Blue Words

I am Kahn

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 werethere, 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 setbackplagued 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 theBetrayal.

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.