Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A.N: To truly understand what's going on, you should be acquainted with Lynex and Althea, my OCs. If you're not, I still hope it's an enjoyable read for you.
A.N#2: Edited and cleaned up 4.12.16
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"I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
―Sylvia Plath, excerpt from Mad Girl's Love Song
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Lonely Divides
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The moment they found the woman, Rangus felt something was wrong.
She had been propped against a low rock, legs stretched out, head lolled back, sitting as if someone had positioned her like that and left. Had it not been for the wandering children, she probably would have remained that way until exposure killed her. Rangus, all curt and authority, kept his tiny tribe of thirty-one souls well away as he and several other hunters approached the prone woman, each armed with a flint spear. But even from a wary distance away, it was clear from her closed eyes and labored breathing she wasn't conscious. She was bleeding from a head wound, her blonde hair tacky and red-stained. Her skin was blistered and peeling from the harsh tundra sun. When Rangus was close enough, he could smell her cooking.
Rangus was not a superstitious man. He had lived long enough to acknowledge the forces of nature as the one true force in the universe, not spiritual nonsense like evil omens. And yet, even before Mema, the head woman, demanded the stranger be cared for, Rangus felt such a prickling sense of foreboding he almost refused the request. Why was she, a woman, alone in the middle of the tundra? Though he had the men search, no track or trace of a mode of transportation could be found. People didn't just randomly pop out of nowhere. It didn't help the fact he couldn't identify her culture through her style of leather dress and pants. Even the way she held her hair was unfamiliar.
The leader within him tightened. More importantly, how did she acquire her wounds? Something had done it to her. What? An animal? The gash on her head looked more of a blow a man would give her, yet why did it look so much like claw marks? And some of her ribs were out of alignment. Something had crushed her. What?
Bah. He was being foolish. She was clearly injured and abandoned and in need of assistance; it would be only human to help. He took one last look at the tundra's empty and yawning horizon, though it did little to soothe him.
"Fine," Rangus had said, acquiescing to Mema's demands. "Take care of her. But fetch me the moment she's awake. I want to talk to her."
That was a week ago.
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This vagueness sharpened into wrongness when the woman regained consciousness. No matter how much she was coaxed to speak, not a word passed her chapped lips. The only noises she made were strange, guttural ones, more like a cat's growl than anything else. Some of the junior women refused to remain near.
"She's a bad omen," one of them said. "I don't like the way she looks at me."
Rangus, although chafing at the word 'omen', had to somewhat agree. Though the wounded stranger couldn't speak, her gray eyes seemed to bore into everything. More than once he had to look away first, unaccustomed to the unblinking stare.
Rangus might've not been a superstitious man, but he knew he would breathe far easier when she'd be gone.
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When an adolescent named Flans went missing, it was almost with weary triumph did Rangus assemble his men in his tent. His second-in-command wasted no time venting his frustration with the renown troublemaker.
"—prehend how can that chêuk could've gotten lost. We're on a tundra, a tundra! That boy's stupidity knows—"
Rangus slid a look through the gap in the canvas and at the women's tent. The woman was there. She sat near the entrance, hunched and favoring her side. Even though she, too, was wearing the traditional headgear and face mask, he could tell it was her. He could recognize all thirty people in the tribe by footstep alone, and this strange, blonde-haired stranger stood out as if she were painted bright, glaring red.
The woman turned her head his way. Gray eyes regarded at him.
"Rangus, are you even listening to me?"
"Of course I am," Rangus said. He looked returning his attention to the circle of men sitting within his tent. They all looked back at him, each with varying degrees of calmness. But he knew better. He could feel it in the prickle under his skin. He could hear it on their compressed lips. Rangus had tried to ignore his gut, tried to ignore the weird sensation of being watched.
"When was the last Flans was seen?" Rangus said.
One of the men, different from the first speaker, raised a hand and made a sweeping movement with it. "A day ago," the man said.
Rangus hid his disappointment and annoyance behind a careful mask. "Why did it take so long to mention Flans' disappearance?"
Several men shifted in their seats. A few didn't want to catch their leader's eye.
"It doesn't matter now," Rangus said, cutting a hand in the air. "What matters now is finding him. Makus, Tenko, take your horses and make a perimeter around this camp. Go as far as ten hnas out. Hatho, take Benus with you and retrace our steps. See if Flans is not back at last night's camp."
Rangus didn't look at anyone as his men filed out.
"Maybe he forgot something," he heard his second-in-command, Henno, said, but Rangus heard the low inflection of pensiveness riding his words. Something's not right.
"For Flans' sake, let's hope so," Rangus said. "But see the sentries are doubled, and no one is to wander out alone. I've a feeling this business won't end soon, nor well."
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The inside of the medical tent was cooler than the outside but still warm enough to make Rangus sweat and huff for breath. He removed his protective headgear with a grunt and a brief shake to free his hair. The tinted goggles came off. The purplish shade the fibrous material of the tent was such a soothing welcome, he allowed himself more than ample time to acclimate his eyes. One could use simple pleasures nowadays.
Though Rangus didn't look around, he could feel the stranger's gaze boring into him. He ignored her, refusing to enter a petty children's contest of stare-a-game. Her culture of origin may've been a mystery to him, but he had a hunch staring was an aggressive act to her people. Was she trying to provoke him, he, the one who issued her rescue?
Some people were so thankless.
The junior women scattered out of Rangus' path as he made his way to Mema's portion of the medical tent, each shooing the other to make room. He paid them no attention. His eyes were on the bundled figure of his head woman. The spicy aroma of dried tundra flowers filled the air when he stopped by her side.
"She's healing well," Mema said, before Rangus could open his mouth. She kept on sorting her mélange of tubers and herbs, not looking at her leader.
"When will she be well enough to manage on her own?" Rangus said.
Mema's hawkish eyes snapped to his. "What do you mean, 'well enough to manage on her own'? You're not suggesting we leave her stranded the moment she's well enough to walk?"
Rangus stiffened, then relaxed. His eyes narrowed. "Why do you think I would do that, Mema?"
"Don't henk with me, Rangus," Mema said. "You're as bad as the girls. You want her gone as soon as possible."
"You're right," Rangus said, keeping his voice low enough for Mema's ears alone. He ignored her snort of incredibility. "But not for the reasons you think. I've just learned Flans have gone missing."
"You think this wounded girl has something to do with it."
"I don't want to cross out any avenues yet. That's all."
Mema's curled her lip but dropped her eyes. "Flans is a neunk. He's been involved with more pranks than all the children put together." Her eyes locked on his again. "Why are you casting suspicion on a hurt girl?"
"I don't know," Rangus said, and hated the fact he had nothing: no evidence, no proof, no verification. Only a gut feeling backed his statements. "But something's telling me she's somehow tied to this. She's different."
"She's human, Rangus. I've examined her."
Rangus said nothing and looked over his shoulder. The stranger was now gazing out through the tent's flap, appearing as if to ignore everything around her. He watched her for a moment, noticing she did nothing when men trudged by but seemed to stiffen whenever a woman came near. Rangus' eyes thinned. He turned back to his head woman and said,
"Keep me updated on her healing. And I want to know the moment she speaks Common Tongue. Don't think I—"
"Rangus!"
Both Rangus and Mema turned to see one of the searchers—Hatho—stagger into the tent. The man's face was sallow and lips ashen, and when Rangus went to the young man's side, he could smell the sour stink of vomit.
"Rangus," Hatho said, "we found Flans."
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Hatho refused to elaborate on Flans' state of discovery, shaking his head and keeping himself huddled in his saddle as they galloped. Rangus all but gave up on Hatho in vexation, annoyed he couldn't get an answer from the normally stouthearted man. He himself hoped for the best. Maybe Flans had lost his protective headgear and had developed horrible sunburns, that's all, not much harm, all's well. But when his horse began to shy and sidle beneath him, its eyes rolling white the closer they came to the small circle of men, Rangus knew to assume the worse. He felt his expression harden.
An aura of cold horror and surrealism greeted Rangus as he walked up to the searchers. No one spoke as he went by. The hotshot Tenko had his head between his knees, dry-retching from time to time. Rangus passed by him without words of encouragement or comfort, making his way to were Henno stood over a mound of what looked like old clothes.
As Rangus neared, he realized it wasn't clothes he was looking at, but the remains of the boy's corpse.
For a moment, he could only stare. Flans stared back, face twisted in one of freeze-dried agony, hands forever curled into tented claws. Poor veksh, poor fool.
Rangus knew of only one creature capable of this act, a creature whom he had spent his childhood fearing, his adolescence hating, his adulthood evading: The Wraith, the very creatures which bested the Ancients in the wars of old. Feasters of humans, monsters of deception. 'For it's the monster's dark nature which compels it to feed and feed alone,' Rangus thought for no particular reason.
A queer sensation tightened in his chest as he rose from his half-crouch above Flans' remains. He refused to look away from the corpse. He had seen deaths like these only a handful of times before, enough for him to compose himself. He could smell Flans cooking in the searing tundra sun through his face mask, salty and dry.
"Found him like this," Henno said, headgear hiding his expression but not his grim tone. "Only one set of tracks leading to and away. Medium length, traveling light and fast. Shoeprints like ours."
"Only one?" Rangus said, morbid hope rising.
"Yes. Rangus, we have to warn the others—have to get to safety, have to—"
"We need to find it."
Henno balked. "Find it? Then what, attack it with spears and stones? Are you khovk—mad?"
Rangus resisted the urge to reply in kind. "I'm not talking about going out and killing it, Henno. With the beast stalking us at will, we're at the disadvantage. If we can track it and keep it within our sights, there would be no way it could make off with one of our number whenever its choosing. No. We do what we've always done: we run. We're still a good fortnight away from the Ring, so until we can leave this world, spread the word for a quick march. But don't tell them about the creature," he said. "We don't want to cause panic."
"But one look at Flans and they'll know the truth," Henno said.
"We bury him here," Rangus said, looking back down at Flans. "We tell our family only that. Let him remain with his dignity, so help us all."
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The scorching orb of the sun was well on its way towards the horizon when the men returned to the camp, each hunched in their saddle and unable to look at each other. Tenko's hands wouldn't stop shaking. Twice Henno snapped at Benus to stop 'that damned noise' until Rangus told Henno to leave him alone. Stricken and subdued, the troop had barely any time to brace themselves when Flans' mother demanded news of her son. Only Rangus took off his goggles and face mask to meet her eyes. One look at her leader's solemn expression, and she exploded into furious tears. Those surrounding her were beginning to converge on her with murmurs of solace when:
"Hey, look there. What's that?"
Rangus, along with everyone else, turned towards the direction someone pointed to. Somewhere in the background, the crying mother fell mute.
For a one clear, hysterical moment, Rangus thought it was Flans returning from his grave, alive as if everything had been one colossal prank and was ready to have his laugh. But then Rangus caught a glimpse of salt-white hair, and his heart fell still and stupid.
Ancestors help us, he thought, flesh cold. Sweat trickled down his spine. We led it straight to us.
All around the crowd began to mass together, muttering. Some had taken off their headgears and goggles to get a better look. Then Tenko sobbed,
"It's the Wraith! It's the Wraith! Oh, gods, it's going to kill us! Everybody, run! Run!"
It was wildfire spreading across a prairie. Several began shriek and grasp on their neighbors. One woman began to hyperventilate. Those forming the outskirts began to run towards the tents, stumbling on their own footwear. Rangus cursed beneath his breath and threw himself in front of the dissolving crowd.
"HOLD!" he said. "Do not run! Do not scatter! If you do that, it will pick us off! Hold!"
Little by little, the tribe began to calm its frenzy. But only just; Rangus saw in the pale, wide-eyed expressions reason would last only for so long. The restless desire to flee was a contagious virus, and soon even Rangus himself was thinking about leaping onto the closest horse and galloping to safety. He pulled in a stabilizing breath, his heartbeat hard against his chest. He had to move swiftly; though few of his clan had witnessed an actual culling, the stories of horror and fear were more than real enough.
"Henno!" Rangus said.
The man in question shouldered his way through the throng. "Here, Rangus."
Rangus once again thanked his second's swiftness. "Prepare the camp. We march the fastest pace we can. I want us as far away from the creature as possible."
"You have it," Henno said, once to his leader, before turning around and expelling a roar of orders. Routine trumped adrenaline; people moved into age-old tasks with breakneck pace. Tents went down. Hides were rolled. Horses and travois were packed. Rangus stood still as his world whirled about him, the noises in his ears strangely nondescript and dim. All what he could hear was the breathing of a creature more than a mile out.
Flans' killer stood in the distance, a black silhouette against the backdrop of the flame-red sky. It stood still, tall and alone and haughty and terrible. Again, the queer sensation rose to Rangus' chest as the thought came to him the Wraith actually wanted to be noticed. Depraved psychopaths. Had those monsters no shame? To sow fear and pain and anguish, for what? To live themselves? Wraith knew no respect. There was only evil in their black hearts. Only hatred for life, contempt for their prey.
It was this in mind when Rangus questioned the Wraith's desire for acknowledgement. Why would throw away its advantage of surprise? Now the tribe knew where it was. Now the clan could stay one step out of the Wraith's reach, prepared in this deadly game of keep-away. Or did it want to relish in the tribe's terror and make the deadly game all the more enjoyable?
Rangus imagined he could stare straight into the ugly, putrid yellow-green eyes of the killer, but for all his imagining, could not for the life of him discern the creature's motives.
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Adrenaline gave wings to feet and the tribe flew across the tundra like a spooked herd of horses. All night the tribe fled, neither stopping or resting. Rangus kept himself and any able-bodied person in a protective circle around the too weak or too young. Headlamps pierced the darkness, the dim beams of light erratic in the shaking hands of the impressionable youth.
Dawn's coming was blood-red and tepid. Groans of despair filled the air as the tribe learned the Wraith had ran unceasingly throughout the night and was still trailing their heels like a wolf. Rangus let his tribe a brief rest in a tiny valley while he stood upon one of the surrounding dunes, eyes burning with exhaustion but refusing to give in to sleep. A quarter of a mile out was the Wraith. The creature had slowed its pace but was still advancing, loping more than walking. Though the nights on the tundra only lasted eight hours, Rangus knew his people would be hard-pressed to maintain another full nineteen-hour day of the same punishing pace.
The Wraith catching up.
So deep in morose thoughts was Rangus he almost started when he realized the strange woman was standing besides him.
In all the excitement, Rangus had completely forgotten about the stranger they had found wounded on the tundra. She stood next to him it was as if he wasn't there, ignoring him completely, gray eyes on the dark figure in the distance alone. It was still early and cool enough for her to go without the face mask and goggles. For the second time since he had found her, Rangus saw the woman uncovered. By his tribe's standards she was hardly attractive; her skin was too pale and her hair too blonde. Her sea-gray eyes were unfamiliar and her delicate facial structure offered none of the robustness the men of the tribe oft desired in their partners. And the lack of proper speech also deterring. Who was she, this strange woman, whose people were a mystery?
And why, sweet ancestors above, was she walking towards the Wraith?
Rangus, in stupefied surprise, allowed the woman to hobble two more steps towards the approaching monster before leaping into action. Her strength astonished him as she fought back, struggling against his vice-like grip.
"Stop it," he said over her snarl-like noises, "control yourself! What are you—enough—Mema! You there, fetch Mema!" he said to the group of men drawn to the commotion. Two left and soon returned with the head woman. Mema took one look at the snarling form of the woman and said,
"Restrain her before she undoes her bandages! Quick! Somebody, get me sedatives!"
Rangus gave the kicking, biting, lurching woman to the handful of men and women. A few moments later, the snarling subdued to low moans.
"Had she gone khovk—mad?" Henno said when he made it to Rangus' side. There were dark circles under his eyes.
"Wouldn't surprise me," Rangus said, wincing as a wave of sunlight made it past the clouds and began to bake the air. He and Henno took a moment to put on their protective goggles and face masks and when the garments were in place, Rangus said, "She started walking towards the Wraith! What was I to do, let her go? I restrained her and she became khovknu, without reason."
"Sweet gods," Henno said, hand over mouth. Everything was moving too fast. People were going crazy. First a strange woman's discovery, then a young boy's death, now a stalking Wraith? The two men were now close enough to see the Wraith had something like a cloth wrapped around his lower face, a mockery of their face masks. Though still a ways off, they could see dark holes where its eyes were. Chills gripped Rangus' heart at the sight of their unnatural predator, this abomination of insect and man.
"We need distance," Rangus said. "Henno, get the clan moving again."
"Rangus, we can't keep this up. The people are exhausted, and the horses—"
"Have them sleep in shifts, three hour rotations," Rangus said. "As for the animals, lighten the load of some and let them rest. I will not have another person die under my protection."
He took a step closer to Henno, his words for him alone.
"Wraith need to feed. All we need to do is stay out of its reach and it'll starve. We reach the Ring and it'll be over. It's less than a fortnight away. We can do this, Henno. All we need to do is outpace the beast."
The Wraith was five hundred feet away. They could hear its feet crunching the dry tundra grass. Rangus felt his skin prickle with cold sweat.
Four hundred fifty feet. Four twenty. Four hundred.
"Get everyone moving but tether my horse," Rangus said. "I'll send the dogs!"
Henno was already half-way down the dune, crying orders to march and march hard when Rangus whistled over the din of the trampling feet and whinnying horses.
The Wraith paused, its head high and tense as it saw six salt-white shapes hurtle towards it. Rangus watched with burning eyes as the Wraith dispatched the first dog as if it were a fly, swatting the dog's length. The dog squealed once before crashing to the ground. A sickening crack of ribs later, the body went still. The other dogs formed a ring, barking wildly, foam flying from open mouths. The Wraith snarled alongside them, tearing its face-covering off to leer at its assailants.
Rangus looked over his shoulder and saw his tribe were hurrying out of sight, heading for the stone Ring not two weeks' journey away. The distraction was working. For one dizzying moment, Rangus allowed himself to hope. His entire spirit swelled with the overwhelming drive to live.
We will survive this. We will win.
Two more dogs died from split skulls before Rangus had judged enough time had passed for his tribe to have the advantage. The tundra dogs, like their wild counterparts, were used to hounding creatures much bigger and stronger than themselves, and this new, strange-smelling prey was no exception. Even as their master turned and left on horseback, they continued to harass and press. It was only until all six of the brutes were gasping their final breaths in the baking tundra heat did the Wraith finally get the chance to raise its head, and only then realize it was alone.
With slow movements, belaying the already-healing dog bites, the Wraith bent down and retrieved its fallen cloth. It tied the scratchy fabric across its lower face and, without one last look at the six carcasses on the ground, continued on its hunt.
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It became a pattern.
The tribe would run until the Wraith became too close. A few dogs were sent and distracted the monster. By the time the beast was finished killing the dogs, the tribe again would be a safe distance away.
The harrying pace was not without its tolls: with the number of dogs decreasing, more people had to carry the heavy travois. The opportunities to hunt were far and few between. The food storages were slipping. People slept in shifts but none felt rested; tempers were short and speech snappy. After a few days, a kind of dogged, eye-on-the-ground mentality developed, and everything fell into a grueling rhythm. Rangus had to restrict the number of dogs unleashed each time, unsure what to do when all the dogs were gone. But he, to his word, would not allow one more person to die. The strong carried the weak, and when the strong became the weak, others carried them.
After her outburst, the strange woman was kept under close watch to the best of the weary tribe's ability. Few could spare their eyes, but those who did found her often looking over her shoulder at the trailing Wraith. Rangus was one of them. He found the unnatural fascination disturbing, and could not for the life of him understand where the attraction stemmed from. Did she want to die in the cruelest way possible? To become nothing more than a momentary burst of strength to a creature older and more malevolent than all others?
Rangus had heard of people who turned against their own kind: Wraith worshippers, people willing to sell their soul for momentary safety. Turncoats. Traitors. As far as Rangus was concerned, those humans were dead already. But as he observed the strange, mute woman, something in his gut could not help but think she was not one of them.
If not a worshipper, then, what was she?
Rangus brooded.
With everyone needing to pull their own weight, Rangus had no other choice but have the blonde-haired woman help with the carrying. Inadvertently, this allowed her freedom to move around. After two more failed attempts, the woman made no more effort to reach the Wraith. Rangus was still suspicious, and even presented her openings in which she could dart through the ranks and run free to the Wraith. But she ignored all the lures. She continued to march with the tribe, suffering the light burdens without complaint.
It wasn't long before Rangus overheard one or two mutter it was the stranger's fault for Flans' death and for the Wraith's appearance. One of them mentioned giving the woman to the Wraith, if she wanted it so badly. Rangus could not help but recall his own callous words to Mema and realized what a fool he had been. He had sworn all of them, even this foreign woman, would survive. He'd be no better than the Wraith if he turned her over to the killer. No better than the worshippers.
If the woman heard any of the mutterings, she made no mention of it, her silence haughty.
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The day came when the tribe ran out of dogs.
Rangus had no choice but watch on as he unleashed the last one. The dog raced to where the Wraith braced itself, barking and baying as loud as it could. The Wraith spat and hissed, making long sweeps and passes with its splayed hands. The dog leapt and dodged the strikes, roaring its aggression.
Rangus looked over his shoulder; his tribe knew the drill well and was already picking up the pace to regain distance. In the beginning, those closest to the dogs cried at the loss of such fine hunting companions. Now, all were dry-eyed. The only thing people could do was attach little ornaments of thanks and paint symbols of strength and luck on the dogs' salt-white fur. Now there was only one dog left. It was as good as dead.
Rangus' eyes tightened. They were still six long days away from the Ring.
A high-pitched squeal of agony announced the dog had been hit. Rangus turned his head in time to see the dog crash to the ground, limbs flailing yet unable to get up. It snarled its pain, unwilling to give up. It was still snapping its foaming jaws when the Wraith reached down and crushed the dog's skull. Rangus stiffened, suddenly aware he was alone with his predator. And yet his feet were unwilling to move, unwilling to bring him to his horse and away to safety. He should be going. He should be leaving. A cold sweat broke across his skin.
Why can't I move?
Rangus, in a hysterical moment of clarity, noticed the Wraith had not stood up from its half-bent position over the dog. His eyes wandered down the Wraith's arm and saw it bleeding from a long gash. He could only stare at the blacker-than-red liquid, as if unable to understand its implications.
Then he did.
A trill of vicious triumph rippled through him as he glared at the still-bleeding figure. Then the two met eyes: the Wraith's green-almost-black, the man's mud brown. Rangus almost staggered under the impact of the black eyes, his heart locking. The Wraith's face mask had been removed and now the man had an almost perfect view of the predator. It was everything the stories promised: the dark, greenish skin, the bony eye-ridges, the twin cheek slits, the black leather, the salt-white hair. With almost sluggish absurdity, Rangus realized the Wraith was sporting a set of elegant mustachios on its chin.
Mustachios. Rangus felt frantic giggles threaten to escape.
It was as if a veil had been lifted. What had been flawless green skin was now sunburned and peeling. The pristine white hair was tangled and dirty. The dark leather—wait, where have I seen that before?—was travel-stained and ripped from previous dog bites. This Wraith, as terrifying and as deadly as it was up-close, was not one of the horror stories. It was tired, it was wounded, and it was slowing.
But it was still glaring at him.
Rangus came to himself in a start. Sensation returned to the world and Rangus became aware of the cold sweat on his face, of his chilled hands and unsteady breathing. He took a step back as the Wraith drew itself to its impressive height. When the Wraith spoke, Rangus was such in shock he didn't understand what it said. The monster repeated itself, leering.
"You have something of mine," the Wraith said. The voice itself was rasping, harsh, multi-toned. Rangus felt his bladder go. "I want it back."
Rangus could only think of one response: "What?"
Faster than his eye could track, the Wraith leapt at him and with a stunning blow, knocked Rangus to the ground.
"The woman! Give her back, you sniveling maggot!" the Wraith said, dead eyes glittering as it stomped to where Rangus lay winded on the ground.
'The woman'? Rangus thought, body sluggish in terror yet mind curiously relaxed, as if contemplating the weather and not about the approaching death. There are many women in the tribe. Which one did it want? Could it want a sacrifice? But why would it want a sacrifice? Which woman, which woman?
"Which woman?" he said, but even as he did, he knew the answer.
The Wraith didn't get a chance to reply as suddenly the air was filled with whooping cries. Henno and two others galloped over the dune, brandishing flint Wraith hastily withdrew from Rangus to deal with the new threats, snarling as terribly as it could. The horses whinnied and shied, eyes rolling at the scent of so much death on the beast's skin.
"Rangus!" It was Henno. "Are you hurt?"
"No," Rangus said, standing up. He was astonished nothing was broken. He could have sworn both his legs snapped. He looked to where the three men circled the Wraith, as close as their skittish horses allowed. One man stabbed with his spear. The Wraith ducked and struck back, roaring, mouth gaping with, eyes slitted with a hatred so poisonous Rangus was surprised the man didn't fall dead where he sat. It whirled and whirled, its leather trench coat billowing as it tried to guard all of its sides, hunching its shoulders as if to present a smaller target.
Rangus ran to where his horse had been tethered and swung up. He kicked his mare into a canter and said to the men,
"Get out of here," he said, "back to the tribe!"
"Why?" Henno said over the snarling Wraith and whinnying horses. "We can kill it—"
"NOW!" Rangus all but roared. With one last parting look of revulsion and hatred at the Wraith, the men wheeled their horses and galloped away. The horses needed little urging and Rangus found himself flying harder and faster than he had in many, many years. He hugged closer to his horse, kicking it to greater speeds. The wind howled through his face mask. His inner pants began to itch from where he had wet himself. His ribs throbbed in a resounding ache. He was a man of the tundra: death was just a part of existence as life was. He knew how close to death he had gotten. It wasn't supposed to disturb him. And yet the couldn't stop himself from whipping his horse to go faster, harder, swifter, until he only became aware of his thundering heartbeat, desperate to regain the part of himself he had lost.
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With no more dogs to act as distractions, Rangus had no choice but watch as the Wraith gained on the tribe little by little each day. And yet, just as he feared the monster would break into a run and attempt to feed on whoever it could, the Wraith came within hundreds of feet of the nomads and maintained the distance. At first, men and some women took turns riding out and attempting to drive it off. The Wraith spat and snarled them at bay. People shuddered at the bestial sounds. Although the mute woman made no attempt to reach the predator, she growled under her breath.
Rangus quickly put an end to the bravado.
"Don't give it chances to catch you," he had said, face severe. He had forced each hot-blooded person with heroic ideas to look into his eyes. "If you're stupid and it eats you, the Wraith will come back stronger than before, then all of us will die. Do you want that? Do you?"
They had all answered no. Some might've not cared if they'd died, but the risk of others dying for their mistake was enough to calm their heads.
The tribe was still five days out from the ring when Rangus could see both parties flagging. There was so much each person could take, after all. At first, Rangus was sure this was when the bloodbath commenced. He prepared any able-bodied person for a attack, but deep in his heart knew they were no match for even a weakened Wraith. If the monster chose to, it could slaughter them all. And yet, as the hours went on, Rangus noticed the Wraith no longer walked with an arrogant lope but with a grim stride, seeming as hounded and weary as the tribe. It made sense: it couldn't sleep in cycles as the tribe could. It didn't have comrades to carry it when it felt weak. Rangus was confident whatever unholy life force sustaining it was diminishing as well. But something was keeping it going. Something was keeping it tethered to this humble nomadic band.
You have something of mine. I want it back.
Rangus frowned, mind troubled. He searched his little tribe with his eyes until he saw the unfamiliar gait of the strange woman. She had been wearing leathers when she had been found, the same sort as the Wraith.
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Rangus had waited two more days—fifty-four hours—before deciding enough was enough. He was exhausted. Deep, profoundly bone-tired. As leader, he slept least of all, always on guard and wary of the trailing Wraith. What little sleep he caught was useless. The moment his eyes closed he saw Flans. He missed the cheerful prankster, even if Flans had caused him quite a few gray hairs. The destruction of the dogs was also a heavy burden, for he had raised most from pups. He prided himself as a good leader, able to bring his family to safety. But in truth, he didn't know how much longer he could maintain the remarkable luck. As it was, he could feel the Wraith's dark green-black eyes boring into him whenever Rangus looked over his shoulder. It was waiting for an answer. It was waiting for the thing it wanted.
The woman said nothing as Rangus sat across from her. They sat far away enough from each other that if they both reached, they wouldn't touch. Rangus had ordered a tent constructed for the sole purpose of the meeting, despite the shock of stopping with the Wraith so close. The outside world was dim and muted, unimportant while inside of the tent was charged and tense. He could hear her quiet breathing. Every soft brush of cloth was a crack of a whip. The purplish fibers flushed bright from the late afternoon sun, dying the air mauve. The woman removed the headgear and face mask. Rangus mimicked the movement, albeit more slowly.
The woman stared at him, face unreadable.
"The Wraith spoke to me," Rangus said.
The gray eyes remained unblinking but sharpened and began to glitter. Rangus sat back a little. Aha, so she can understand Common, he thought, though was quick to mask his self-satisfaction.
"It said, 'You have something of mine. I want it back.' Do you know what it means?"
At first, the woman made no move nor appeared ready to speak. Just when Rangus began to lose hope, the woman bobbed her head hesitantly.
Rangus leaned forward, heart in his temples. "It wants you. You understand this?"
Again, the slow nod.
"It'll kill you if you go to it."
The eyes darkened. She shook her head. Rangus once again leaned back, at a loss in the face of such absurdity. No, insanity. Humans were nothing but fuel to Wraith. What was her bond to it? His eyes became shrewd.
"How did you get your wounds?" he said, switching tactics. "Did it give them to you? Did you say or do something you weren't supposed to do and was punished? Are you a slave? A servant? A—a worshipper?"
The was no answer, spoken or otherwise. The woman looked blankly on. Rangus wondered if he had struck a nerve. Why else would she pretend not to hear him?
He tried one more time, struggling to control his mounting frustration. Try as he might, it was difficult to quash his growing revulsion of someone sympathetic to a monster. If she wanted to die so badly, why not let her? She was not part of his tribe. He should focus on saving his family, not on some badly-disillusioned girl. "So you'd be willing, without qualm, to go to the Wraith, despite all the humans it's killed. And let me assure you, it has killed. It's last victim was a boy no older than fifteen summers. Fifteen, hardly worth calling a man."
Whether it was the harshness of his words, or the volume of his tone, the woman thinned her lips and, for perhaps the first time Rangus had seen, looked down and away first. Rangus forced himself to remember where he was and who he was talking to. The woman was young, perhaps no more than mid-twenties. He forced himself to calm down and said, with far more gentleness,
"Please, I don't want anyone else to die needlessly. Let us help you. You needn't be afraid. If you're being hunted, we could—"
The woman kept shaking her head until Rangus slowed to a stop. Though still not meeting his eye, it was clear she was adamant she wasn't under duress.
Rangus sat back for a third and final time, at a crossroads. He stared at her. Could he do this? Could he willfully let this woman go to the Wraith? He knew she would—she'd demonstrated that before. Was it to be one life in exchange for thirty? If any of his tribe knew she was somehow consorting . . . somehow worshipping . . . the Wraith, they would kill her. Murder her right then and there out of pure spite. If they did, no doubt the Wraith would unleash hell upon them, something Rangus' moral soul could not allow. The lives of many outweighed a single lost one.
"Is this what you want?" Rangus said slowly. "What you truly, truly want?"
Again, the nod, the glitter-in-eyes, though it was more subdued now. Rangus stared at her hard, as if he could break past her muteness to comprehend the unspoken question hanging on the edge of his lips.
Why.
Why, why, why?
Then again, would he want to hear the answer?
Feeling the residual chill of helping someone commit suicide, Rangus said at last, "You will do nothing until I say otherwise, but . . . I will allow it."
The woman's perverted look of genuine relief made him want to scrub his skin raw.
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Rangus stood stiff and tense, eyes latched onto the standing form of the Wraith. At his side stood the woman. He could feel her shaking besides him, though from terror or anticipation, he couldn't discern. Her breaths were rapid and light beneath the face mask. She, too, was staring in the direction of the Wraith. Behind them, the tribe continue on, unnaturally silent and somber as they trudged away. Rangus tried not to remember how little they had resisted, how they all shared a breath of relief. He himself felt in the eye of the storm, cold and still while the rest of the world was hot and loud. Even if this strange, mute woman wanted to die, he tried not to think about what he was about to do. It meant little that Mema equipped the woman with a water bladder and some food. They were all empty gestures.
The Wraith stood still from one hundred feet away, as if waiting for some sort of signal. Its hands were clenching and unclenching, the clawed fingers unfurling slowly like some deadly flower before furling again. Its black-green eyes glittered as they peered beneath their bony eye-ridges. They were latched unblinking onto the woman.
The woman's shuddering increased.
Rangus raised his chin and said, words loud and slow, "How do I know if I give her, you'll leave my tribe alone?"
The eyes snapped to him and Rangus was immersed in a terrible, soul-numbing chill. He struggled to maintain eye-contact.
"Your pitiful flock is worthless," the Wraith said. It took a deliberate step forward. "Give me the woman."
"Your word. I want your word."
"I reach the end of my patience. Give her to me!"
Rangus tightened his hold on the woman's shoulder until he could feel her clavicle buckle. She backed up with a low grunt, small hands scrabbling against the vice-like grip. The Wraith respond with whipcord energy, its facecloth ripped aside to show a terrible snarl on its face. It bared its teeth like an animal, eyes slitted in hatred.
"Give me your word!" Rangus said.
"Here's my word!" the Wraith said, and with a stunning display of inhuman agility and power, leapt at Rangus and rammed his fist in his solar plexus. Rangus experienced a moment of weightlessness before slamming on the ground. Dust kicked up, gritty and sweet. His chest heaved, struggling to regain his wind. He barely had enough time to gasp twice when something blotted out the sun. He looked up. He could see nothing but the Wraith's face, livid and snarling. It was more terrible close up. In the following moments of slow-motion lucidity, Rangus realized the dry, cobwebby aroma he was smelling was the Wraith's musk. The Wraith's breath—who knew it was cold?—fanned his cheek. Its pupils were slit like a cat's, swollen in aggression. With almost hysterical clearness, Rangus realized he had never seen a Wraith with such a dark eye-colour. He was so close he could see the veins in the irises.
He saw the Wraith raise a hand and bring it down. Rangus could only watch.
The open palm hovered a hairsbreadth above Rangus' heaving chest, a minute trembling to the fingers. For a moment, the man could only watch in open astonishment, unable to comprehend why the Wraith would stop. It was then he heard the high chattering growls in the background. Persistent. Demanding. The growls increased in pitch when the Wraith touched his palm to his chest. Rangus himself could do nothing to stop the monster. He was hovering above his body, weightless in the surrealism of the moment. It was only when the Wraith responded over his shoulder in the same harsh, guttural noise did his incredibleness bring him, jarring, back to reality.
The woman spoke to the Wraith and it had understood her.
Rangus was still attempting to wrap his mind around all the implications when the Wraith and woman apparently reached a consensus. The creatures refocused its attention on him and said,
"Crawl, maggot."
Without another word or look back, the Wraith stood up and stalked away. Within moments, sound returned to the world. The sun reappeared, along with heat and light. Life. It didn't take more than a minute for Rangus to control his nausea and stagger back to his feet. His hand found the dagger on his hip but even as he tugged it free, he knew he was no longer the object of attention. The Wraith slowed at last to a stop in front of the woman, expression hidden from Rangus. The woman's wasn't. He could see her chin was tipped to the predator, eyes steady and gray despite the pulse visibly throbbing at her throat. The Wraith was close enough to kill. It raised the same hand with the feeding slit towards the woman and for one, terrible moment, ran its claws through her hair.
No.
Rangus jerked around and on brittle legs lurched to where his horse waited for him. He didn't stay to see the rest of the reunion. His numb hands fumbled with the leather and buckles, mind refusing to stop whirling with what he had seen. He was a lowly chieftain, in charge of an unknown, unnamed nomadic tribe. Nobody special. Nobody important. His own life would be forgotten in twenty years. And yet he knew he had witnessed an abomination of nature. Behind him was everything against the natural forces of nature. He leapt astride the saddle and kicked the horse into a gallop. He didn't have to look over his shoulder to know he wouldn't be followed.
He had once wondered 'why,' but now he knew such questions would lead to dangerous answers, answers he wasn't ready nor willing to face. The tribe was spared. He was spared. Should he want to know more? He should lick his wounds, count his blessings, and consider himself and his family lucky for escaping so unscathed.
Because the truth was, he didn't want to know why a Wraith would ever love a human.
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-fin-