by Ken Altabef
“I do not! I never met him. He was dead before I was born.”
“Hmmphff! That’s my point exactly. What do you know of him?”
“Only what Higilak told me. She told me all the stories.”
“And that’s the problem,” said Old Manatook. “What did she tell you?”
“She told me of the yellowed eyes, the eyes that could jump from their sockets and cut into a person, freezing their very soul.”
“And?”
“And she told me of the way people were helpless in the grip of the sorcerer. How he controlled them, made them do things against their will. He forced men to kill each other, and women to lay with him. They couldn’t resist. Kritlaq walked with demons, not benevolent spirits, and demon-stink clung to his soul.”
Old Manatook nodded his shaggy head. “And these stories, told to you as a child, made you fear Kritlaq. At night you dreamt of him, and a chill sweat soaked your sleeping furs. You are afraid of him; we can all see it in your soul.”
Alaana winced. “Were these stories untrue?”
“They are true,” said Manatook, “but we three don’t fear Kritlaq because of them. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know him as a man, like we did. We saw him eat and sleep and fall down. He was a teacher to us, a rival, only a man. But in your mind he is an unstoppable sorcerer, and always will be. Higilak didn’t know he would ever come back, or she wouldn’t have embellished her stories that way. But you bear those seeds, sown by her ghastly tales. He will see your fear written on your inua as clearly as we do. He will realize it and he will destroy you or, worse yet, use you against us. And that is why you can not come along. Stay here. Look after our people. The three of us can handle it. Trust us.”
CHAPTER 32
A TRAP?
As before, Kuanak had to carry Civiliaq to the battle. Civiliaq was an odd sight, perched atop his brother’s back, as if riding a stallion. It would perhaps have been better for him to go astride the soaring form of Old Manatook’s soul, the figure of a man riding a great white bear, but Manatook wouldn’t tolerate such an indignity.
He needn’t have worried. There were no other shamans to see their inuseqs racing along above the tundra. The world was a different place now. The landscape seemed colder and bleaker than ever before. The few stray caribou and snow hares they passed didn’t turn their way. With their guardian spirits gone, the souls of the animals shone with only a dull, vague light.
The three shamans circled around Big Basin, heading for the narrow valley between the cliffs surrounding the fjord. It was a perfect place for a secret camp, since the Yupikut favored the high ground where they could be ready to launch a raid at a moment’s notice.
Sheltered on three sides by towering bergs of crystalline ice, the men in the armed camp went casually about their daily activities, secure in their hidden location. There was only one approach to the camp and no practical way to hide from the sentries. Unless of course you happened to be a trio of invisible spirits who had taken to the air.
Old Manatook spied Klah Kritlaq in a high clearing near the center of the Yupikut camp, sitting cross-legged on a rough prayer mat of brown bear skins.
“He’s waiting for us,” said Wolf Head.
“A trap?” added Civiliaq.
Old Manatook grunted softly. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll win.”
He instructed the other two to circle around unseen, while he took to the ground where Kritlaq couldn’t help but notice his approach. Although the natural shape of his spirit was a white bear, he decided to take human form for a while. He thought it might give him a slight advantage. Old Manatook had struck the killing blow last time as a man. Seeing that man come at him again might cause Klah Kritlaq a moment of fear or doubt.
Manatook stepped forward, his inuseq shining brightly. He was tall, dressed in a spirit-parka and a pair of luxurious polar bear trousers. A mane of wild hair and a full white beard framed the stern expression, the bristly eyebrows, the long sloping nose of Old Manatook.
Klah Kritlaq acted pleased to see him. The name-soul stepped immediately out of Khahoutek’s body, leaving the masked, fur-clad form sitting on the mat. The shaman’s head slumped against his chest, its only movement the shallow breathing of the trance state.
The agiuqtuq, Kritlaq’s twisted name-soul, was a horrific sight, a man made of congealed blood. The features of Klah Kritlaq, the Kritlaq who had so terrorized the Anatatook, leered at his opponent. His face appeared as glistening red muscle skinned of all flesh — the hawkish nose, the cruel mouth, the yellowed eyes.
When alive, Klah Kritlaq’s spirit guardian had been the Fog-Man, a relatively weak turgat who rejected him immediately from the moment the shaman had first embraced sorcery.
“Oh, I see,” said Old Manatook with a grim smile, “only a name-soul, not even a full inua. I will make short work of you this day.”
“And I see only an old man,” replied Kritlaq, “who is not even a man.”
Old Manatook brandished a killing blade, a knife of slivered bone, long and sharp.
“Do you remember the bite of this blade?” he asked. “It took your life once before.”
The name-soul of Kritlaq spread its arms. A pair of wide flensing knives appeared, one in each hand. “You’re only half the man you were back then, Manatook. I can barely see your feeble light. You look old and tired.”
“And you are incomplete. A name-soul only.”
Kritlaq smarted slightly at this rebuke.
Old Manatook pressed his advantage. “And I know that name. Klah Kritlaq.”
Speaking his adversary’s name gave him power. It exposed the name-soul for attack. Old Manatook knew this. It was an advantage Kritlaq couldn’t match.
“You don’t know my name,” Old Manatook said. “Not my true name.”
“Did you ever have one?” snickered Kritlaq. “Weren’t you just some rank animal? Some beast of the floes pretending to be a man?”
“You know better. I have a soul name, and you don’t know it. No one does. Only one among the Anatatook ever learned of it.”
“Your little lap dog Alaana? Where is she?” Kritlaq glanced hastily around. “Hiding in wait?”
“The only thing you need to worry about is right here,” said Old Manatook as he lifted his weapon.
Kritlaq came at him. One of his knives clashed against Old Manatook’s blade though neither existed in the material plane. These weapons were aspects of the soul, forged by will power into a form their minds could understand and use. Old Manatook had never encountered a two-handed fighting technique before. He supposed it was something Kritlaq had recently learned, perhaps during his tenure among the hard-bitten Yupikut. It was a sneaky style, with thrusts from one side often used as feints to disguise an attack from the other.
Old Manatook remained calm. The most important thing was to prevent doubt or fear from entering his mind. Those weaknesses almost always proved fatal in psychic combat. He concentrated on parrying the attacks in a cool, defensive style. He had several advantages over his opponent. He had triumphed over the sorcerer before in a fight much like this one, a fact which boosted his natural confidence and must weigh heavily upon his adversary. He repeated Kritlaq’s name over and over to reinforce his advantage.
Kritlaq’s attacks were fierce. He used both blades in turn and then sometimes simultaneously from opposite directions. Manatook fought in the same style as years ago, defensive, waiting his chance for a killing stroke. With only the one knife he couldn’t block every thrust. Within a few minutes Kritlaq had slashed him across both arms, cutting open the spirit-parka which gave no protection at all, and wounding his soul-light. Manatook accepted the damage while holding back for a more dangerous thrust. When the opportunity for a killing blow came he would be ready for it. But he had not fought like this in many, many years; he had learned nothing of combat during his long rest in the sky.
“Old,” spat Kritlaq. “Weak. Tired.”
“Corrupt,” countered M
anatook. “Incomplete. A slave.”
Kritlaq meant to wear him down using the two blades. And Manatook realized he was indeed growing tired. Kritlaq showed signs of weakening too, his strikes coming in narrower arcs and easier to parry. Eventually he left himself open. Manatook, his left hand busy blocking with his knife, landed a closed-hand blow across Kritlaq’s jaw. The punch did little to shake Kritlaq’s resolve and the two battled on.
Inevitably Kritlaq tried sorcery to slow down Manatook’s movements. Manatook felt the pull of Kritlaq’s will against his own, but resisted with fierce determination.
“That’s not going to work,” he hissed. “Not on me.”
Kritlaq laughed. “Isn’t it? We’ll see. You can’t counter my will for long. If you attempt any sorcery of your own, you will lose the support of Tornarssuk.”
“Tornarssuk is all I need.”
Kritlaq laughed again. “I need no guardian. I am strong in myself, and always have been.”
Manatook remained resolute, despite a growing fatigue. He continued frustrating Kritlaq’s slashing attacks, waiting his chance for a major strike. He blocked Kritlaq’s sorcerous incursions as well, whispering the sorcerer’s name at every attempt.
Frustrated, Kritlaq made bolder strokes and became careless.
Manatook blocked his arm at the wrist, using his free hand, and stabbed forward with his knife. Much like he had done those many years ago, he sent the blade into Kritlaq’s belly. He tried to twist the knife, but Kritlaq jumped back, freeing himself. He was badly wounded but not finished.
Kritlaq stepped slowly backward, close to Khahoutek’s body where he had left it sitting cross-legged on the mat. Manatook was confused. What advantage could there be in taking the body back again? In physical form, he would be even easier to kill.
“You’re finished, Kritlaq,” said Manatook. “You could never beat me.”
Kritlaq’s bloody brow creased in concentration. Manatook hesitated to come forward. This smelled too much of a trap. He was not surprised when a circle of odd light, shining silver-bright, rose up from the ground where it had been laid around Khahoutek’s body. Manatook didn’t know what manner of sorcery this was, but he refused to be intimidated.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
The silver circle transformed into bits and pieces that spun in the air and rearranged themselves to form a skeleton. It shined so bright it hurt Manatook’s spirit-eyes but he didn’t look away. He knew what this was. It was made of Beforetime. Kritlaq spread his arms and the silver skeleton entered his spirit-form.
The sorcerer smiled. “A gift of Vithrok.”
Already Kritlaq stood taller, the wound slashed across his abdomen gone, a newfound confidence curling his lip. “Afraid?” he asked.
“No, not afraid,” said Manatook evenly. “For I have my friend beside me. As ever.”
“Tornarssuk! Tornarssuk!” he cried within himself. “Hear me, Great Bear, hear me!” He was certain the turgat would answer his call. His guardian spirit, the master of the polar bears, was never far from him. “My shield from danger and corruption, hear me now, I beg of you. Let me feel your strength.”
A crashing animal roar filled the fjord. Tornarssuk’s gigantic head appeared, hovering above the Yupikut camp as if it had thrust itself through the sky. The Yupikut men, who had been oblivious to the spiritual fight so far, were startled by the sudden rumble of thunder from a clear sky. They looked warily about, and up and down the fjord, but saw nothing. They sniffed at the wind, but scented nothing. They shook their heads and continued with their work, mending their sled-skins and equipment.
Suddenly Tornarssuk was there in full, a gigantic luminous figure looming above the camp. Manatook drank in the sight of his awesome guardian — his wide, proud face, the large black triangle of nose, the glossy white coat that shone as with starshine.
In an instant Manatook’s inuseq transformed from that of an old man to its natural state, a large white bear. He felt Tornarssuk’s energy coursing through his spirit, teeth flashing, his muscles flush with strength and power. Old Manatook was careful not to lose himself in the ecstasy of the transformation; he still faced a dangerous opponent who would use a moment’s distraction to deadly advantage. But there was a glory in it; in being once again a warrior bear in his prime.
Kritlaq also gazed up at the great turgat in the sky, but his blood-red face showed no sign of fear. He seemed confident in his own benefactor, the sorcerer Vithrok.
Old Manatook abandoned his blade. He fought now with slashing claw and pointed tooth. With a bellow of animal fury he charged at the corrupted name-soul. Now there was no holding back, no waiting in reserve. Now was the time to finish this sorcerer once and for all.
He slashed at Kritlaq with both forepaws, long black claws extended to the full. Kritlaq’s weapons were irrelevant and useless. With one swipe Manatook took half the meat off of one of Kritlaq’s arms, the flensing knife knocked aside. The other paw struck the agiuqtuq along one shoulder. Again, pieces of bloody jelly flew in the claws’ wake. Kritlaq staggered backward.
When the battle rage lifted, Manatook saw that Kritlaq’s original form was restored. The arm was made whole again, and the shoulder as well. He remembered the skeletal figure of Beforetime that had been drawn into the name-soul’s spirit-body. This battle was far from over.
Manatook shook his furried head, flinging loose, bloody splotches of the agiuqtuq that had clung to his fur. He felt more confident than ever. Tornarssuk was with him, in all his magnificence. Kritlaq could not long stand against that. He would prevail. He charged forward again, hacking and slashing at the bloody name-soul.
CHAPTER 33
TORNARSSUK
The Great Bear’s eyes, so starry and bright, looked down upon his shaman, Aisaac of the Ice Mountain. He observed the white bear’s spirit as it battled the twisted name-soul of the sorcerer Kritlaq. The bitter smell of sorcery rankled Tornarssuk’s nose, like sour bones blackening on a fire.
All the turgats despised sorcerers, even such a petty little one as this Kritlaq. Sorcerers unsettled the natural order of things. There were the great turgats, with whom resided the power of what was left of the Beforetime. And there were their chosen ones, the shamans, infused with the special light of angakua by the grace of their guardians. These were their intermediaries to the mortal world, acting through them according to the rule of spiritual law. But the sorcerers took it upon themselves to command the souls of others, becoming living demons of corruption. Malicious spirits, corrupted name souls, diseases. They were always greedy for power, always weak in their own selfishness, and always sent crashing down to the Underworld in the end. And Kritlaq would go down too, just the same.
Tornarssuk knew that Aisaac would win this fight, as he knew every intimate detail of the shaman’s life; he had walked with Aisaac since he was a young cub. And of the many bears the great spirit had known it might be fair to say that Aisaac was one of his favorites. The Great Bear had discovered him as a curious, overeager cub among the bears of the Ice Mountain, and granted him the light. Tornarssuk was fond of all children, always had been, but Aisaac had that singular quality, a seriousness of purpose and a desire to help others, that spoke to the turgat’s heart. He had looked in on the cub from time to time as he developed at the feet of his teacher Balikqi, another old favorite.
Tornarssuk had not been surprised when Aisaac, clothing himself in the skin of a man, pretended to be one of them. The Great Bear had a soft spot for human people too, often making a gift of his benevolence to their kind as well as to his own white bears. He could well admire a bear who took it upon himself to bridge the gap between the two species. If Aisaac found love among the humans, so be it; he took his duties as seriously as ever, and performed them well.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Tornarssuk’s attention was drawn across the ice plain. Another turgat had come striding forth from the east. Its huge trunk-like legs shook the earth with every footfall. It was the
Disemboweler. It was invisible to the humans below, though its footfalls shook their entire encampment.
Something was wrong. Erlaveersinioq did not belong here. This was a minor combat between two little spirits, not a scene of wholesale death and destruction.
“What do you want here?” asked Tornarssuk.
The Disemboweler’s wide, toothy mouth gaped open, dribbling blood. It said only: “Die!”
Erlaveersinioq closed with Tornarssuk, swinging all three of the clawed arms on its left side. Caught by surprise, the Great Bear suffered three slashes across his right shoulder. This made no sense to him. He had known Erlaveersinioq since the beginning of the world. They each had their own acolytes, domains and concerns. It was an unspoken rule that the turgats did not attack each other. There was no point to it.
But attack it did. The blue-skinned giant charged madly forward, flailing with all six clawed arms and its sharp, barbed tail.
Tornarssuk was not to be caught unawares a second time. He reared up to full height on his two thick hindlegs. He felt burning stabs of pain in his shoulder where the Disemboweler had struck — an unusual sensation. He had not felt pain for centuries, the last time being when a sudden convulsion of the earth had collapsed his crystal cavern while he lay sleeping. Nothing could hurt one of the great turgats except an equal or more powerful force.
Erlaveersinioq had roused the Great Bear to anger, and now it would pay the price. Tornarssuk swung wildly with his forepaws, claws hacking chunks of blue flesh from the Disemboweler’s flanks. Erlaveersinioq’s six arms did their best to counter with their own slashing attacks. Its tail proved its most effective weapon, whipping Tornarssuk repeatedly in the face.
Though they remained invisible to the eye, the battle of the two behemoths took its toll on the Yupikut village below. Powerful legs stomped and smashed the tents, meat racks and kennel. Stunned men were flattened to a bloody pulp beneath one of Erlaveersinioq’s tremendous feet. The rest ran screaming for the ice ridges. Their shaman, still sitting cross-legged on the mat, was unable to help them.