Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu

by Constantine, Storm

  There were undoubtedly hara who were more beautiful than Ponclast, but Ponclast had something different about him, something more. Terzian could feel it, sense it – smell it, even, despite the all-pervading stench of the tent. It was the scent of power, and it was dangerously aphrodisiac.

  Ponclast reached out with one gloved hand and stroked Terzian’s cheek. There was nothing intimate or tender about the gesture – he might have been checking the condition of a piece of livestock – but Terzian found himself trembling, and only partially from fear. He felt the soft grain of the leather brush across his face, then move downward, coming to rest at the nape of his neck. Terzian could feel his own pulse throbbing there, strong and rapid, and he knew that Ponclast could feel it too.

  He knew that if he was going to make any attempt to take control of this situation, it would have to be now, or not at all. Part of him wanted to do battle with Ponclast, to pit his own will and determination against the other har’s strength. Another part of him wanted nothing more than to be overwhelmed by Ponclast’s power, to be taken, and used; forced to submit, forced to give up his autonomy, given no choice…

  The light within the tent grew dim, then bright, then dim again and Terzian could not tell if it was the guttering of the oil lamps or his own vision. He was unused to this feeling of helplessness, and yet there was a familiarity about it, as if it was something he had known, or would know. The air shimmered and wavered, and Terzian closed his eyes, taking refuge in the darkness of his own mind.

  His surrender was acknowledged with a triumphant, wordless blast of thought from Ponclast. Terzian felt himself pushed to the ground, onto the damp, mildewed carpet laid over the bare earth. He felt gloved hands pulling his clothing away roughly, then running up his thighs, firmly prising them apart. They did not have to try very hard.

  A leather-encased finger entered him, investigating and probing. Terzian wondered briefly if he should ask, or demand, that Ponclast remove his gloves. It seemed somehow wrong to have the skin of a dead animal between him and his seducer, a barrier where there should be none, but Ponclast showed no inclination to shed his borrowed skin, and seemed adept enough at finding the right places within Terzian’s body despite his handicap. Perhaps he never took the gloves off and was by now so used to their presence that they felt like his own skin.

  The fingers withdrew, leaving Terzian filled with nothing but frustration. Not for long. With a sudden, savage thrust Ponclast drove into him long and deep. No leather this time, for which Terzian was grateful, just the smooth, silken hardness of Ponclast’s ouana-lim. Skin against skin, flesh against flesh, har inside har.

  There were sounds inside Terzian’s head; roaring or drumming, he couldn’t tell which, nor did he particularly care at this instant. Ponclast thrust angrily into him again and again, making no particular effort to pleasure the other har, but, strangely, doing so nonetheless. Terzian realized that this was going to be a very brief experience. He found himself almost wishing for the slow ecstasy of a more measured encounter, but that was obviously not Ponclast’s plan, and he knew there was no point in attempting to persuade the har otherwise.

  The noise grew louder; a wailing, keening sound adding its discordant harmony to the base notes of Ponclast’s ragged breathing and Terzian’s own thundering heartbeat. As the sound reached its eerie climax, Terzian tensed and shuddered, and was suddenly filled with a hot rush of liquid. The essence of Ponclast’s body mixed with his own secretions, and seemed to spark a chain reaction inside him, spreading through his body and out to his extremities.

  The howling did not stop. If anything, it became louder. Terzian lay on the floor, panting and trembling a little, and realized that it was not in his head at all, but all around them.

  Without ceremony, Ponclast withdrew himself from Terzian and rose to his feet gracefully.

  “Timber wolves,” he said, and suddenly the noise lost its supernatural quality, and Terzian could hear it for what it really was.

  “They come out from the forests at night, searching for prey,” Ponclast informed him.

  His ouana-lim was still hard and erect, thrusting out at an aggressive angle from his body like a weapon, and glistening wet in the low light. A few drops of the combined essences of their bodies dripped from it onto the dirty rug on the floor. Terzian would not have been surprised to see the liquid eat a hole in the stained fabric, like acid, but nothing of the sort happened. There was only the addition of another stain to the ancient carpet, joining the many already there.

  Ponclast ran one hand along the length of his engorged organ, either in an attempt to remove the sticky, residue, or simply because he enjoyed it. At some point, his gloves must have come off, because his hands were now bare. Obviously his own flesh demanded something finer than mere animal hide. Terzian looked closely. He had been expecting some disfigurement, or scarring perhaps, which would account for Ponclast’s reluctance to remove the gloves, but the hands were perfectly normal.

  The howling stopped abruptly, leaving a jarring silence broken only by the lesser wailing of the wind finding its way between the gaps in the wall of Ponclast’s tent.

  “The pack will go hungry tonight unless they travel further afield,” Ponclast said. He grinned fiercely, wolfishly. “We are not the prey, Terzian, we are the predators!”

  When Terzian left Ponclast’s tent, he did not return directly to the unwelcoming embrace of his own shelter. Instead, he made his way down towards the river which ran through the shallow valley in which the group of hara were camped.

  The stink of Ponclast’s tent was in his hair, in his clothes, in his nostrils. It seemed to have ground itself into his skin, through his pores, into the very fabric of his being. Even the clean outside air would not rid him of it.

  The night was intensely cold and utterly still. The layer of snow underfoot had frozen crisp and iron-hard, and it crunched noisily with every step that Terzian took. Above him, the cold silver disc of the moon was haloed by a wide circle of light. Looking up at it, Terzian felt the first freezing flakes of snow touch his face. Their icy sharp bites lasted for only a moment before they immolated themselves upon his burning skin.

  He reached the edge of the river, which lay like a dark scar on the paleness of the landscape. The moon was reflected on the smooth surface of the water, leaving a long trail of light which might easily have been a path which could be taken to reach the other side. Terzian stopped at the river’s edge – the banks were not steep here – and began removing his clothing.

  Strangely, he did not feel cold. There was not the slightest movement to the air; no wind to rob his body of its living warmth. He felt alive and invigorated in a way that he had not in the stultifying confines of Ponclast’s tent.

  He removed his boots last and tentatively set his naked feet to the ground. The frozen snow burned, but only for a moment; then an enveloping numbness took the discomfort away. He walked the short distance to the water’s edge and continued without hesitation into its freezing embrace.

  In the dark, with the moonlight reflecting on its surface, it was impossible to tell what lay under the water. There might have been rocks, weeds, potholes, open jaws, unseen hands waiting to grasp at his ankles and pull him under – anything. Terzian’s mind was focused on other things, however, as he waded further out into the deeper part of the river. The physical shock of the cold water was almost unbearable; it took the breath from him, forcing to concentrate on inhaling and exhaling in short, staccato gasps.

  Above him, the moon looked down dispassionately. If he tilted his head backwards, Terzian could see clearly all the contours and marks upon its surface, the legacy of a thousand impacts, yet despite these imperfections, it was still a thing of beauty, a sister planet for the Earth, a companion in the emptiness of space. Knowing it was there somehow mitigated the loneliness of existence. Terzian took one last, deep breath, held on to it, and plunged swiftly under the freezing water.

  Instantly he erupted upwards again, s
hedding a spray of water droplets glittering like multi-faceted jewels in the cold light. He gasped for air, as if he had been under the water for hours, not mere split seconds. Water streamed from his naked body, down his chest and arms, into his eyes and ears and mouth. His long, fair hair was drenched and sodden. Pulled down by the weight of the water, the ends of it trailed in the river, bait for any passing fish or malign water spirit who might wish to seize it.

  His sudden explosive exit from the water had shattered the stillness of the night. The moon’s calm reflection was utterly destroyed, broken into a thousand pieces of light, flickering like fireflies. Terzian wiped his face with his hands, clearing his eyes so that he could see again. Water had potency that air did not, the power both to chill the body and to cleanse it. To his relief, he could no longer smell Ponclast or his tent.

  He waded back to the shore, shivering violently now. When he reached his discarded pile of clothes, he hesitated for a moment. Part of him wanted to abandon them there, but he knew he could not afford to lose them, the boots in particular. Instead, he scooped up the pile and doused them in the river. When he retrieved them, they were heavy and wet, but he gathered them up nevertheless.

  As he stood up and turned to make his way back to the encampment, he was overcome by the sudden conviction that he was being watched. He stood very still. For a moment he thought he saw something shining in the dark. Something yellow and gleaming, like the eyes of a beast. He stared hard into the blackness, but if eyes had been upon him, they had not cared to stay and observe further.

  Clutching his bundle of wet clothing, he set off across the frozen ground back to the encampment, ice crystals already forming on his cold, naked skin.

  Three nights later, when the moon was hidden and veiled behind the surrounding hills, a ragged regiment of hara made their stealthy approach to the human-occupied town. Although it was late, and many of the old and young were asleep in their beds, the town was still alert and defended by a not inconsiderable force of the able-bodied.

  The human race had fallen on hard times. No longer could they rely on their technology, their society and their sheer numbers to ensure their absolute dominion over all else. Nowadays, it was every town, village and settlement for itself. Wild creatures roamed the hills and forests around the town, preying upon the weak and unsuspecting. Some took the shape of human beings, but were not. The townspeople knew that no help would be forthcoming from others of their own kind should an attack come, and so they kept guard, their back to the walls, their guns trained outwards.

  Ponclast was unconcerned.

  “We knew they’d be armed. I predicted it, did I not? Hold your nerve, Terzian, I am prepared.”

  Ponclast had a strange expression on his face; distant, and somewhat vacant, his eyes glassy and heavy-lidded. He appeared almost drugged, and, in fact, Terzian had seen him slipping some small, greenish kernels into his mouth at regular intervals. He decided he didn’t want to know what these were.

  “I am prepared too.”

  Ponclast smiled vaguely. “Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.” He said gnomically.

  This did not fill Terzian with confidence, but he held his peace. There was no point in unnerving the rest of the tribe. He looked round at the ranks of hara. Ranks was too formal a word for them, he thought. Disorganised rabble would be more accurate. These hara were used to fighting, but they were a wild and chaotic bunch. Some training and discipline would not have gone amiss, the better to forge them into a true combat force, but it was too late for that now. They would simply have to make the best of things.

  He turned his attention to their target. The town had been turned into a sort of crude fortress by the expedient of blocking off all but one road into it and barricading obvious weak points with whatever had come to hand – old vehicles, furniture and broken masonry. It wasn’t completely secured by any means, but neither could anyone expect simply to stroll in without the permission of the inhabitants. Permission which was obviously not going to be forthcoming on this occasion.

  Terzian had keen eyesight, and he could see the occasional glint of something metallic, the odd shadowy movement, which told him that the humans were there, their guns at the ready. If they, in turn, were aware of the exotic barbarians at their gate, then they showed no sign.

  There was a palpable aura of impatience emanating from the assembled hara. Many of them were hungry, they were all cold, and the town lay like a fattened and docile animal before them. Just beyond those flimsy barricades was food and warmth and shelter from the encroaching weather. The hara shuffled and stamped. A few muffled curses reached Terzian’s ears, and then an unearthly howl, like one of the hidden timber wolves saluting the rising moon. But this sound was not made by any wolf – it came from the throat of a har; primal and protean, full of savage energy.

  Terzian felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, even as he turned to glare and silence the restless throng with a short hand-gesture.

  “Our time is upon us!” Ponclast announced to all.

  He lifted both his hands, which Terzian noticed were ungloved, and a strange light danced between them, iridescent and rainbow-hued. It followed the movements of Ponclast’s hands, wavering tremulously in the air. He seemed to be caressing and stroking it like a lover, without actually touching it.

  “Go forth and claim your birthright. Inherit the Earth, Wraeththu children. A new day dawns for us all, and when the sun rises tomorrow, it will be upon a landscape of the mind such as has never been seen before.”

  Mad, though Terzian. Quite, quite mad.

  If the rest of the tribe shared his assessment of Ponclast’s mental state, they did not show it. From the shadows, from behind the cover of trees and decaying buildings, they surged forward eagerly, an unstoppable wave of bodies, eerily silent now in order to maintain the element of surprise for as long as possible.

  At some point, an alarm must have been raised by the human lookouts. There was a series of shouts from behind the barricades, then the impression of movement and urgent activity.

  Terzian watched Ponclast closely. The other har’s eyes were closed. He appeared to be in a state of intense concentration, and the flickering light seemed to be all around him now, licking over his body like cold flames, rippling and changing colour. Static electricity crackled the air.

  Terzian wondered if he should stay with Ponclast or join the attack on the town. The harish forces had reached the barricades now, and were tearing furiously at the piles of timber and rubble and barbed wire. The shouts from the human defenders had taken on a note of panic. Terzian recognized the sound of fear; he knew it all too well. Obviously their armaments were malfunctioning in some way, because the only sounds to be heard were the smashing and splintering of the inadequate defences, the noises of alarm from within the town, and the triumphant battle cries from the invaders.

  Fire flared suddenly, an orange gout of flame lighting up the dark. Faced with the impossible uselessness of their weapons, the humans had resorted to less technological tactics: a bottle of petrol, a lit rag, and the crude new weapon hurled at the seething mass of night-creatures swarming towards them. The bottle smashed and vomited its fiery contents all over the crumbling barricade, spreading its flames like a contagious disease, infecting everything combustible, but the wave of hara parted like the sea around it and continued their inexorable progress towards the buildings beyond.

  At that moment, a single, shocking report rang out, as loud as thunder to Terzian’s ears. Sound and movement ceased abruptly, just for a brief moment. The barricades burned in silence. The human defenders looked on nervously. The onrushing hara froze, their momentum dissipated. Then another shot, and a scream, and murmur that became a roar, and the riotous cacophony began again, but this time chaotic and directionless. More shots peppered the night, and hara began to run for cover, lithe bodies illuminated by the flickering orange light, half-concealed by the smoke; some running, some falling.

  Terzian spu
n round to look at Ponclast. The strange light around him had dimmed considerably, and his extended hands were empty. His face was now damp with sheen of perspiration, his mouth open and gasping, and his eyes wide and staring, although as Terzian grabbed his arm roughly he realised that whatever Ponclast was seeing, it was not the scene in front of him. Spitting a curse, he dropped the arm as if the flesh was poison, and ran off in the direction of the burning barricade.

  It was a rout. Hara were fleeing in all directions, any form of discipline or teamwork they might have had now lost in the mad scramble to save themselves. Terzian started shouting and waving vigorously with his arms, indicating the direction of safety. He realised that he was making a very visible target of himself by doing so, but tried to put any possible consequences of his actions out of his mind.

  Hara began running towards him, the relief in their eyes visible even in the smoky, flickering darkness. They needed someone to take charge, to tell them what to do, and they were drawn to Terzian like moths to the moon.

  Emboldened by the sudden reversal in their fortunes, the human defenders now went on to the attack, small groups making sorties from the buildings, zigzagging in the shadows, trying to outflank the retreating hara and cut off their escape routes. Terzian realised with a sick feeling in his stomach that they were far more disciplined and practiced in the art of guerrilla warfare than his own tribe.

  That will have to change, he thought grimly, seizing hold of a young har who was blindly running in the wrong direction, back towards the flaming remains of the barricade.

  The har struggled furiously in his grasp.

  “We have to go back!” he cried desperately.

  “No, we have to retreat,” Terzian spoke in an even tone, trying not to panic the har even more, but he held onto him firmly.

  The har refused to accept this and struggled harder.