The Truth of Things Unseen

Tap Tap

The Sintarael writhed beneath her. Taliette gripped the neck, using her arms and thighs to keep from being thrown. The skin was warm and hard, but not a metal hardness. It was like a mousehole, like a folded piece of weave, but hard and with a reddish colour. The colour swam beneath the surface as though she were seeing through to somewhere else. She tried to press her finger into it, but she could not. The layers of it folded over one another and slid beneath each other as it moved.

Felling it had been the most ridiculous luck. A bee had flown up and spoiled her aim, and the tip of her arrow had somehow become lodged in the knee joint. It had made such a noise when it went down. She supposed it was not used to being knocked over.

The Aden girl had come rushing out of the house as it fell, had slipped between its legs. The Aden had all seen her, being the hero, running up its back, shooting arrows at it at point-blank range. The fool boy Llandred had grinned at her, actually grinned.

"Maybe stab it with something?" whispered her heart.

She gripped an arrow in her fist and tried to work the tip into the joint at the back of the neck. It wasn't really going in very well. She needed something heavy, like a mallet or a rock to bash it. The massive thing was thrashing from side to side, trying to stand up, screaming like a woman, and she rode it like a wild horse, gripping with her knees, expecting every moment to be thrown and smashed against the wall, or mashed beneath a giant fist.

She kept working with the arrow point. If she could stab it hard enough, surely it would die. Everything died if you stabbed it hard enough.

To her left, the wall of the Caer Llandrell was a messy ruin. Great scratches ran the length and breadth of it. Rubbish and mattresses and dirty curtains spilt out of the holes. The sky turned above her as the creature bucked and rolled, its knee locked with the little fragment of metal.

She held tight as it struggled onto its hands and knees, fussing and crying and crawling like a baby. It was making such a noise about a spike in its knee, it was embarrassing. The arrow point in her fist wasn’t going into the neck at all. She wasn’t sure it had even noticed her there trying to stab it.

To her right, Llandred was running towards the ship with Fen in his arms, so that was something at least. Fen was staring back at her, wide-eyed. Gintas would be pleased.

The monster tried to stand, and she gripped tight. The little point in its knee locked, and it fell again in a messy pile, screaming and wailing.

And then it stopped. And there was silence. The arrow in her fist suddenly seemed ridiculously small. It brought its knee up to its chin and, with careful fingers, tugged her little arrow point free.

Fuck, it was time to go.

“Time to go,” whispered her heart.

Time to go, time to go. She pattered down the length of its back and leapt into the long grass.

“Time to go now, please.” A shadow fell over her. The Sintarael was standing, watching her run, no longer wild. There were bodies here. She leapt over a Laxxness man with her arrows in him, scurried between the two dead men who had guarded Fen, slipped a little in some blood.

She turned to look back. The creature was watching her, tall and poised, burnished red in the evening sunshine, back arched, legs curved into dagger points, arms and long hands relaxed by its sides.

And she was falling.

She hit the ground with a crunch that knocked the wind out of her. Her legs were tangled up in something. It took her a moment to realise what it was. Pig. Big round Pig, with her arrows sticking out of his chest and face. She tried to push herself up but she couldn’t draw a breath. There was no strength in her arms. One of her arrows was tangled in her trousers. Her bow was digging into her shoulders and her bottom. Her foot was caught in the string. She dragged herself forward through the grass, feeling the icy gaze itching between her shoulder blades.

Fuck, fuck. She pulled herself through the grass. Why wasn’t it coming to get her? What was it waiting for?

Fuck. She rolled over and pulled out an arrow, one of her last. She drew and sent it high. It sailed up and bounced off the armoured head. The creature didn’t even flinch. Didn't even blink.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, she staggered to her feet and ran, weaving across the grass, zigzagging from side to side. Still, it wasn’t chasing her.

She was a mouse, a little mouse beneath the gaze of a cat, and any moment, a paw would knock her this way or that, a little tug or a snip, a little piece broken off, and she would be crawling on stumps, bleeding out winding trails in the grass. There was no rush. It would be on her in a single bound.

She glanced over her shoulder again. She could see it crouching, gathering for the spring. Knees bent, elbows tucked, the little head perfectly still, the eyes intent on her, curious.

Tap tap.

A slight change in the world, as though the wind had been pulled back the other way, as though someone drew a patchwork blanket across her face, and when she could see again, the Caer Llandrell was falling.

The great castle wall, rent with scratches and holes, leant and folded in half, the stones thundering into the lawn, the tower toppling like a mast, and the Sintarael somewhere beneath it, struggling and churning beneath falling rocks that smashed and thundered over and over into a heap, dust rising in a cloud, filling the garden, crunching in her mouth.

But when the stones had settled, the mound was not still. It moved, and through the fog of dust and sand she saw the stones begin to rattle. An armoured fist pushed its way free.

"It's not dead yet," whispered her heart.

Fuck, and she was running again. Stupid Gintas. She could see Llan between the trees, sprinting towards the ship, and there was Fen with her arms and legs wrapped full around him, face buried in his neck.

The dust swirled. Her eyes were streaming. The fallen stones were sliding and tumbling behind her as the Sintarael dug itself free, the ship was black and gold between the trees. The mooring lines were taut.

And there was the Lady Llaneth, standing proud before the ship, beckoning to her, but behind her was a dark-haired girl. Jessamy, knife in hand.

A crashing in the trees off to the right, something large moving there too.

“Look out Llan!” She yelled, but it was too late.

Barrelling out of the woods, towards him and Fen, massive and snarling, was Hewitt.

Fen spilt out of Llan’s arms and tumbled into the long grass. Llan went down under the weight and fury of Hewitt, the big man pummelling Llan with hairy arms. Fists like sacks of rocks.

On the ship, Jessamy cinched her dagger tight to Llaneth’s throat.

“Are these what you came for?” She screamed. “These filthy fucking Aden? I'm going to take everything from you. Everything.”

“Stop her talking,” whispered her heart. "Do not let her say a word."