by M.C. Edwards
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 memori
es 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