors I would have been proud to call allies under different circumstances. One of the Warlocks poisoned their skin, brainwashing them as his servants. It was unfortunate that their dedication and loyalty blinds them to the evil of their cause. I have crushed them brutally and mercilessly at every incursion, not an act I enjoy, but my duty is clear and has always out shone my compassion.

For an eternity I stood as the Forsaken Guardian, shielding the world from.....it....the relic. It was a duty which the masses were completely oblivious to. I battled addiction, the blood was truly a poison laced with long life. By the time I fought myself free of its hold and learnt to manage it, the world I had fought so hard to protect had found itself in a steady state of decline. It was decline on a scale which I was powerless to stop, a complete paradise to cesspit transition. Global society was being crushed and raped by one form of civil libertarian after another until eventually no one was forced to contribute and no one was responsible for their actions. My father always said, "A man who searches for others to blame is the worst type of coward." Respect for fellow man had disappeared. The other inhabitants of the world seemed all but oblivious to it. I guess their life span was so short it simply didn't register for them until their autumn years.

I soon realised that this social collapse was a threat that loomed even greater than the Warlock. To my eyes, the problem was clear, again change needed a catalyst, in this case fear.....a threat the world could unite against. Not until men are faced with certain death do they forget their differences and turn to each other. Not Gudrik though, he could never be controlled. No, to truly fix the world, what I required was the ability to instil that fear myself. I finally understood my role, my purpose. I needed to become that common enemy.

I hope the magnitude of this is not lost when I'm gone, I chose to become what I hated most in order to create a world where good can flourish. My soul was damned anyway; why not take the corruption further? Alas to do that I needed to learn a dead language. I had two words, they were not enough. Yet, in a sign which confirmed my course of action, I realised that I had already been provided my answer, the Heir.

I have fathered many illegitimate children. I was rich, I was powerful and my mind was clouded by addiction. Women came easy. For a long time I forgot my beliefs. Over my centuries many of these offspring made themselves known, all proved less than worthy of my name and their line was ended, until one appeared which showed potential. This offspring showed initiative. This offspring showed faith and humility. I soon realised that this offspring could also offer an opportunity, a partnership.

My part was to unlock the properties of the blood. Not an easy feat by any means, in fact for an age it would have been impossible, but fortune shone. Mankind's understanding of the world began to develop and increase at a rate which I had never seen before, a rate matched only by society's decline. I devoted my immense fortune to locating and recruiting the greatest minds in genetic and blood research, an act which eventually yielded a breakthrough.

A symbiotic parasite was discovered, the agent which gave the blood cells their vivid blue colour. The agent I prayed gave them their abilities. It was something which modern science had never seen, a living particle which possessed none of the properties of life, a functioning contradiction. The unique "paradox" as it became known was separated from samples of the creature's blood and grafted to my own.

So here I am, halfway there, preparing for my end, and it seems that the relic has life in it still. It has escaped back into the world, but so far has lain low and hidden. No doubt it harbours a grudge against the world which scorned it long ago. If it stays down, maybe I should let it be. It really has no concept of just how insignificant it is. The grafting process has worked. I no longer have to feed on it and that damned amulet affects me as if I were one of them anyway. Best leave it and what ever it holds within to the torture of an eternal outcast life.

I need only the language to truly unleash my fear and finally end this feeble excuse for life. Once it happens things will change hard and fast, so fast that there will be no time for explanation. That is why I leave this. I don't know what will happen to my mind, but my paladins will end me when the time comes. Until then it seems I must endure the disgrace of corrupted blue filth being pumped around my body.

I do what I do for the world. My life for the people. Let it be my legacy.

I am Kyran.

Thank you for taking the time to read Part I of Blue Words. I hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I encourage you to follow on with Part II of Gudrik's journey by purchasing the full version of Blue Words, which is available from all good e-book suppliers. Thank you!

Please follow on Facebook to keep up to date on further releases.  
www.facebook.com/mcedwardsworld

