A Feathered Touch

POV: Constance

‘You should have woken me.’

‘It’s okay. You’re tired.’

’I’m not that tired. I’m perfectly capable.’

‘I know you are, Papa. I just thought I’d help.’

Constance dusted off her hands and wiped them on the damp cloth hanging by the door. She turned her face, trying not to show her concern as her father limped over to the table and sat down for breakfast.

She’d been out in the field for hours, harvesting the last of their crops before the rot set in. The sun was high in the sky, and yet her father had slept long and hard throughout. The circles under his eyes were getting darker. Despite the warmth of the day, she could see the faint tremor in his hands.

‘Make sure you eat all of it, Papa. I’ve mixed the herbs in already. You know what Agnes said.’

He waved his hand. ‘Yes, I know what she said. I shall finish it, Daughter. Have no mind. You sit down. Have some bread.’

Constance sat down but she didn’t eat, watching through her hair as her father ate, her heart sitting somewhere in her throat. Agnes, the village healer, was convinced that the herbs were working. Constance couldn’t see it. Day by day, things seemed more and more hopeless. There were physicians in the city but there was no way they could get there.

Constance squeezed her hands together in her lap in a secret prayer. Her father didn’t know but she’d wept herself asleep last night. What was wrong with him? Agnes said it was a disease of the heart brought to pass by the death of her mother. But her mother had died over ten years ago.

If her father died …

She hung her head with a sniff. She picked at the dirt from beneath her nails as she struggled against the prickling in her eyes. As the first tear rolled, she leapt to her feet.

‘I’ll be back in a moment, Papa.’

And she hastened outside.

She hurried around the back of their little home where he could not see, then raced into the field so he could not hear. Clutching at her skirts, she burst into tears. Big ugly sobs made her whole body shake. It took all her effort not to drop to her knees. If her father died, she would be homeless. She was not a son who could inherit land.

Or anything, for that matter. Even her clothes would be stripped from her back.

After a while, the tears started to slow and she wiped her face with the wimple she kept tucked in her pocket. She looked up with a tired sigh, the breath still rattling in her chest as she gripped herself. The sky was blue but a bank of dark clouds was building in the distance. A cow was mooing. A dog was barking.

Their little house sat on the outskirts of the village. Only fifty-two people called it home. No. Fifty-three now—the birth of a baby was always big news—but it was home. It was home because her father was here, because her mother used to be here …

Was still here …

She wiped at her face again as the tears threatened to build once more. She tilted her face back as she tried to drain them away. She blinked. Then squinted. Then levelled her head. That wasn’t a bank of clouds, she suddenly realised. Or, at least, only some of it was clouds. She walked closer.

She stopped. There was something amid the white and grey. Something almost solid-looking. She raised her hand against the glare and squinted harder.

‘What in God’s name is that?’ she murmured.

Despite the warmth, her skin prickled with goosebumps. Then she saw something else. A bird? She blinked and shook her head. Many birds. All flying in one direction. The village’s direction.

Her direction.

Now she was stepping backwards. ‘What in God’s name?’ she said more loudly.

The birds were getting larger and larger. Incredibly large. Even at a distance, she could see it. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

With a choke, she raced back toward the house.

‘Father!’ she cried as she stepped over the threshold. ‘Something’s wrong. Something’s happening.’

He raised his head in alarm, still holding his spoon. ‘What?’

‘I think … I think we’re being attacked.’

He dropped his spoon. His chair slid back as he leapt to his feet with surprising speed.

They both hurried outside.

‘Up there!’ She pointed toward the clouds. ‘Are they birds?’

But even as she said it, she knew she was a fool.

‘A-angels, perhaps?’ her father said. Her father hoped.

‘God’s angels?’

‘Is there any other kind?’ He lifted his hand against the glare.

Constance grabbed his arm as he made to step towards him. ‘No, Father.’

He shook her off. ‘It’s okay, Constance. Have faith. They have come to save us.’ He raised his arms. ‘Over here! Come take us to your heavenly home. Over here!’

‘Father, stop!’

‘Enough, Constance!’ He continued to walk towards them, his hobble now barely noticeable. His face was practically glowing, the dark shadows under his eyes gone.

Constance didn’t move. More goosebumps prickled all over her body. There was something not right. Angels. Perhaps. Perhaps not. But they were flying in formation and they didn’t glow. There were no heavenly trumpets and that cloudy configuration looked like a black ship amid the waves of a choppy sea.

She did not like it.

‘Father!’

The breath caught in her throat. The daylight flashed, catching against these “angels” like eye-piercing sparks. And Constance suddenly realised—armour. They were wearing armour! What angels wore armour?

‘Father!’ she screamed. ‘Look out!’

Her father stepped back. He turned towards her. Their eyes met. A horn blasted from the village—a warning. A warning to hide or defend or run. There were dozens of them in the sky, soaring on their huge yellowish wings, encased in armour, wielding arrows and what looked like spears.

Several darted down toward the village. They swooped overhead. There came screaming. A house suddenly burst into flames. Quickly followed by another and another.

‘Run, Father!’

Constance darted back inside their home. Quickly, she scooped up her quiver and bow. It was old, owned by her grandfather. But it would do. Anything would do.

She raced back outside.

‘Constance, no!’ her father bellowed.

But one of the birdmen was already swooping towards him. Huge. Terrifying. Magical. His armour gleamed. She aimed her arrow and pulled back the bowstring.

Hold. Hold.

Slowly, she exhaled. Then she released. It felt good. A good shot. She held her breath for a moment. The birdman twisted mid-air, fast enough to avoid a kill shot but not fast enough to avoid a hit to the shoulder. He plummeted.

Constance didn’t have time to watch, grabbing onto her father and pulling him after her into the fields, her bow slung over her shoulder. There came a whoosh and a crackle as another home was torched. The back of her neck prickled, feeling the aim of their magical arrows, their keen eagle eyes, their determination to kill her for reasons she could not fathom.

‘Hurry, Father!’ she screamed.

He was stumbling beside her, panting so heavily she could hear it even through the storm thundering in her ears.

She cried out as he tripped and fell. ‘No!’

Everything was a blur. The world felt like it was upside down. Flames filled her wide eyes as the village burned. Black smoke circled into the sky.

‘Father!’

With a strength that shocked her, she managed to haul him to his feet. He was pale. His eyes were sunken in his head. All that hopeful glow was gone. Wrapping her arm around his waist, she struggled ahead.

He fell again.

‘No!’

This time he didn’t move, face planted in the dirt. It took her several precious moments, her heart thudding in her ears, to understand what the three pieces of wood sticking out from his back meant. She looked up in a daze as a pair of huge wings soared above her. She could see his armour. She could see his face. She could even see his eyes.

They latched onto hers.

Then her eyes fell to his bow and arrow.

No tears came. Not yet.

Constance ran. Leaving her father behind. Leaving her life behind.

Coward! But he’s dead! Father is dead!

The air choked in her lungs. It didn’t feel like she was running, but staggering. She felt slow and heavy. She turned to look over her shoulder and it felt like everything was in slow motion, like she didn’t have total control of her body. Another birdman swooped over her—and he was holding something different.

It looked like some kind of fishing net.

Stupidly, she wondered where he was going to catch a fish with that.

She realised too late. The net was over her. It was wrapped around her. It tangled in her legs. The breath caught in her lungs as the earth came hurtling towards her. She hit the ground hard.

Rolling on her back, she thrashed around, trying to get it off but it had somehow twisted into complicated knots. It seemed to get tighter and tighter the more she thrashed, until she was completely stuck, trapped, unmoving.

All she could do was watch on helplessly as the birdman landed beside her with a thump that she felt in her bones. Constance blinked against the glaring sun as she stared up at him, watching as his giant yellow wings folded behind his back. He narrowed his fearsome eyes at her. His armour gleamed. Behind him, the village burned. She could see it. She could smell it. She could hear the whoosh of the flames.

Father.

Closing her eyes, she let the tears fall.

POV: Waya

‘Ahhh!’ Waya ripped his arm away. ‘Be careful, would you! It fucking hurts!’

‘Of course it fucking hurts, but we have to get it out.’ Huw scowled. His long black hair was escaping its plait. His eyes were feverish, still on a high from their attack. ‘How are you going to fly back home?’

‘Yes, I know that, but you don’t have to be so fucking ruthless about it.’

‘Fast and hard—that’s the most painless way. Be a fucking man, Waya.’ He grabbed onto Waya’s arm again with a smirk.

Waya spat at his friend’s feet. ‘I’m going to knock you senseless after this.’

Sitting on the ground, Waya wrapped his good arm around a nearby barrel to steady himself. He was breathing heavily, snorting grunts through his nose, as Huw grabbed the stem of the arrow again. It was stuck deep in his shoulder. The pain was blinding.

Waya could hear the screaming of human men and women in the distance as his brothers cleaned up any survivors. He wished he could be there. He wished he could be there to annihilate them. After what they had done to his brother—he deserved that right.

Instead, he was stuck here, like a wounded, useless animal, trying his best not to faint like a woman.

Huw braced his foot against his chest. Waya’s armour lay in a useless heap beside him. The damn thing hadn’t helped him at all.

‘Ready yourself,’ Huw said.

Waya shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. He didn’t know if he screamed. He didn’t know what happened at all. All he knew was the explosive pain ripping across his chest and down his arm and the bright light igniting behind his eyelids.

And then he found himself blinking his eyes open against the glaring sun, still somehow managing to hold onto the barrel.

And then the pain came back. Waya groaned.

Huw was holding the bloodied arrow in his face, grinning. ‘See? Easy.’

With a growl, Waya snatched it out of his grip and chucked it away.

Huw sniggered. ‘Calm down, Waya. At least the man is dead.’

Waya nodded and turned his face, cheeks heating with embarrassment. He would never admit the truth—that a mere woman had made the shot.

‘Now, hold still,’ Huw said.