Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu

by Constantine, Storm

  ‘So where do I start?’ Jarad asked Wraxilan.

  Wraxilan was like a great cat; when he wasn’t stalking, he was sprawling. He liked heat. And like a cat, he had nests in various parts of the community; always soft cushions, curiously clean. Now he jabbed a finger in Jarad’s direction. ‘What I like about you is the fact you don’t care, not about anything. Yet I know you will do as I ask.’

  Jarad said nothing.

  Wraxilan uncoiled from his cushions, began to pace. If he’d had a tail, it would be switching now. ‘I know this because it is written all over you as if in black ink. It is the story of your life as it is now.’

  ‘Well, I’m ready to do as you ask.’

  Wraxilan studied him for a moment. Jarad knew what was on his mind, and didn’t have to have psychic abilities to be aware of that. Now the phylarch’s gaze became veiled. Perhaps untruths would follow. ‘You must admit that everything we’ve been through has affected some more than others, and I mean in a bad way.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘And perhaps you could also say that extreme measures might be needed to make Uigenna what it should be. By that I mean cutting away the dead wood.’

  ‘There’s no reason you can’t break away,’ Jarad answered. ‘Most would follow you, and they would be the ones you want.’

  ‘I’m not thinking of breaking away. I’m thinking of... remodelling.’

  ‘I see. What do you want me to do?’

  Wraxilan laughed. ‘I can see you really would do anything. We’re both thinking the same thing, I know it. I’m touched you would go that far for me, even though I’m aware you wouldn’t do it because you care or because you’re particularly loyal. It’s just a job isn’t it?’

  Jarad said nothing.

  ‘I can fight my own battles,’ Wraxilan said. ‘What I want you for is the aftermath.’

  ‘There might be more than one battle,’ Jarad said. ‘Like I said, most would follow you, but not all.’ He paused. ‘Can we speak plainly?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This is about removing Manticker, isn’t it?’

  Wraxilan stared at Jarad for long, uncomfortable seconds with his tiger eyes. He was weighing up how much he trusted this har before him. Manticker was still powerful. ‘He’s not who he was,’ Wraxilan said at last. ‘I’m not the only one who thinks that for the good of all hara he must stand down. He doesn’t organise our phyles well; he just wants to go out crazily destroying everything in his path. He thinks he’s invincible.’

  ‘He’s not called Manticker the Seventy for nothing,’ Jarad said.

  Wraxilan snickered. ‘Oh, I know that, but his vision is not acute. He can’t see that we must consolidate our forces, train them properly. We must not be like humes, but we must stop being scattered. Every time I, or others like me, try to call a meeting of the phylarchs to discuss strategies, he manages to disrupt or postpone it. He has his cronies, and they undermine me also. He’s like a firecracker. Silent till he’s lit. Then the fire comes upon him, and he summons all around him to go out on some crazy killing spree, often into territory where they do not have the advantage. Instead of planning and aiming for targets that are of strategic value, he mindlessly charges into... just anywhere. Hara die; it’s a waste. Yes, he has been successful in this way for a couple of years, and that’s why the more stupid among us follow him, but things are changing. I hope you agree with me on this.’

  Jarad thought for a moment. He supposed he should try to have an opinion. ‘Manticker won’t go away quietly, but then we wouldn’t be having this conversation if that was at all likely.’

  Wraxilan nodded his head briefly. ‘Yes, yes, but I need to know your exact thoughts on him. Do you agree with me?’

  ‘I’ve already said I will do as you ask. Is that answer enough?’

  ‘Not if you have any doubts.’

  ‘I have no doubts.’

  ‘Good. As you must know, there are others like you. For the time being, you will not meet them. But after tonight, you shall.’

  ‘Tonight? That soon?’ Now a shiver of discomfort coursed up Jarad’s spine. Did he want to get involved? No, not really. But he’d said he would.

  ‘You will be sent word,’ Wraxilan said. ‘Go to the Animal bar about 8.30. I’ll send someone to you there. You won’t need his name, nor he yours.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘That is all for now. It’s best you don’t know anything further until you’re needed. Stay close.’

  It was a dismissal. Jarad inclined his head and walked away, scuffing through the tiny leaves; they released a stinging, green scent as he crushed them.

  Jarad went directly to Velisarius; he wasn’t sure himself why he did so. He had no intention of going with the har – or did he? Instinct guided his feet to the old church. He didn’t question it.

  Velisarius was, as usual, surrounded by other hara listening to him talk. He noticed Jarad in the doorway immediately and came to him, led him back to the porch. He did not appear agitated but Jarad sensed tension in him. ‘When?’ Velisarius asked.

  ‘Tonight,’ Jarad answered. ‘I can tell you no more than that because that’s all I know. But the plot is big. Wraxilan has planned it carefully I imagine.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t think it would be this soon, did you? Are you ready?’

  ‘I’m always ready,’ Velisarius answered. ‘I’m not sure you are, however.’ He looked Jarad in the eye. ‘Find me if you want to. You know the offer is there. I won’t press you more than that. Just think about it carefully. Is Wraxilan’s world the one you want to live in?’

  Jarad glanced away. ‘I doubt I’ll be able to get further word to you. Wraxilan has asked me to stay close. I don’t want to compromise you. As it stands, he might know I’ve come now. Fortunately, you’ve been treating me. I have good reason to visit.’

  Velisarius twisted his mouth into a grim smile. ‘If what you say is true, he no doubt knows you were here earlier too.’

  ‘Come outside,’ Jarad said.

  They went into the street, where there might be harish eyes watching from the rooftops. ‘There is always one good reason,’ Jarad said. He took Velisarius’s face in his hands and kissed him. ‘That should be enough.’

  Velisarius appeared dazed. He hadn’t expected that. ‘Be careful,’ he said, and went back into the church.

  The Animal bar was an area where Wraxilan’s staff tended to congregate for relaxation, close to Wraxilan’s residence. There was a yard out back with benches and tables, dominated and greened with ancient fig trees. Moss grew over the walls and the tiles underfoot. Tame doves roosted among the fig leaves, filling the air with their purring song. The tables were spattered with their droppings. Jarad sat here alone, as he always did when visiting the place. He smoked cigarettes and drank the strong beer brewed on the premises, but not too much. His senses needed to be clear. Around him, conversation and laughter sounded like the cackle of hyenas. But there was no corpse for them to bicker over yet. It was as if he were invisible. Nobody paid him any attention. Perhaps they considered him jinxed.

  Jarad watched the sun sink below the walls of the beer garden. He felt nervous, disorientated. Surely Manticker’s hara must have suspicions of what was planned? He had strong adepts among his crew. Wraxilan was insane. This could not go well. What the fuck am I doing? Jarad wondered. He didn’t feel in control of himself.

  A har came out from the bar and began to light lamps hanging from the trees. Shortly afterwards, a blond-haired har came into the garden and sauntered to where Jarad sat. He loomed over Jarad, helped himself to a cigarette from the packet that lay half empty on the table.

  The har sat down. He looked younger than Jarad, smug with a false certainty he was splendid and superior. Jarad knew the aura well; he despised it.

  ‘We’ll leave here in five minutes,’ the har said. ‘In the meantime, look as if you are interested in my company.’

  Jarad uttered a short, choked laugh. ‘We are not in
a movie,’ he said.

  ‘You sure about that?’ The har flicked back his hair, took a draw on the cigarette.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Can I have some of that beer?’

  Jarad pushed his glass across the table. ‘Polite of you to ask,’ he said.

  The har took a swing. ‘Five minutes: we go.’

  The har offered no name and Jarad did not ask. As twilight came sifting through the streets and the harish quarter came alive, they walked in silence. They were lightly armed, carrying only knives. Before they left the bar, the unnamed har mentioned, in response to a query from Jarad, that heavier arms would not be needed. Jarad voiced no further questions. His feet would lead him to his destiny, whatever that would be, one way or another.

  Manticker’s hara could be heard before they were seen. These were not remotely human noises, nor even animal, but something deeper, wilder, more profane. Jarad’s skin prickled. How could they not know what was coming?

  His companion signalled for them to stop walking, then led them into the shadow of a wall. Ahead, about two hundred yards away, was a hill; any building that had once covered it had been razed. Here a fire was burning; the flames leapt high, playfully, like the tail of a phoenix. Even from this distance, shadowy forms could be discerned moving around the fire. Were they simply celebrating their latest slaughtering foray or was it some kind of ritual taking place up there? Jarad could not tell. He closed his eyes, attempted to extend his senses. As far as he could feel, there were no sentries or lookouts posted. Could Manticker really be so lax about security?

  ‘When the Lion comes, it is safe for us to move closer,’ Jarad’s companion murmured.

  Jarad opened his eyes, nodded. He wanted a cigarette badly, but any har with sharp senses might see the red spark in the darkness. He didn’t want to take the risk and have that baying pack coming down to investigate.

  ‘You can smoke,’ said the har, clearly picking up on Jarad’s desire. ‘They’re out of it, off their faces. They’re not looking for trouble.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate your enemies,’ Jarad replied, but he pulled his cigarettes from his jacket pocket, simply turning his back to light one.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the har asked.

  Jarad didn’t want to say. He shrugged. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Terzian.’ The har suddenly became very still, his posture tense. ‘Wait...’

  Jarad ground out his cigarette quickly.

  ‘They’re coming. Wraxilan is coming.’

  Jarad pulled on Terzian’s arm. ‘Down!’ He peered ahead as they crouched beneath the wall, trying to penetrate the shadows cast by the light of the fire on the hill. ‘What does he want of us? Did he tell you?’

  Terzian shook his head. ‘We wait. We’ll know.’

  ‘Fucking stupid strategy,’ Jarad muttered. ‘They’re as bad as each other.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Terzian replied. ‘But one will win. Who is your money on?’

  Jarad could see Wraxilan’s hara approaching now. He had to admit they were more organised than he’d thought. They were part of the shadows; ghosts gliding through patches of darkness, slinking along the tops of broken walls like cats, looking almost like cats. Unless you knew they were there, you would not notice them.

  ‘How many on the hill, you think?’ Jarad asked.

  Terzian drew in his breath. ‘Manticker’s elite comprise about fifty hara, but he loses some of them regularly. Between thirty-five and fifty, I’d say.’

  ‘Do you sense any sentries?’

  A pause. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s too easy,’ Jarad said.

  ‘There are others like us, pairs of hara closing in,’ Terzian said. ‘We don’t know anything, so Manticker can’t pick up too much from us.’

  ‘Our intention is enough,’ Jarad said dryly.

  The shadows he’d perceived around them were now close to the hill.

  ‘Let’s move forward a short way,’ Jarad said.

  Still crouching down, they edged along the wall, keeping close to it. As they drew nearer to the hill, Jarad could see a tall shape silhouetted against the flames, arms outspread. He paused, gestured for Terzian to do likewise. Sometime in the last few minutes, the power had shifted. Jarad was leader now.

  A tingle went through him. He knew the tall figure was Manticker. What was going through that har’s mind? He had survived countless battles, he had earned his epithet annihilating seventy armed humans in one raging spree, he had always won against desperate odds. Yet now he had let himself become vulnerable. Did he really believe he was so safe, in the heart of this merciless community he had created?

  Jarad was overwhelmed with a feeling of futility. How was Manticker any worse than Wraxilan? None of it meant anything. He should turn now, leave, perhaps even seek out Velisarius and wait for the clamorous psychic cry that would mean either Wraxilan or Manticker was dead. Then he could make decisions.

  But then there was a voice in his mind. Oh, but you cannot go. Not you, Jarad.

  Jarad sucked in his breath; his body jerked.

  ‘What?’ Terzian hissed.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That wasn’t nothing. You whole body just kind of... rippled. What is it?’

  Jarad turned, looked the har in the eye. ‘Well, put it this way. Someone knows we’re here. I got a message.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘That we can’t leave.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of doing that. Tell them.’

  Jarad sighed, suppressed a spasm of irritation.

  The hill was surrounded now by Wraxilan’s hara, and on the summit ahead of them all had become quiet because Manticker’s hara had become aware of the approach. Jarad moved forward again, more quickly.

  He saw Wraxilan step onto the path of flattened dirt that led up the hill. It was flanked by torches. Wraxilan looked confident, commanding, a natural leader. In comparison, Manticker and his troupe stooped above him like addled witch doctors, bewitched by flame.

  Jarad found himself halfway up the hill, Terzian close behind. It was as if they weren’t actually there in body, but merely spirit witnesses.

  Manticker was naked from the waist up, dressed only in some kind of shamanic garb; a kilt of rags, fur and feathers. His hair was a wild, matted tangle, dangling in ropes over his chest and down his back; his face was daubed with chalky lines of paint. The air smelled of blood around him.

  They are the two selves of Wraeththu, Jarad thought. He wondered if some toxic fume from the fire ahead had affected his mind. Manticker was the wild primal feminine, the Dark Mother, crouched in shadows, goddess of entrails. Hers were the secrets of life and death, the essential secrets in the deepest part of every living thing. Wraxilan was the male principle of the sun; open, visible, radiant swaggering. There were no secrets there. If Velisarius were here, he would surely say that this moment was a nexus point and the only way forward was for these two forces to combine, to become bigger than the sum of their parts. But neither Manticker nor Wraxilan would see that. They did not know they were avatars of greater forces.

  Manticker uttered a hiss through his teeth. ‘What is it, cub?’ he asked.

  ‘Time for change,’ Wraxilan said, in a reasonable voice.

  ‘That is every moment of every day,’ Manticker said. ‘You took long enough to get to this moment.’

  ‘Then you are prepared for it to be you and me?’ Wraxilan gestured around him. ‘Leave these hara out of it?’

  Manticker nodded, just once. ‘Why create waste?’ He leapt into the air, spun around, and kicked Wraxilan in the face. Wraxilan fell backwards, but had scrambled away before Manticker could land another blow.

  And so they fought their archetypal battle. Leaping shadows against the flames, a fatal dance. There were no weapons involved other than their own sinew and bone. The hara around them were silent, perhaps not even daring to breathe. First the advantage went one way, then another. It was as if time had stopped, placi
ng them in an arena of no-time.

  Neither can win, Jarad thought. Don’t they know that?

  No, they don’t....

  Jarad shuddered. Was this Velisarius in his mind, or Lianvis? Were they watching from somewhere close? The touch did not feel familiar to him, though. It was distant, cold, a star of thought from some lightless reach.

  There was blood upon the combatants now, claw marks down Wraxilan’s chest, visible where his shirt had been torn away. A cut above Manticker’s eye rained ichor down his face, onto his chest: it had filled his mouth. Maybe they would carry on fighting until they had torn each other utterly to pieces, and then still the battle would continue, in motes of harried air, in leaves and dust and ashes.

  Jarad realised his hand was resting upon the hilt of the knife tucked into his belt. This body wasn’t his. Even this mind wasn’t his. He was riding a vehicle of flesh, an observer.

  Time stopped. Then sped up. Jarad reeled backwards against Terzian. He hadn’t been aware of making any other movement, but heard Terzian breathe ‘What the fuck?’ Terzian’s hands were upon his arms, holding him up, gripping hard. Above them, the fight had paused. Manticker was staring at his belly; a blade was sunk there nearly to the hilt. The pause didn’t last long. Wraxilan roared a lion’s victory cry. And pounced. Gripped the knife, turned it. Turned it and gouged flesh for what seemed an eternity. Then he kicked Manticker away from him.

  For a moment, stillness. And then a cacophony of snarls, shouts, growls. Both troupes of hara bayed at one another, their bodies rising and falling from crouched to upright postures. They looked like apes standing off against each other, rival tribes thrown into confusion because one leader had fallen. Wraxilan stalked around the fire, his arms held high, his head thrown back. Manticker lay on the ground, trying to rise, panting, as his lifeblood pooled about him from the ruin of his guts.

  Wraxilan pointed at Manticker’s hara. ‘Finish it!’ he roared and his own hara leapt forward with whoops and cries. So much for keeping other hara out of it. Manticker’s hara ran and were pursued. Only three remained by their leader, figures cloaked from head to foot, their faces almost invisible but for mouths painted black, and white chins.