Artifact

By NIWA

The Northwest Independent Writers Association presents ARTIFACT, the 2016 NIWA Anthology. A collection of short stories using artifact as their central theme. 

In these pages meet a werewolf with daddy issues, an android driven mad by time and an alien artifact that will make you cry. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: NIWA
• Release date: Oct 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540108494

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

The Northwest Independent Writers Association presents Artifact, a collection of nineteen exciting short stories. Within these pages you’ll find the stuff of magic and the magic of science, tales of werewolves and dragons, ancient cultures and alien technology. Enjoy!

****

Valkyrie

D.L. Solum

––––––––

DOWNY SNOWFLAKES STREAM past my windshield, feathers in the gloom. I flick my Escalade's headlights to low beam and kill the fog lights in the early glow of sunrise. The radio babbles about the impending doom of Y2K. I turn that off too. I'm alone on the highway and alone with my thoughts.

It's been twelve hours since I pledged to kill my father—not the sperm donor who brought me into this world; not the creature who demanded this murder—he's merely the monster who required I hunt the closest thing to a real father I've ever known.

That is, assuming I don't slide off this mountain and die in a fiery crash. Cheerful image, as I wind my way up Lookout Pass on the Idaho/Montana border. This sudden freezing snowstorm has transformed I-90 into a single sheet of black ice.

For just a moment, I consider wrenching the steering wheel, taking the coward's road.

But that's not who I am, not who I was raised to be; Inga, the Valkyrie of Seattle's Southern Realm. Soon to be known far and wide as 'The Slayer of the Heretic, Magnus'.

I purse my lips at the irony. My personal code of honor, painfully inflicted by my loving uncle, required his death . . . death at my hands.

All this to satisfy the vanity and paranoia of the patriarch of our family—my biological father, Akela.

You could say I have daddy issues.

I puff out a blast of breath, pushing a strand of straight Nordic-blond hair from my eyes. Both hands on the wheel, please. A car crash probably wouldn't kill me anyway. Werewolves don't die that easy.

No, a wreck like that would only postpone our confrontation. I have a head start. An entire generation of my extended family; brothers, cousins, half-sisters, who knows what other relations . . . everyone is out hunting for Uncle Magnus. But only he and I know where he's run to ground.

If any of them had spent any real effort to study the old ways, the magic of the werewolves, they might have been able to sniff him out. But that would mean they'd spent time learning from our last and greatest Skald. These days, everyone wants to impress Akela with their prowess on the battlefield and their capacity for mead. Few have the patience or temperament to study traditional werewolf magic.

Their loss. Magnus is a fine teacher, once you get past his eccentricities. I'm his best student.

Of course, those eccentricities proved to be his downfall.

In this weather, I'll spend the rest of the day on the road. Plenty of time in my own head. Plenty of time to say goodbye . . . to reflect on my memories of my mentor.

* * *

I. Swear. I. Will. Make. Them. All. Pay! Each word punctuated by the wooden 'clomp' as my big-damn-sword bit into the maple tree. Chips of bark and wood sprayed back, lodging in my hair and stinging my tear-smeared cheeks as I vented my frustration on the helpless foliage in my back yard.

One-hundred strokes! This time I'll finish the drill or die trying.

As the rhythm of my swings slowed, I switched to a two-handed grip, cursing my weak arms. Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy . . .

Why. Why. Why!? I panted between each thudding strike. Eighty-six, eighty seven . . .

The next stroke missed the tree entirely. The awkward weight of the weapon pulled me in a circle and my feet slid in the wet grass. The ground rose up and, like a fresh caught fish, the sweaty bronze handle squirted from my hands. I lunged to reclaim it, so there's no free hand to cushion my fall. As my forehead smashed into an exposed root, I crashed in a cloud of fuzzy stars. Vengeance, exacted by my tree-victim.

Sobbing, face down, pounding a fist into the damp dirt, I cursed my life.

Cursed the boys and their piercing snickers as I failed, again and again and again to control my weapon.

Cursed the empty-headed girls, cousins and half-sisters, who didn't understand my need to invade the boys' arena. 

After all, how would I ever attract a proper husband and have any children of my own if I insisted on acting like a boy?

Stupid cows, I spat as I pushed up off the ground, kneeling. I tested the gash on my brow as I searched the grass for my errant sword.

Staggering back to my feet, I stomped over to my weapon, rescuing it from the damp grass. Still catching my breath, I swiped the flat of the blade against my thigh on a cleanish patch of my trousers. Water brings rust. We'd forged these ourselves, to the exact standards of the master smith at the beginning of our training. Nearly a yard of blade, anchored in eight inches of handle.

A slow, loud, clapping echoed from the back porch. I whirled, coming on guard in a two handed grip, blade high and parallel to the ground, the tip pointed at my opponent, just as I'd been taught.

Well done, Niece. I almost gave up and left while you mewled into the grass. His tall, lanky form reclined on the cement back steps. He was hard to miss; long, black hair and beard with distinctive gray streaks at the temples and chin, his ever-present staff of Mountain Ash. These features marked him. He sipped a glass of lemonade, obviously enjoying the spectacle of me making a fool of myself.

What do you want, Uncle Magnus? I'm busy. Strictly speaking, that was more than a bit rude. The ancient Skald was my elder, and the brother of Akela. He was much farther up the dynastic tree than me, but I wasn't feeling particularly courteous. It felt like his spying on me was more a breach of protocol than my sharp tone.

I can see that. What do you think you're doing?

I'm practicing my sword work. Are you going blind in your old age?

Okay, that was probably over the line. Luckily, the old wolf seemed more amused than offended.

Looks more like you're practicing falling down. Is that a skill you've been working on lately?

I shut my mouth. Engaging in an insult contest with a Skald was foolishness. I'd not feed him more fuel for the fire in his tongue.

After a moment of me not talking, he relented. Your mother asked me to check on you. She's worried.

My mother, Akela's current sixth wife, Anna. She was human, weak, and in her fiftieth year, not likely to go through the change. Her mother, my grandmother, was a were— Akela's second wife when she lived. Once they die, Akela no longer accords his wives precedence within his stable of brood mares.

And yeah, that makes him my father and my grandfather. I try not to dwell on it.

Decades ago, my mother was a great beauty. There were rumors that she and Magnus had been secret lovers, before Akela developed an interest in her. Some say it was precisely because his brother fancied Anna that the Ruler of the Southern Realm took her as his sixth bride. An ostentatious number of living spouses, even for a werewolf king. Three to four mates were considered the norm. Akela was proud of his great appetites, in all manner of pleasure.

I'm fifteen now, Uncle. I don't need a babysitter.

No, I see that. His eyes flickered up and down my body. I'm used to it. I've always looked older than I am. Werewolf mating rules are much less conventional than human traditions. I was considered marrying age, whether I changed or not—breedable stock.

Beyond that, age means less to true werewolves like Magnus. People said he and Akela were centuries old, no one knew for sure. But the stories agree they were born on the same day, fraternal twins, the greater and the lesser, alpha and sickly runt.

Stop sniveling. Hand me that sword. It wasn't a request. His tolerance had reached an end. I handed my blade over and wiped at my face with the cuff of my shirt.

Magnus twirled the weapon effortlessly. Werewolves are much stronger than humans, especially teenage-girl-humans. I was athletic for my age and gender, but there was no comparison. 'Strong as an ox' wasn't just a saying when speaking of a werewolf.

They assigned this style of sword to you. Put you in the same group with the boys your age. Again, not a question, so I held my peace.

He continued, You've been trying to compete on their level. Figured if you just build up the muscle it will all work out fair, is that it?

I nodded. No sense repeating the obvious.

It's been two years. You're farther behind now than when you started.

You have a keen eye for the obvious, Uncle.

Depend on that smart mind, not that smart mouth, he snapped. What's your end-game?

I'll go through the change. Female and male werewolves are equally strong. The men won't admit it, but I know it's true. Most of the women know it too, they just don't talk about it.

Magnus nodded. And if you don't change? Or it takes twenty more years for you to change? What then?

I looked at the ground, searching for an answer in the dirt and not finding anything useful.

"You're playing a game where the rules are stacked against you. War training is purposely brutal, potentially fatal. If you keep going like this and the full moon fails to bless you, you'll be dead in just a few years, maybe a few months.

So, just quit? I shouted. Is that what you're saying?

If you were going to give up, I think you already would have. You're down to two choices, succeed or die.

You mean just die. You just said I can't succeed.

Not if you keep going like this, no.

Spit it out already, old man. Apparently I don't have a lot of time left on this earth. Say what you have to say so I can get on with my fate.

Magnus gave a short laugh. The universe is cruel but malleable, Niece. If you can't win within the rules, then break the rules. Bend the universe to your will.

How?

Magnus held the weapon up, allowing the afternoon sunlight to glance off the polished blade.

This sword is meant to be your failure. It's no accident you were assigned this style. You can't succeed with this, no matter how well it was forged.

So? I can't forge myself a smaller one. All the training swords are the same. I'm required to carry and maintain this one until my training is complete or I bear it in the afterlife.

Bend the universe to your will, Inga. Break the barriers laid before you.

The old wolf slashed the weapon down into the edge of the concrete steps, turning his grip so it struck with the flat. With a ringing clatter, the last six inches of the blade snapped off, leaving a ragged end and a broken piece of steel stuck in the lawn.

What did you do? I wailed, I needed that weapon! I can't finish my training with a broken sword!

My dreams of becoming a warrior were ashes, and this bastard had set them on fire. I lunged forward, ready to punch him in the face, protocol be damned.

Faster than I could see, Magnus snapped the pommel back, catching me precisely in the solar plexus. I went down hard, flat on my back, pulling at my breaths in broken gasps.

With indifferent contempt, he flung my ruined sword down as he stepped over me on his way to the butchered maple tree.

Looks like your weapon needs repair, Magnus said. I'd grind down a new tip if I was you. Once a blade is broken like that, you can't trust any sort of weld.

He kicked a toe in the grass, assessing the wood chips. When you find something broken and worth fighting for, Inga, fix it.

I rolled over as he placed his hands on the ragged bark of the tree, whispering under his breath. The yellow wood disappeared and the black-brown bark reformed, covering the scars from my sword.

That goes for swords, or trees or silly little girls who don't realize their own potential. Great warriors don't cry in the grass, feeling sorry for themselves. They pick up the pieces and fix what's broken.

Without looking back, he paused. Then he walked toward the greenbelt behind our yard.

You're right about one thing though, Niece. There's nothing inherently superior about males. Human females are discovering this. It's high time we werewolves entered this new twentieth century, too. They say that now the World War is over, women will soon have the right to vote in this country. Show us all that suffrage isn't just for human girls.

*  *  *

The snow isn't letting up as my headlights illuminate the half-buried front of Magnus's darkened cabin. It's a good thing the Escalade has four-wheel drive and chains. I'd brought too much gear to pad up here on four legs.

Technically, vehicles this big aren't allowed in this wilderness area. I've been sliding and swerving for four hours up this goat-trail-pretending-to-be-a-road leading to the ghost town of Independence, Montana.

Magnus has an ongoing understanding with the BLM law enforcement and I still have his iron charm dangling from my rear-view mirror which smothers the tracks left by my truck.

Probably overkill in this weather. There'll be no tourists on snowshoes or back country skiers to interfere with our family drama's sad climax. Three feet of snow blankets his cabin roof.

I kill the engine and the headlights dim. I don't want to get out. I could just restart the truck, turn around and go back home. No one would ever know I'd been here.

No one but me.

And him.

A dim light cracks along the edge of the doorway. Uncle Magnus presses his thin shoulder against the wood, clearing a wedge against accumulated drift at the base of the door. He's got a steaming mug in each hand.

I can't help but smile. The ding-dong warning from the 'door ajar' chime blares into the muffled quiet as I slide out of the truck. I leave the keys in the ignition. This isn't exactly a high crime neighborhood.

I'm glad it's you, Niece, he says, handing me one of the mugs.

Who else could it be? Only we know about this place. I accept the drink and give it a sip. Hot chocolate with Schnapps— tastes like winter.

Your father does. We spent a dozen years mining gold here on our way to Seattle, back when this town wasn't full of ghosts. We built this cabin together.

You never mentioned that.

He closes the door behind us. I stomp the snow off my boots, and then shed my heavy coat. Always the gentleman, he takes it from me and hangs it on the hook. No one else in my life is allowed to fuss over me like this.

Akela doesn't like me talking about his past.

Among other things. Fuck, way to ruin the mood, Inga.

Yes, he grunts. We settle in before the river-rock fireplace. There are only three rooms, the big main great room and two bedrooms, one on each end of the cabin.

The bathroom is a brisk twenty yards out the back door, or the nearest couple of trees if you aren't shy.

The fire fades. Magnus shuffles to the fireplace and tosses in more wood. He crouches and stirs the coals with an iron poker. His staff rests on its usual perch above the mantle.

So he's going through with it this time . . . a true blood hunt? he asks, offering his back, not facing me. If I thought he was testing my honor, I'd be offended. I know he's just hiding his face. Some conversations are best held without eye contact.

Yes, the sick, old fuck. I hate him.

Don't talk like that, Inga.

Why not? He's fucking crazy. You're no danger to him or the Realm.

First off, it's not for his sake, it's for yours. Hatred for your own family withers your heart. Like a tree struck by lightning, the outer shell may look healthy, but the core eventually rots away, charred by the inner, unseen fire.

Hmmph.

Second, he's right. I am dangerous, just not the way any of you think.

Come on, Magnus. If you were going to betray Akela, you'd have done it by now. You've played the loyal younger brother for centuries. That hasn't changed.

It's the nature of the world to change, Inga.

A chill trickles down my back. The kind of chill hot chocolate doesn't wash away.

What are you going to do?

It's not what I'll do he's afraid of, Niece. It's what I've done.

*  *  *

I don't understand, Inga. What did I do wrong?

Jerry had been a sweet guy. It wasn't his fault he grew up in a swamp of misogyny. He was more open-minded than most, but that wasn't a high bar.

Look, Jerry, I know you don't get it. That's part of the problem. I'm not a prize to be won at the carnival by hammering a lever and ringing a bell. You and Thomas were both out of line. The upshot is, neither of you gets the fluffy stuffed unicorn. We're through. I pulled my front door open.

So you're going back to him? Jerry stood in my living room, arms crossed defiantly.

For fuck's sake, will you listen to yourself? I thought my sisters were the drama queens. I'm trying to be calm about this, but there are limits. Just take your shit and get out. I slammed the screen door open behind me.

I don't believe you. You're throwing me out so you can have him. I won't stand for this. You're mine.

He knew he'd made a mistake the moment the words left his mouth. I saw it in his eyes, his desperate anger, now tinged with uncertainty. Some sort of grand gesture was just around the corner.

Jerry . . . Darling . . . Get. The. Fuck. Out.

I won't. You're my mate. I have rights. I don't care about all this bra-burning-hippie-free-love bullshit, we're werewolves. He folded his arms on his chest.

I heard voices in the field behind me. My house abutted the commons, along with fifty others. That's the trouble with living in a death-cult commune, no privacy. Well, one of the problems anyway.

Is this really how you want to play it, Jerry?

We had sex. That means something. We almost had three babies. If you hadn't lost them, our union would be recognized.

If I hadn't lost them? So that's my fault now?

You're lining up fathers, hoping to replace me with someone who can give you children! It's not my fault you're inbred!

I imagine the audience outside got a pretty spectacular show. Once I disappeared back into the house, the next thing they'd seen was Jerry crashing through the remains of my front screen door, his clothes tattered in rags since he was in mid-change. By the time he rolled to his feet, he stood in full Warg-form.

Most people can't tell a werewolf from a human till the fuzz pops out. Even then, we usually resemble big wolves, approximately our human weight, so larger than a wild wolf.

But Warg is the form we take to fight. Not all werewolves can achieve it, but with enough age, practice, or sometimes just on pure adrenalin, the monster comes out—as massive as a grizzly bear, but far more dangerous.

Jerry was much older than me. He could achieve Warg at will. He counted on it. He couldn't afford to be publicly defeated by a woman in hand-to-hand combat.

So, he'd chosen to go double-or-nothing. He knew I'd never achieved Warg, even 50 years after my first change. His plan was to force me to submit.

Fuck that noise.

Snatching my sword from the wall by the front door, my heavy knife in the other, I launched myself from the top step of the porch. Maybe I was no match for him in my smaller wolf form, but I'd become one of the finest sword-masters in the realm since those early days in my mother's backyard. Jerry had upped the ante to lethal levels by switching forms. All bets were off.

He fell back, confused by my unexpected attack. His stance tentative, nervous. It was a no-win situation for him. Kill or subdue me, a mere woman in my human form, or defeat at my hand, a loss of face he might never recover.

After my first pass, he made his decision, turning on me with a wet snap of his jaws. He caught a bit of skin, but nothing serious. A trickle of blood streamed down my forearm.

I guess my life was less important than his pride. In a flash, our love turned to ice cold hatred—

a rabid instant

meadows of summer wither

to bleak fall tundra

He was larger, stronger, maybe even faster. For him, it should have been an easy victory. Perhaps he'd settle for maiming me and forcing my submission, at least there'd be some small honor in that.

But fast isn't nimble. A quarter ton of muscle, bone and teeth can't change direction quickly once it builds up a full head of steam.

He charged in, jaws wide, expecting to overwhelm me, confident as a bull.

A bull who'd never met a matador.

Sidestepping his rush, I shoved the tip of my dagger up and forward, piercing his neck just below the jawline, up through his throat and skull. Not necessarily a mortal wound for a werewolf, but near enough to end this.

My anger raged red . . . it wasn't enough. Past thought, almost on muscle memory alone, I decided to kill him and killed him in the same instant. My sword chopped down, severed his spine and cleaved through the muscles and windpipe of his neck . . . decapitation in a single stroke.

He'd made his choice. This is the reason most werewolves die within a few decades of their first change. Our most deadly natural predators are other werewolves, coupled with our own ego and lack of self-control. This would be Jerry's fate. He'd brought it on himself.

As my neighbors and extended family looked on, some excited, many scared and nervous, I noticed Akela and Magnus, side by side at the front of the crowd. Neither had come to my defense. That's not our way. But the expressions on each of the brothers' faces couldn't have been clearer.

My father, nearly a giant even in his human form, stood proud, his eyes wide and excited. I'd seen that look before, almost lustful.

My uncle stared as well, his demeanor thoughtful, calculating. He leaned on his staff expectantly, somehow aware the drama wasn't complete.

I felt a flush, a rush of blood as the bones and muscles in my body shifted. Awareness came to me, awareness of what I could do. What I was capable of.

I'm no man's property! My voice thundered on a roaring growl. My perspective rose higher, taller now than even Akela. I looked down at the two brothers' long hair; my father's dirty-blond, the gray-streaked black of my uncle. Their necks craned up to meet my gaze.

Human, Wolf, and Warg— but there's a fourth form, achieved only by the ancients, and those of royal blood. Even then, it usually takes more than a century of life to manifest the Ulfsark form. The giant shape of a Warg on two legs . . . unstoppable. Besides Akela and Magnus, no more than a dozen in the Southern Realm could assume it.

My clawed fingers still grasped the blood-drenched handle of the knife as I raised my lover's severed head high. The booming howl of my defiance tore from deep inside my heart, spilling into the night.

From the corner of my eye, my uncle and father leaned together, muttering. Akela looked nervous. Magnus argued his point with insistence. As he gestured emphatically, the glint from their matching gold bracelets clattered together. No one could remember a time when the twins hadn't worn them. Some said they bound the two werewolves to each other, in this life, and the next.

Akela shook his head, then stormed away. Whatever Magnus proclaimed, it didn't sit well with his brother.

*  *  *

I always knew you were destined for great things, Niece. Others doubted, but I've witnessed the weaving of your fate since you were a tiny girl. The Norns have important plans for you.

Magnus cracks open a third bottle of schnapps, all pretense at hot chocolate abandoned. We're both a little drunk, searching for courage.

You don't really buy into that stuff, do you, Uncle? I mean it's good theater, and the metaphors are useful, sometimes—but you can't really believe our destinies are woven by three old blind women under a tree?

You ask me that, as a creature who possesses the power to become a giant wolf at will. Do you really believe you understand the limits of possibilities in this world?

I just have trouble accepting that my fate is known before it happens. I take another angry swallow of schnapps.

Perhaps I'm attempting to ease your conscience. If fate is truly immutable, then you have an excuse to perform your sacred duty.

Sacred . . . please. Akela's just protecting his own hairy ass.

"True, but according to our laws,