This re-written bit in the forest tries to deal with Grimbear/ Nik's point about the Commander, so this version involves a lot more dashing around in order to get the Commander into a position where the Triangle can get him...
The alternative to this re-write, of course, would just be a sentence saying something like "The Commander was a total nutcase who insisted on riding out at the front...", but anyway. Just to be clear, I haven't digested all the other comments fully, this isn't a final version but a first draft of an alternative section. I hope that's OK.
I haven't started from the beginning.You'd need to read the post Hidden Triangles to get all the background. This chunk is just over 1,100 words.
Out to the right, Ferrin Dar the scout keeps pace with us in the shadows. I can only see her because I know she’s there. It’s the flash of her face, turning to some signal I cannot hear, that alerts me to the revenant.
From the dim light ahead of us, a pale and bundled figure lumbers; it is strangely awkward, lopsided, clumsy, but it runs faster than I would have believed possible.
The Commander’s guard break from the other horsemen and converge on it. The flash of its face as it flees into the trees makes me cold to my fingertips. It’s deathly pale, white-eyed, almost human but broken, somehow, wrong. A grin stretches its colourless lips. The stench that follows it is of something long dead.
The creature and its pursuit vanish among the trees. The noises continue, though, the crashing of the horses, the guard shouting and then the screams.
They’re short, horribly truncated. Moments later, Siras Eld of the guard reappears, his horse is sweating, its eyes rolling with terror.
“Triangle!” Siras screams, “Triangle. It’s a trap! Get back!”
As I turn to run, the officers’ horses thunder past. They’re slowed by the trees but still faster than everyone except Ferrin, who’s running alongside the Commander’s horse.
The noise of a battalion running is appalling. Men yelling, tripping over roots, banging their heads on branches. They’re falling all around me. Hurdling a pair of thrashing legs, my ridiculous horned helmet in my hand, I catch glimpses of the horsemen pulling ahead, vanishing into the darkness between the trees.
Moments later I hear the Commander’s voice,
“Stand!” he’s shouting, “To me, to me!”
I stumble into a space between the trees. The horsemen are gathered in an anxious melee; the few runners who outdistanced me stand a cautious distance off to the side. The Commander is at the front, his horse’s panic strictly controlled – it paces in a tight circle, high, white steps.
“Enough, that’s enough. Stand soldiers.”
Sunlight slants through the branches, haloing him with gold. He raises a hand and the horse, its reins loosened, takes an extra step out of its circle.
It screams, rears up, its eyes white and rolling. The Commander’s face freezes, turns grey. Then he’s gone - sucked into the ground, horse and all.
There’s an instant of horrified silence, then the other horsemen scatter like fish from a stone. At the same time, Ferrin, right up where the Commander disappeared, casts herself backward into the air, her arms wide, seeking a hold.
My muscles take over, not waiting for my brain – I drop the helmet, dive forwards, grab her hand and yank her towards me as far, as fast as I can, away from the terrible, invisible mouth in the ground. We fall in a tangle, her elbow drives back into my face and stars burst over my vision. Then her weight’s gone and I’m scrambling back, the pine needles soft under my fingers, my feet scrabbling for grip, sliding, I’m not getting anywhere and I know – I KNOW – the Triangle is closer, rippling across the forest floor, coming to swallow me too.
A hand grabs mine, hauls me to my feet,
“Run.” It’s Ferrin. We dash back into the trees, following the rest of the battalion, fleeing for our lives.
Hect knows how long we run for, it seems we can’t go fast enough or far enough, it feels like hours, like days, like no time at all, and the Captains are yelling at us, “Calm, boys, calm!” and I have a moment of dizzy pedantry: what about the women? Can they go on running? But we’re gathered in a clearing, and the others are all around me, gasping for breath like I am, all except Ferrin who hasn’t, I’d bet, ever been out of breath in her life. She tucks a strand of hair back into her hat and meets my eyes. And I realise we’ve escaped. No matter how many Triangles there were scattered about the forest, waiting for the taste of flesh. We’ve done it: we’ve escaped.
That night I dream.
I dream the Triangle has followed us, that it swallows us in the night. I dream it swallowing Ferrin before she leaps. I feel myself, sucked down into the earth, black and cold and breathless.
Time after time I see myself, Ferrin, the whole battalion, walking through the trees, stepping into nothing, into the invisible depths of the earth – then into fire, into a pit of spikes, into machines with sharp blades. God knows what’s at the bottom of the Triangles, or even if there is one.
I wake in the blackness, teeth deep in my lip to stop the scream.
There’s a whisper beside me,
“Hate them. Don’t matter how fast or clever you are, still nothing you can do to spot a Triangle. Should be something.” Ferrin is sitting by my blankets, leaning against the tree whose roots I used for a pillow. I sit up, wipe my lip, taste blood,
“They’re magic,” I say, “no one sees them.”
Not even Casters, apparently. It had enraged Morchin Dal that there was nothing he could do to make a Triangle detectable. He tried for weeks. Dangerous weeks. I spent a lot of time hiding in the cupboard under the stairs, cursing the magicians of Luth for inventing something that made my master so angry.
“Everything leaves traces,” she says, her voice has a rough edge, “makes it like all I know –all I see – don’t matter.”
“I hate them too.” And I do. I’ve never been as frightened of anything as I am of the silent, invisible Triangles. Those unseen mouths in the ground – once you step on one, you’re lost.
She touches two fingers to her brow,
“Let him rest. I’ve been with him since the war began. Never went hungry,” it’s about the best thing you can say about a master. I copy her gesture. Let him rest. We’ve seen a revenant now, someone who came back from a Triangle; you wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.
We sit in silence for a long time, I’m trying not to think about the Commander coming back, hoping he’s dead, wherever he is. Then she speaks again,
“I’m sorry about your – your face,”
My nose is swollen and bruised from her elbow; I shrug,
“It’s fine.”
It’s the first time anyone has apologised for hurting me. I’m grateful for the darkness.
“Need to thank you,” she says.
“My pleasure. I need to thank you back.”
Her laugh is hoarse, like the wuff of a friendly dog. I want to hear it again.
The alternative to this re-write, of course, would just be a sentence saying something like "The Commander was a total nutcase who insisted on riding out at the front...", but anyway. Just to be clear, I haven't digested all the other comments fully, this isn't a final version but a first draft of an alternative section. I hope that's OK.
I haven't started from the beginning.You'd need to read the post Hidden Triangles to get all the background. This chunk is just over 1,100 words.
Out to the right, Ferrin Dar the scout keeps pace with us in the shadows. I can only see her because I know she’s there. It’s the flash of her face, turning to some signal I cannot hear, that alerts me to the revenant.
From the dim light ahead of us, a pale and bundled figure lumbers; it is strangely awkward, lopsided, clumsy, but it runs faster than I would have believed possible.
The Commander’s guard break from the other horsemen and converge on it. The flash of its face as it flees into the trees makes me cold to my fingertips. It’s deathly pale, white-eyed, almost human but broken, somehow, wrong. A grin stretches its colourless lips. The stench that follows it is of something long dead.
The creature and its pursuit vanish among the trees. The noises continue, though, the crashing of the horses, the guard shouting and then the screams.
They’re short, horribly truncated. Moments later, Siras Eld of the guard reappears, his horse is sweating, its eyes rolling with terror.
“Triangle!” Siras screams, “Triangle. It’s a trap! Get back!”
As I turn to run, the officers’ horses thunder past. They’re slowed by the trees but still faster than everyone except Ferrin, who’s running alongside the Commander’s horse.
The noise of a battalion running is appalling. Men yelling, tripping over roots, banging their heads on branches. They’re falling all around me. Hurdling a pair of thrashing legs, my ridiculous horned helmet in my hand, I catch glimpses of the horsemen pulling ahead, vanishing into the darkness between the trees.
Moments later I hear the Commander’s voice,
“Stand!” he’s shouting, “To me, to me!”
I stumble into a space between the trees. The horsemen are gathered in an anxious melee; the few runners who outdistanced me stand a cautious distance off to the side. The Commander is at the front, his horse’s panic strictly controlled – it paces in a tight circle, high, white steps.
“Enough, that’s enough. Stand soldiers.”
Sunlight slants through the branches, haloing him with gold. He raises a hand and the horse, its reins loosened, takes an extra step out of its circle.
It screams, rears up, its eyes white and rolling. The Commander’s face freezes, turns grey. Then he’s gone - sucked into the ground, horse and all.
There’s an instant of horrified silence, then the other horsemen scatter like fish from a stone. At the same time, Ferrin, right up where the Commander disappeared, casts herself backward into the air, her arms wide, seeking a hold.
My muscles take over, not waiting for my brain – I drop the helmet, dive forwards, grab her hand and yank her towards me as far, as fast as I can, away from the terrible, invisible mouth in the ground. We fall in a tangle, her elbow drives back into my face and stars burst over my vision. Then her weight’s gone and I’m scrambling back, the pine needles soft under my fingers, my feet scrabbling for grip, sliding, I’m not getting anywhere and I know – I KNOW – the Triangle is closer, rippling across the forest floor, coming to swallow me too.
A hand grabs mine, hauls me to my feet,
“Run.” It’s Ferrin. We dash back into the trees, following the rest of the battalion, fleeing for our lives.
Hect knows how long we run for, it seems we can’t go fast enough or far enough, it feels like hours, like days, like no time at all, and the Captains are yelling at us, “Calm, boys, calm!” and I have a moment of dizzy pedantry: what about the women? Can they go on running? But we’re gathered in a clearing, and the others are all around me, gasping for breath like I am, all except Ferrin who hasn’t, I’d bet, ever been out of breath in her life. She tucks a strand of hair back into her hat and meets my eyes. And I realise we’ve escaped. No matter how many Triangles there were scattered about the forest, waiting for the taste of flesh. We’ve done it: we’ve escaped.
That night I dream.
I dream the Triangle has followed us, that it swallows us in the night. I dream it swallowing Ferrin before she leaps. I feel myself, sucked down into the earth, black and cold and breathless.
Time after time I see myself, Ferrin, the whole battalion, walking through the trees, stepping into nothing, into the invisible depths of the earth – then into fire, into a pit of spikes, into machines with sharp blades. God knows what’s at the bottom of the Triangles, or even if there is one.
I wake in the blackness, teeth deep in my lip to stop the scream.
There’s a whisper beside me,
“Hate them. Don’t matter how fast or clever you are, still nothing you can do to spot a Triangle. Should be something.” Ferrin is sitting by my blankets, leaning against the tree whose roots I used for a pillow. I sit up, wipe my lip, taste blood,
“They’re magic,” I say, “no one sees them.”
Not even Casters, apparently. It had enraged Morchin Dal that there was nothing he could do to make a Triangle detectable. He tried for weeks. Dangerous weeks. I spent a lot of time hiding in the cupboard under the stairs, cursing the magicians of Luth for inventing something that made my master so angry.
“Everything leaves traces,” she says, her voice has a rough edge, “makes it like all I know –all I see – don’t matter.”
“I hate them too.” And I do. I’ve never been as frightened of anything as I am of the silent, invisible Triangles. Those unseen mouths in the ground – once you step on one, you’re lost.
She touches two fingers to her brow,
“Let him rest. I’ve been with him since the war began. Never went hungry,” it’s about the best thing you can say about a master. I copy her gesture. Let him rest. We’ve seen a revenant now, someone who came back from a Triangle; you wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.
We sit in silence for a long time, I’m trying not to think about the Commander coming back, hoping he’s dead, wherever he is. Then she speaks again,
“I’m sorry about your – your face,”
My nose is swollen and bruised from her elbow; I shrug,
“It’s fine.”
It’s the first time anyone has apologised for hurting me. I’m grateful for the darkness.
“Need to thank you,” she says.
“My pleasure. I need to thank you back.”
Her laugh is hoarse, like the wuff of a friendly dog. I want to hear it again.
