“The dark elf has gone by many names, Surasa among them, and is known throughout this world’s history for breeding monsters. The fairies asked for creatures of land and ocean, able to think for themselves and work as a unit, but controllable. Surasa captured an orca-shifter pod and a timber wolf-shifter pack, forced them to breed, then worked terrible magic on their offspring to create the Ulu. She named us the ‘sharp edge,’ for the weapon we were meant to be.”
“The vengeful fairies mistreated our long-ago ancestors. They escaped and hid deep underwater in the frozen north. The fairies could not follow. Their enemies soon obliterated them. Ahklut was chief because he was the First Ulu and held us in sway with magic. We only knew war, and carved our name across the vast glaciers.” Mack’s hand dropped to his thigh, signaling the end of the tale.
Arvik let the silence settle, then ducked his head. “I am grateful for your song.” Intuition danced in him. “It would explain why we’re vulnerable to some fairy magic, but not all. Why we are orca but not, and why we communicate with sounds and images as well as words.”
Kallulik patted his hand again. “It is good that you have an open ear, Grandson. You took pieces of our hearts when you left, but time and travel have tempered you.” She leaned closer, nudging his shoulder with hers. “To answer your question, yes, bonds are rare, but possible. You must share your heart song, and your mate must hear it. Then you can get to the sexy part she will need.” She squeezed his hand, then let it go.
U’uttak cleared his throat. “There is more you must know. It is our fault the sanctuary town of Fort LeBlanc was nearly destroyed.”
Arvik blinked. That scenario wasn’t even in his wildest dreams.
“When we left to become the peaceful Ulu, the shaman Nu’untivut told the remaining Ahklut that a few troublemakers kidnapped the rest to be their slaves. With every raid, he sent searchers looking for us, but Mongolia is vast and we hid well. When we moved here to avoid the fairy-elf war, we made new friends and alliances. Some still feared us, but we kept our spears buried and our hearts open. Then an Ahklut spy found us.”
The images that accompanied his song showed the elders, including his grandparents, welcoming a tall, dark-haired man who resembled Arvik.
“We uncovered his treachery. We let him think he escaped so we could track him.” U’uttak drained the last of his glass of water.
Ukpik, a beautiful native woman with a cascading ponytail of snow-white hair, took up the tale. “We knew Nu’untivut would have to come ‘rescue’ us if he wanted to keep power. With reduced numbers, the Ahklut had turned to piracy, but couldn’t compete with steamships. Whalers killed them as easily as thunderbirds once did. As wolves or humans, they couldn’t compete against the waves of colonization.”
Kallulik stood and collected empty glasses. “We attacked first.”
Ukpik nodded. “A difficult choice for a peaceful people, but necessary for our survival. The Ahklut would leave a trail of blood to get to us. We captured Nu’untivut and his top warriors. With help from elf and fairy friends from Vancouver, we put them to sleep underground near Hudson Bay.”
U’uttak blew out a noisy breath. “We made two mistakes. First, we assumed the remaining Ahklut would be grateful for our help.”
The accompanying images showed angry Ahklut, living in stinky squalor inside rotting hand-hewn houses, spitting on the Ulu’s gifts of food, and closing their ears and eyes to the Ulu songs. The last image showed the offended but saddened Ulu shifting into orca form and swimming away.
“Second,” continued U’uttak, “we thought the permafrost would keep Nu’untivut frozen forever.”
Arvik incongruously found himself wishing for popcorn. Wishing that Rayne was there, because she loved a good story. Wishing she was there because he needed her in his arms to calm his restless animals.
U’uttak frowned. “After only fifty years, in 1937, Nu’untivut awoke. He used his magic to free himself and his loyal warriors. The Ahklut welcomed them home, hoping for a return to the days when they could terrorize at will and eat like kings. The only Ahklut child born in the last hundred years came into her own as an oracle. Nu’untivut saw Inyiqti’s value where the others had not.”
Kotierik, the youngest of the elders, grimaced. “We didn’t learn any of this until too late. To our shame, we ignored the Ahklut. Their rejection stung, and we believed they would fall apart without the shaman’s charisma.”
Arvik respectfully stayed quiet, even though he could vividly imagine where this was going.
His grandmother nodded. “Yes, Grandson, I hear your song. You guessed correctly. Nu’untivut unified the Ahklut by giving them the town of Fort LeBlanc to hate. He wanted revenge because he assumed our allies came from there. With the help of his new oracle and his own considerable magic, he and his warriors led the Ahklut in the stealth raid that slaughtered hundreds and nearly destroyed the town.”
Kotierik bowed his head. “Our attack force missed the raid, but caught the Ahklut on their way back to Hudson Bay. We again captured Nu’untivut and his loyal warriors and, this time, put them and the oracle to sleep under the ice in Kalaallit Nunaat. By the time we got back to Canada, Fort LeBlanc had vanished, and the rest of the Ahklut raiders had retreated to their island.”
A long moment of silence prevailed as images of the atrocities the Ahklut had perpetrated against the people of Fort LeBlanc finally faded.
One by one, everyone in the room focused on Arvik.
The puzzle pieces snapped into place. He finally understood why the elders had dropped everything to meet him. “Nu’untivut is back, and he and the Ahklut are going after Fort LeBlanc again.” He sat up straight in his chair. “And you want me in the attack force.”
Kallulik took his hand again, her expression grave. “No, Grandson. That is for us and our allies. Only you, with your past and magic, can do the task we ask of you.” She took a deep breath. “Become one of them. Weaken them from the inside.”
Arvik wanted nothing more than to port himself and Rayne to a paradise island and dance with her as long as it took to become her mate. But he still owed atonement. He couldn’t leave the rest of the world vulnerable to a vicious predator like Nu’untivut. Not when he could help.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I will do it.”
For the next three weeks, he’d immersed himself in the knowledge the Ulu had collected about the Ahklut. His mission and existence were kept secret from all but a few.
He missed Rayne every waking moment and in his dreams. He read all the messages from her three and four times and wished he could send more than light banter in return. He couldn’t even tell her he was about to go off the grid, for fear that the Ahklut’s oracle would pick up on it.
Minutes before he was about to port himself to the eastern shore of Hudson Bay, he handed his grandmother a note. “If I am lost, please contact the Shifter Tribunal in Chicago with this message.”
“I will.” Kallulik hugged him tightly, then whispered in his ear. “Find out if she has a nice house.”
The snow melted under Arvik’s belly, dampening his fur and chilling him to the bone. He’d lost his tolerance for the bitter cold. Ordinary Ahklut wolves didn’t need to use magic to stay warm in late fall, so he couldn’t, either.
The last three weeks with his former tribe had been a harsh reminder of how he had once been, and how far he’d come since.
The Ahklut had once thrived on three hidden islands in the Arctic, but were now barely surviving on the smallest. Their collective magic had weakened as they lost tribe members, so it was all they could do to maintain the communal spells that hid them. Healing magic had been forgotten, and it showed in the twisted limbs and scars in their various forms.
Their cabins had collapsed and been scrubbed away by a relentless succession of howling winters. The caves where they now lived were littered with older technology they couldn’t use. They’d have starved long ago if they hadn’t been tough-to-kill shift
ers who could survive on fish all year.
Arvik moved into an abandoned cave on the windward side of the island and made it his own. To others, he was a silent, morose Ahklut named Niglaktok who had no living family and only spoke when prodded. Like most of the local Ahklut, Niglaktok was down to one small adornment, a black-with-tarnish silver earring that pierced his ear cartilage. Thanks to a fairy illusion forged into the earring, the others saw an older, gaunt male with a permanently twisted back and a scarred face in human form, and an equally skinny timber wolf.
His first order of business was to use charisma magic as he made contact with other long-time residents. Only a few seemed familiar from centuries ago; he doubted they’d remember him at all. His magic made them drop their guard and forget to block their songs from untrusted strangers. He “accidentally” shared a few invented songs with them. One of being caught in an ice floe and nearly dying, others depicting lonely hunts in the deep ocean, gnawing on carrion, and avoiding humans on snowmobiles. He borrowed melodies from the Ahklut to weave more songs to enrich his Niglaktok persona.
It helped that tiny family units sometimes didn’t see anyone else for years, even if they were only separated by three or four kilometers. Hard-scrabble living left little energy for anything besides avoiding starvation and staying out of the elements.
From magical snooping, he learned that Nu’untivut and his warriors had returned to the island only about six months before. The shaman had been using his powerful magic to waylay ocean-going ships during storms so the Ahklut could steal their contents, which they’d traded or sold for food and modern weapons.
Most of the Ahklut that Arvik encountered were optimistic that the shaman would lead them to prosperity. Already, they had fresh canned meat stocked in their larders, fuel for lanterns, and new boots.
Arvik spent the rest of his time learning the local patois of English mixed with old French and older Ulu dialect, and collecting intelligence.
Nu’untivut lived in the large cave that had once served as a community hall, now lit and heated with the power of the first working generator on the island in forty years. Ten of his seventeen warriors, males and females, and the oracle, Inyiqti, who had become his lover, slept in the hall. The other seven had invited themselves as permanent guests in the closer, more comfortable caves of the locals. The one vocal protester had met with a fatal accident while on a piracy raid.
Four weeks ago, just before Arvik had arrived on the island, Nu’untivut called a gathering of all Ahklut and proposed a bold plan. His oracle had discovered their old enemy, the cowardly aggressors of Fort LeBlanc, were awake once more. Inyiqti’s song had shown them a wondrous paradise city with tall buildings for houses and trees for firewood. More important, her visions showed the town sat on a rich vein of valuable raw gems, ripe for mining.
The shaman proposed that the Ahklut would take the town again. This time, as justice for the original unprovoked attack, they would keep it. The inland location would be far from the sea, but with the rich plunder of the town at their disposal, the Ahklut could afford to buy planes and fly themselves to any ocean in the world.
Arvik showed up for all the subsequent gatherings. Nu’untivut and his warriors looked proudly healthy and well-fed. Their open tunics and rolled pants showed off the full complement of tribal jewelry on ankles, wrists, arms, necks, and ears. Shining examples of what the Ahklut could be again. The shaman’s songs about the coming glory were as compelling as the charisma magic he used to make the Ahklut listen and want what he was selling.
Arvik might not have recognized the magic if he hadn’t already been using it for his own purposes. If his life had taken a different path centuries ago, his free magic might have made him a respected shaman instead of an outcast and a spy. But then, he wouldn’t have seen the rest of the world or met Rayne, so the shaman’s life had no appeal.
Even without magic, Nu’untivut was a charismatic, wily schemer with the political instincts of a grifter. Shorter than Arvik in real life, but more heavily muscled. Not handsome, but strong featured and quick to smile. He wore a mix of traditional tribal tunics and modern jeans and boot. He embraced new technology and saw its potential. With magic, he was an unstoppable monster with nine lives, and he’d only used three of them.
Arvik stayed well away from him and his raven-haired lover, Inyiqti.
In the gatherings, Arvik hunched in the back of the crowd, shielding his magic, wishing he’d learned Rayne’s trick for masking her scent. Wishing she was there, to have his back. He’d operated solo for centuries, but in one short week, she’d made him want to never work alone again. Never be alone again.
It wasn’t as easy to stay away from Nu’untivut’s warriors. Their assigned task was to toughen up the locals and remind them how to work group magic and how to fight as an army. All would be needed for success, even Arvik-as-Niglaktok, once he proved his human deformity didn’t carry over to his timber wolf form.
The warriors had done as well as they could with the locals, but better meals and only four weeks of training couldn’t make up for decades of destitution. They could barely maintain the effort for the stealth shield that hid their approach from eyes, ears, and magic.
Now the exhausted local Ahklut lay nearly comatose on the cold, wet tundra, too tired even to sing of the Fort LeBlanc riches that would soon be theirs.
The warriors prowled, restless and agitated, noses working overtime. The shaman and four of the warriors shifted to human to talk. The other warriors stayed as wolves, but drifted closer, ears pointed toward the group.
Arvik dared a tiny tendril of native magic, asking the wind to bring him their words.
“...it’s what we’re not smelling,” said one of the warriors. “No weather. No rabbits.”
Another piped up. “No distant sounds, either. Just wolves and the noisy water. Why isn’t it frozen?”
Arvik snorted to himself. Welcome to climate change.
The oracle finished shifting to human and sidled up next to Nu’untivut. “I see nothing but the river we follow that will take us to Fort LeBlanc.”
Without warning, detection magic exploded from Nu’untivut like a shockwave. Every bit of active magic glowed in response as the wave passed by.
Arvik shielded, but not fast enough to stifle the brief, flare-bright glow of his multiple magics.
“Bring me that wolf,” commanded Nu’untivut.
Arvik doused all his own magic, except the block that prevented nosey Ahklut from listening to his songs without asking. He pretended sleepy confusion when forcibly lifted to his feet and ordered to shift to human. He took his time doing so.
The warriors force-marched him to face the shaman and the oracle.
“Who are you?” demanded Nu’untivut.
Arvik displayed surprise that the shaman needed to ask. “I am called Niglaktok.”
Inyiqti’s frosty eyes squinted. “Truth, but clouded.”
Nu’untivut frowned and exerted charisma pressure to be talkative, to want to please.
Sad, silent Niglaktok was too exhausted to care what the shaman thought of him. Arvik let slip a song image of discovering and mourning a dead Ahklut in orca form.
Another wave of detection magic engulfed Arvik.
Nu’untivut held out his hand. “Give me your ear cuff.”
One warrior gasped, and several twitched. Even the sky-eyed oracle gave Nu’untivut a sidelong glance. Nearby local wolves raised their heads.
Niglaktok stared in mouth-agape shock.
The shaman frowned and removed a wide, beautifully decorated gold-and-silver wrist cuff and held it out toward Niglaktok. “I offer trade.”
Niglaktok twisted his shoulder away and cupped his earring protectively. “No. Your suluk carries no heart song.” Your adornment has no memories of my family.
Nu’untivut put the cuff back on his arm. “Enough. He’s sabotaging our stealth. Even the children of Fort LeBlanc will feel us coming.” He turned to the warrior to his le
ft. “Parktoq, challenge and kill him.” By tribal law, no chief or shaman could initiate a death challenge. Undoubtedly why so many of Nu’untivut’s enemies had died in conveniently fatal accidents.
“No,” said Inyiqti, her voice harsh, her pale eyes unfocused. “If he dies, we die.” She touched her forehead. “I have seen it.”
Arvik hid a frown. Lerro had said the same thing, back in the underground auction house. It was rarely good to feature in oracle visions.
Nu’untivut waved a hand impatiently. “Stake him to the ground and break his leg. We will come back for him after we take our prize.” He sent a questioning glance at the oracle. She nodded.
Parktoq grabbed Arvik’s arm and marched him through the resting wolves toward the outer perimeter.
Pain was nothing to an Ahklut, but tribal tradition was everything. Arvik loosed multiple songs that showed the events that had just occurred. Underneath, he compelled the local wolves to listen.
Two wolves shifted to human and moved to block Parktoq’s progress. One stood with fists on his hips and tilted his head toward the shaman. “Where is the evidence? The elders were not consulted for judgment.”
A grizzled older wolf stood as human and joined her tribe members. Her iron-gray hair fell in two braids down her back. Tiri glared at Parktoq, brandishing her family ring by raising her bony fist. “Whose suluk will you steal next?”
More wolves awoke. Some growled. Some climbed to their feet, despite their exhaustion.
Parktoq glanced back toward the shaman, but he was walking away in the opposite direction, talking to the other warriors. “Nobody wants your…” He checked his words, but he wasn’t as fast at hiding his song. Arvik made sure all the wolves saw his sneering disdain for their family adornments.
Parktoq hauled Arvik along for a few more steps. “This one is trouble.”
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