Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu (30 page)

I don’t know how long I walked.
I know I had left the boundaries of the village some time ago and I
hadn’t bothered grabbing my coat. The chill night air was sharp,
even with the moisture of the coming snows, but the fire still
burning within me was still hot enough that I did not feel the
cold, at least not consciously. I wrapped my arms over my chest not
so much as to try and ward off the cold as to try and keep my heart
from bursting from my breast.

I suddenly felt a harsh hand
upon my shoulder, my already pounding heart leapt to my throat as I
was spun around to face two alien figures. They were tall, taller
than anyone in the village, but possessed of a slenderness that
bordered on gauntness. Yet, there was a certain lushness about
them, a sensuality that transcended human definitions of
masculinity or beauty. It did not take me but a few moments to
realize that they were demons, like the one in town.

The taller of the two, whose
hair was intricately plaited with ivory tubes and beads, leaned
down until his face was close to mine. In a low voice that sent a
shiver along my spine, he growled out, “Where is har? Where is
Mendal?”

I knew he meant the other
demon, the one currently lying helpless on my father’s table,
beneath my father’s blade. When he shook me, I shattered. It must
have shocked him to suddenly find the young boy in his grasp
shaking like a leaf as he sobbed everything out. The demon’s dark
eyes, so different yet so alike those of the jade-eyed demon back
in the village, were wide in disbelief as the words spilled from my
throat in a relentless torrent that unburdened everything knotted
up inside of me.

“Stay here with the boy,” the
demon holding me demanded of the other silent shadow before he
released me and faded into the darkness. I was suddenly enfolded in
a surprisingly strong pair of arms and wrapped in a heavy cloak of
dark leather as I was pulled back against the demon’s chest. I felt
his breath warming the cusp of my ear as he suddenly chuckled, “Do
not be afraid, little one. We are not demons, not all the time. We
just take care of our own.”

I didn’t understand what he
meant then. I almost wish that I didn’t understand when he meant
now. But at that moment, I felt warm and safe. When the other demon
returned a few minutes later, his face was grim, but he offered me
a slight smile before he looked at his companion, “Come, it is time
for us to go. We must return to the others and tell them that
Mandal has passed to the next life.”

I felt the demon holding me
begin to shake, as I had shook earlier, but it passed quickly. My
chin was grabbed in a hand and I was forced to look up into the
piercing, dark eyes of the demon. “First, child, as Kalen told you,
we are not demons. We are Wraeththu. Second, you are coming with
us. We have lost Mendal tonight, but I believe we have found a new
spirit to join us. Third, I am Halcoln and we’ve a long journey
ahead of us. We must go. Now.”

I didn’t question Halcoln’s
words as he and Kalen led me away from the village. My mind was
muddied, my senses confused. I never saw the plumes of smoke
twisting up into the night behind us, as I never looked back. It
was many years before I found out what Halcoln had done while he
was in the village. He told me that the remains of Mendal’s body
had to be purified by fire for his spirit to be freed. When I
eventually returned to Kreslow, all I found was the ruined remains
of a village that had been burned to the ground decades ago.

It’s true what they say. You
can never go back.

The Conservation of
Momentum

Fiona Lane

“…
Some vows are made when
you are very young, personal vows that might never be spoken. I
cannot go back on promises that I’ve made to myself, whatever
others might think of my beliefs.”

– The Bewitchments of Love and
Hate, Storm Constantine

Winter came early that year,
sweeping down from the high mountains like an empty-bellied
predator, bringing first the metallic tang of snow in the air, and
then a heavy blanket of white and silence to the wide plains of
Megalithica. Generations unborn would number this year
Ai-Cara-Less-40, but for the ragged army of hara shivering as they
rode, marched, trudged and stumbled across the bleak landscape, it
was a year only of cold and of death.

Terzian reined his horse to a
halt, waiting for the stragglers to catch up. They numbered upward
of a thousand now; several small tribes, his own included, had
banded together, realizing that their chances of survival were
increased along with their numbers. Still, it was an uneasy
alliance as yet. They were strangers to each other, too used to
owing loyalty to none but their own small circle. Eventually,
Terzian knew, they would bond, their common danger and common
kinship uniting them against the dual threat of the elements and of
humankind, but for now it was a period of transition as they
realigned their hierarchies and reassessed their loyalties.

The same could be said of
Terzian. Until ten days ago, he had been an autocrat. True, his
sovereignty had been modest – scarcely three hundred hara had
looked to him as leader – but it had been absolute. Now,
compromise was the order of the day. His own tribe and another from
nearby had joined forces with that of Ponclast, another tribe
leader from the north. Ponclast’s band was by far the largest,
numbering some five hundred or more hara, and perhaps in Ponclast’s
mind that gave him an edge of superiority, but he never said so
aloud. His talk was all of alliances and councils and
co-operation.

Terzian did not believe this
talk for one minute. Ponclast was not a har who compromised.
Terzian could see that in him – he carried his authority with him
like a visible aura. Ponclast was a natural leader, a trait that
Terzian could recognize well enough from his own personal
acquaintance with it, and therein lay a potential source of
conflict, with two rival generals vying for the top position. A
long time ago, they had met briefly in the madness of the earliest
days of Wraeththu. They had both changed a lot. Terzian had not
known Ponclast then – even his name had been different – and did
not know him now. Proximity might bring acquaintance, but not real
knowing.

Terzian looked at the rag-tag
band of pathetic creatures stamping and shuffling in front of him
and snorted in disgust. Delusions of grandeur! This was no army,
and there was no status or prestige to be gained by leading them.
Merely surviving the winter would be an achievement for this lot.
There was nothing to fight over. That aside, Terzian was
intelligent enough to realise that with the rise of Wraeththu, the
age-old power struggles of humankind were rendered if not exactly
irrelevant, then at least somewhat obsolete. There were other, less
destructive ways of engaging with potential rivals.

He watched the other har
surreptitiously. Ponclast was mounted on a large black horse which
he was riding at a smart trot along the untidy ranks of exhausted
hara, encouraging them to pick up the pace. Terzian noticed that
his high, leather riding boots had metal spurs at the heels, and
these Ponclast used quite enthusiastically to keep his mount
motivated. The bright metal of the spurs was reddened with blood
from the animal’s flanks.

Ponclast was a tall har,
physically imposing, yet not heavy-set or muscular. His body was
slender and attenuated, with long, graceful limbs and an almost
regal bearing. He was dressed elegantly in what appeared to be
military uniform, although not the utilitarian garments of the
modern soldier; his garb seemed to belong to an earlier, more
formal era. He wore a long black coat, high-necked and fastened
with polished metal buttons, which flared out at the waist and
draped over the haunches of his mount.

His black hair was very short,
cropped close to his head. It looked brutal, authoritarian and
intimidating, which Terzian suspected was the intention, but there
was also a suggestion of military efficiency, a quality noticeably
absent from the other hara.

Terzian watched those long legs
flex around the horse’s body again, driving the spurs into its
side. Not for the first time, he let his imagination stray,
conjuring images of those legs wrapped around his own body –
unclothed. The marble-hard thigh muscles taut and defined, a
product of all those hours in the saddle, the hardness between
those legs which owed nothing to the riding of animals…

Against the saddle of his
mount, between his own legs, Terzian felt a slow, rhythmic pulse
accompanied by a flush of warmth. The horse danced a little under
him, its movement only serving to increase his arousal. At that
moment, Ponclast turned his head to stare long and hard at Terzian,
as if he had been able to feel the other har’s gaze upon him.
Terzian suspected that he could do so; there was a mystery to
Ponclast that Terzian did not fully understand. He silently hoped
that the other har had not been able to sense any of his private
fantasies. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Terzian knew with
certainty that he had.

Ponclast spurred his mount and
rode over, a black silhouette in stark relief against the white
snow; a carrion crow of a har. He sat upright in the saddle, back
straight, no sign of fatigue, although the group had been
travelling for several days non-stop.

Terzian found himself offering
up a brief salute as Ponclast arrived; it seemed the natural thing
to do. Ponclast acknowledged the gesture with a curt nod of his
head.

“They’re too slow,” he
remarked, almost accusingly, as if he expected Terzian to
personally increase the speed of each and every lagging har.

“They’re tired. Exhausted. What
do you expect?”

“I expect they will
perish.”

Terzian’s face registered his
dismay at this gloomy prognosis. Ponclast eyed him carefully,
hawk-like in his intensity, and Terzian realized this was some sort
of test. Of what, he wasn’t entirely sure, but it sent a small stab
of irritation through him.

“Well then we’ll have to do
something to prevent that, won’t we?” he snapped.

Ponclast maintained his
scrutiny for a few more seconds, as if coming to a decision, then
his expression changed into what Terzian eventually realised – with
shock – was a smile. It was not a reassuring look.

“Yes,” he said, “Yes, we will.
You and I.” The smile-that-was-not-a-smile widened, displaying
white, even teeth which in other circumstances might have been
considered attractive, but in Terzian’s mind only conjured images
of sharks and tigers and other nameless nightmare beasts.

Ponclast edged his horse up
against Terzian’s, positioning himself close enough so that he
could stretch out a comradely hand and lay it on Terzian’s
shoulder. The hand was sheathed in a black leather glove. In spite
of himself, Terzian felt a small flicker of electricity run through
his flesh at that touch.

“Look at them,” Ponclast said,
indicating with a desultory nod of his head the mass of hara
milling and stamping on the frozen ground. “They’re sheep. Every
one of them. Lost without someone to guide them. To lead them.”

Terzian gritted his teeth. “And
that would be you, I suppose?”

Ponclast slapped his shoulder
with his gloved hand. “You and me. Together. I can’t do this alone
– I need someone to share the responsibility. To share the
burden”

“Don’t patronize me,” Terzian
growled. “I don’t think you’re the sort of har who needs anyone to
hold your hand.”

Ponclast roared with
laughter.

“You’re quite right, Terzian. I
don’t need any forelock-tugging, awe-struck acolytes. I need a har
with the ability to lead and to take decisions and to think for
himself, and that, as you have just so ably demonstrated, is you,
Terzian.”

Terzian was somewhat mollified,
although he still considered that Ponclast was attempting to
manipulate him through flattery.

“We don’t have the luxury of
being fragile little flowers who need reassurance about their own
importance,” Ponclast continued, making Terzian wonder if the other
har really could overhear his thoughts. He resolved to be more
circumspect in his internal opinions around this har, if such a
thing were even possible.

“You and me, Terzian. We’re
going to have to lead this tribe. We’re going to have to run
things. Because there is no one else.”

Terzian knew that Ponclast was
right. In this world, there were leaders, and there were followers,
and Terzian had an innate sense of which category he belonged
to.

“We can’t stay here,” Ponclast
went on, obviously assuming Terzian’s complete agreement on the
matter just discussed. “There’s little in the way of shelter, and
the weather is only going to get worse. We’re running out of food,
too.”

“What do you suggest?” Terzian
asked

Ponclast displayed his white
teeth again.

“There’s a town about an hour’s
ride from here.”

“I know that,” said Terzian.
“It’s occupied. By humans.”

“I think we should make it…
unoccupied
.”

“Really?” Terzian scrutinized
Ponclast’s face, trying to determine if he was serious. “And how do
you intend to do that? Are you just going to ask them to
leave?”

Ponclast affected sincerity.
“Do you think that would work?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re quite right. “I think
we’re going to have to go down the traditional route of mindless
violence and the excessive use of force.”

“That’s your plan? I can’t say
it fills me with confidence.”

“Oh, Terzian, have a little
faith. They’re only humans, after all.”

“I think you’ll find they’re
armed humans. With an irrational dislike of Wraeththu-kind. They
can be pretty dangerous, as I recall.”