by M.C. Edwards
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 m
ost 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