by M.C. Edwards
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 s
pirits 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