Crave noticed the lead man eyeing his tattoos. It wasn’t a probing stare, rather tiny, discreet flicks of the eye which showed he already knew exactly who they were. “We want no trouble, we are unarmed and have a child with us,” said Dorian calmly, emerging from the middle of the pack and bearing his hands.
“Bring the child forward. She will be taken to safety.” Nobody moved. Gudrik clenched his teeth and ground them side to side. Everything was finally right, finally the way he wanted it.
“I will not let it all fall apart. Not again. Not for anything.” He stepped forward, almost before he even knew he was doing it. “You will be dead before you lay hands on her!” grunted the Warlock, lowering the snarling black wolf off his shoulders and storming towards the soldiers. Pup staggered to his feet and forced himself to stand, growling all the while.
“What are you doing Gudrik?” thought George anxiously.
Gudrik’s blood bubbled and boiled. He was furious at the defiance of these whelps. He was sick and tired of mortals talking to him like a child being disciplined. None of them respected what he was, none respected what he could do, not one of them respected just how easily he could destroy them all. The rage blossomed and bloomed within. The Warlock clenched his fists so tight that his fingernails drew blood, his restraints flickered and strobed blue.
“We have the creature. Requesting backup and a Merlin Squad,” said the leader to his radio. It squealed and crackled an inaudible, broken message in response. The head man thumped the radio and tried again. The screeching voice in Gudrik’s blood was crawling up and down his spine, stoking and fanning his fury. Fog filled his mind and he began to drift. Imagination and daydreaming began to entwine and melted into reality. He saw terrible things, violent things, dark things. The voice squealed with excitement at the visions. It all became too much. Gudrik closed his eyes and shook his head. The fog rattled away instantly, the screech silenced and retreated deep within him. He was once again himself. When his eyes opened again he saw a very different world before him.
The Inscribed were suddenly scattered into small groups around him. Dorian and Teefa were pressed against rocks to the west. Ami and Crave shielded George and Tabitha behind the wooden boat, while the others were scattered about the beach, peering out through bushes and shrubs. Only Pup stood by him, gently licking his hand. Spread over the ground before him, a field of slaughter. The small force which had confronted them was decimated, the sand red and wet. The Warlock too was covered in blood, both blue and red. His body spat bullets, though he had no idea why. Confusion shone in his eyes and fear stained that of his friends. Gudrik put his hand to his face. Long columns of wet stickiness streaked from his eyes. “Tears?” The Warlock glared at his fingers, they were blue.
“What happened?” Gudrik demanded of his friends, anger now masked his fear.
“You fucking tell me!” Dorian demanded back, holding his distance. Gudrik glanced from face to face; they were truly terrified of him.
“I closed my eyes for a second and then.......” he trailed off.
“This was all you Gudrik,” Dorian continued. “Blood streamed from your eyes and mouth, your inscriptions glowed, black wings ripped from your back and......” Dorian paused.
“And you tore them apart!” Teefa butted in.
Gudrik shook his head in protest, a wide, distant look in his eyes. There was no way it could be true. It was then he realised that clenched in his left hand he still held a man’s arm. He dropped it and looked at his hand.
“Then you tried for us!” screamed Teefa, gesturing at his chest. Gudrik looked down to see one of her silver feather blades protruding from his chest, a shard from Dorian hung from his neck. He shot Teefa a glare. “If I had wanted to hurt you it would have been in your eye again,” she snapped. That was true and he knew it. He ripped both from his body.
“Look I think it’s pretty clear what happened,” said Brood, “What’s in you, came out.”
Crave butted in, “No doubt you’re right brother, but let’s not dwell on it here. Sure, I shit my pants when he came at us all demon like, but it’s the first, and let’s pray last time it’s happened. For now let’s get out of here before anymore of these guys show up.”
His words hit their mark and the shaken team focused on their priority, get the girl to safety. That was exactly what they did.
During the trip home Tabitha woke and groggily eyed the carload of people from the safety of her mother’s arms. It wasn’t long however, before tired shyness was shed and she happily climbed from seat to seat hugging and kissing each of the Inscribed, including Crave, who received a queer look with his hug. The biggest hug though, she saved for her Googy. As Tabitha unwrapped her arms from Gudrik she paused inquisitively for a moment slowly running her eyes around car again. Tears welled in every eye as the little princess began bubbling out, “Pa, pa, pa?” But Paw would not get his hug this time.
The long journey home was quiet. All had gone more than a day without any real sleep, Teefa and Neasa much, much longer. Sleep though, was not the only reason for the silence. Despite George’s grimaced objections, Tabitha continually snuggled into Pup’s sticky, wet fur. Each time he weakly raised his head and lovingly licked her face.
The driving was shared in short shifts to avoid anyone dozing at the wheel and allow Tabitha some toilet stops. She seemed remarkably unfazed by her ordeal, as though it had all been forgotten. Was it permanent or just simply the excitement of the reunion? Only time would tell.
They arrived back at the farm in the early hours of morning and all found their beds quickly. Gudrik patched Pup up as best he could and left the massive beast curled on a blanket on the homestead’s verandah. Even in his docile, ravaged state, the sight and smell of him was enough to keep the working dogs cowering behind the sheds. When they woke, the black wolf was gone. “Yet another hero lost in my wake,” thought Gudrik when he laid eyes on the empty blanket. Of course he could always conjure another, but it would never be the same Pup.
The following days were a mix of relief and anxiousness. Everyone graciously tiptoed around Gudrik’s........lapse, but it was clear from the eyes which followed at his back that it was at the forefront of their minds. The only two who truly seemed not to care were Tabitha and George. Tabitha was no surprise, she would love him no matter what, the little princess hadn’t yet learnt to see evil in those she adored. George was not quite so simple but. Gudrik didn’t know it, but she was relieved to finally push aside the hatred and uncage her true feelings. She simply pretended the slaughter hadn’t happened. Her denial was like a switch that had been flicked within her. Things were now as they were before the abduction. Gudrik didn’t dispute the feelings. That night after Tabitha drifted off to sleep, they made love.
Gudrik lay awake. He longed for sleep, curious of what the dreams might bring, but sleep would not come. So much weighed on his mind and fear plagued him. He had not felt true fear like this since the day he first lay eyes on the Valkyrie. He had not been in control of himself on the island. He may have found Tabitha, but he nearly killed everyone he cared about. It happened so easily, came so naturally. What really bothered Gudrik though, was something that he dared not reveal to the others. What truly stirred fear within the pit of his stomach was the feeling which had come after. He had fought it to the back of his mind, but as much as Gudrik denied it, it had been there then and still was now. A warm sense of satisfaction, a knowledge of how powerful he was. There was more pride there than remorse. It made him question everything he believed.
“Am I in control? Was I ever in control?” Many a time in the early days of his captivity, Kyran had stood over him and ranted about the horrors of the day Gudrik killed his father. Had he sunk into the fog of war on that day too? It was hard to tell, the memories were so old that it was difficult to separate truth from fiction. He had not blacked out completely, but in his earlier, bloodier days his awareness was often distant in a cloud of rage and battle. What the Inscribed spoke
of was strikingly reminiscent of the tales Kyran told.
He gently climbed from the bed and slipped into his pants. Gudrik turned to look at George, sound asleep, every curve of her naked body basking in the moonlight cast through the window. He thought too of Tabitha, sleeping soundly in the next room and all she had been through. “What if I were to lose control again?” Flashes of blood and gore transformed the room around him. It was a thought he couldn’t hold for long. Every time it emerged he quickly hid it away again as though someone might see. Each time his eyes closed to blink, he feared what would be on the other side.
The Warlock left the room and wandered onto the verandah of the estate. He breathed deeply of the night air and craned his neck towards the starry sky above. Fish’s plan would no longer work; the naval slaughter had destroyed that option. No matter how good his intentions were, there was a rabid beast trapped inside him. A beast which was now more concentrated than ever. In the past, he had always held a contingency for the day that his powers surpassed his control. He had always considered that a day could come when he proved more threat than protector, but all his plans were made with no knowledge of the world he had emerged into. All of his carefully planned strategies were now worthless. The age he found himself in had not been accounted for. The loved ones he wanted to protect had not been thought of. He only saw one option. Gudrik immediately went to talk with his friends, lightly knocking on each of the Inscribed’s doors.
“No!” said Dorian sitting in the veranda’s moonlight.
“It’s the only way,” growled the Warlock. His voice held its firmness, but was clearly trying to convince himself as much as the Inscribed.
“Why there?” asked Brood.
“A promise,” Gudrik rumbled, looking to Teefa and Neasa. Much heated debate followed, but reluctantly, one by one most loosely agreed to uphold their parts of the plan. His mind was clearly made up.
“I can get you there, but you must find your own way home,” Gudrik said to Dorian as he bled himself.
“No!” he snapped in reply. Dorian was clearly not one of the agreeable parties. “I will not do this! It is-.” Gudrik placed his bloody palm on Dorian’s head and dropped him into the low road mid sentence. Uncomfortable faces stared at the Warlock.
“Anyone else have a problem?” he grunted at them.
“Do what you must, we’ll make sure they stay safe brother,” said Crave, slapping the Warlock’s shoulder.
Gudrik returned to George’s room. He paused in the doorway, slumped against the frame and admired her briefly before entering. He knelt lightly and placed his hand gently on her forehead, brushing stray lengths of hair from her ear with the other. George’s skin bristled as warm breath tickled at her ear, breath which carried hushed words upon it. He fondled her locket delicately before placing one final, soft kiss on her cheek and tumbling through the void. George raised her head briefly at the swirl of air, but she was quickly back in her dream world. A small smear of blue glowed briefly on her temple before fading away. Her locket sat open on her breast, the picture of Brad staring out at the night.
The soldier was already waiting when Gudrik emerged through the glowing glyphs on the rusted shed wall. The lights of Solomon’s base glowed bright above the tree line. The small shed still hung open, its new padlock gleaming in the moonlight. Barrat was grumpy, tired and concerned at the hour of his summons. “This plan of yours is madness. None of us have any idea what sort of fidix you are getting yourself into Gudrik,” he ranted.
Once again the short tempered Warlock entered into a heated exchange. Gudrik opened his palm with a frustrated stab. “No, I won’t do it.” Barrat shook his head adamantly.
“I’m sorry,” the Warlock growled, ignoring the protests and smearing blood on Barrat’s cheek.
“I won’t let you,” Barrat continued. Gudrik pushed a small lock of brown hair into the blood. Barrat trembled, but did not fight.
“Thank you,” the Warlock mumbled. In honesty though, despite the protests, Gudrik was granting his wish. “Nextraphus.”
The soldier’s body snapped stiff, his eyes shot open and he gasped a huge breath of air before crumpling to the ground. His skin split and he erupted with blue light which sliced the shadow of night to ribbons. The scent of burning flesh filled the air.
“Can you get him there by morning?” asked Gudrik, as another shadow emerged. The glowing body faded and steamed.
He’ll be there,” replied Solomon’s deep boom.
The look in the hard man’s eyes was the closest Gudrik had seen to fear from him. He uncomfortably eyed the smoking body, wondering if the Warlock had lost his mind.
They loaded the lifeless body into the car, but Gudrik did not get in. Instead he placed a hand on Solomon’s shoulder.
“Fight well, my friend.” Gudrik collapsed once more through the earth before Solomon could reply.
When the Warlock emerged, dust filled his nostrils and he sneezed loudly. The beach house was a study in chaos, nothing in its place. The rough furniture had been upturned in some desperate search, the contents of the kitchen cupboard had been scattered far and wide. He creaked down the back steps.
Outside Gudrik found the tank stand toppled and the drunken shed a black pile of ash and charred metal. Bands of iron which once wrapped oak barrels of honey mead now arched black and empty from the heap. Thirst suddenly made his mouth sticky and dry. He ran his fingers along the shack’s corrugated iron walls, its surface rough with age, as he walked to the front yard. There the Warlock took in the home’s breathtaking view. The tide was high, waves broke around the Serpent’s Jaw, glistening moonlight off the ripples. Gudrik farewelled his home.
With a slash and a grunt his wings sprouted. He fluttered them in the ocean breeze, stretching and limbering the limbs. As the tips curled and flapped around him, the Warlock found them to be unfamiliar. The virgin white they had always gleamed was gone. Thick black feathers now quivered on them, dark as a ravens, but tipped ever so delicately at each point with the slightest hint of blue. Gudrik shook his intrigue, there was no time to waste considering what it meant, time was of the essence. He launched into the sky.
The black wings trembled in the wind, begging to be pushed harder as he flew leisurely south. He basked in the night air and relished the scenery below; he had no idea when or if he would ever get to see it again. Hours passed before he glimpsed his destination on the horizon. The multicoloured glow of the city which had birthed him into the modern world.
Under cover of night he stayed close to the ground, weaving and darting between buildings. He came upon the river and snaked along it, skimming over vessels and under bridges until the dead, dark sign of the D.M.R. building was shadowed against the night sky above. He lurched up and perched on its massive letters.
The penthouse below him was now empty and dark, the treasures once held within sold and gone to museums or private collections. The charred black circle of the survivors’ fire was still visible and the wheel of exit glyphs laid into the entrance room floor still glistened blue. “All of his modern security and considered tactics and the whole time he has a back door set into his floor,” Gudrik thought shaking his head. The fine film of dust, gathered over the weeks of neglect, had been disturbed over the glyphs, an obscure smudge with footprints leading to the stairs. “Good. At least he isn’t sitting here sulking. I hope Dorian plays his part.”
Bearings found, Gudrik leapt from the sign and flew due north as Neasa had instructed. She had drawn some modern characters for him, modern characters which he had studied and committed to memory. They would be how he found his target. It was only a short journey before he spotted them, bright and clear against the night sky, ‘St Mary’s Children’s Hospital’.
The black wings twisted and angled, circling the Warlock down. They beat a rapid flutter, softly touching him onto the roof and the wings collapsed behind him. Gudrik took a quick breath and drew the wand, freeing a heavy flow of blood, his restraints glowed. “Xitzsu
s,” Gudrik commanded. He flickered, faded and began to drop unsteadily through the floors. The first seemed dark and deserted, but he soon reached a level which showed signs of habitation. His feet solidified and pressed onto the cold floor.
The level he was on, though dark, was brightly coloured with comical characters plastered about the walls. There were rooms lined with shelves of toys and others stocked with stark, medical equipment. There were rooms containing only a single tiny bed, and others with two, three or four. Gudrik came upon a trolley in the hall from which he plucked an empty, silver bucket. Scurt’s wand released a stream of blood from his wrist. His restraints flickered as he bled strobing the dim hallway walls with spirit tongue as he walked. His blood flowed faster since the binding and before long the bucket was full, sloshing side to side as he walked and speckling dots of blue into a trail on the floor. He continued down the hall until he reached the nurses’ station.
Two women sat at opposing desks tirelessly tapping away at computer keyboards, faces lit by the dull glow of the screens while their precious patients slept. Both were so caught up in their work that they didn’t notice Gudrik enter. He gave a small grunt and four startled eyes locked straight onto him, wide with panic.
“Do you know who I am?” his raspy voice rattled out. The terrified women nodded. “Good, you go and call for help,” he mumbled pointing at the brunette nurse. Off she scampered down the hall so desperate to escape that she overlooked the phone right next to her.
The remaining blonde nurse shivered. “Do you know what will happen if you feed my blood to the children?” he said thrusting the large bucket at her. A dollop slopped into her lap. Again she nodded sheepishly, though in truth she wasn’t sure she believed the rumours. He placed the bucket of blue blood into her arms. She stood looking at him, clutching it to her chest. Both were still. “Hurry, just a small trickle each.” He motioned her away with both hands. Still she stood there. “Go or I’ll.........,” he thought for a second, “Eat you,” he finally growled, baring his teeth and shooing her away with another wave of his hand. The nurse snatched an empty syringe from a nearby trolley and disappeared through a doorway.
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