The Song of a Poisoned Star

1

Bilen was already awake when the bugler sounded the reveille.

Alejandro Molina groaned from the bunk above her. 'Seriously? They still do this?' he moaned. 'The army is stupid.' He sat up, dangling his bare feet over the edge of the bed, and let out a monstrous fart.

'Oh, for fuck's sake, Alejo, can't you wait until we get outside?'

'The spirit was within me, Bilen! It needed to be released!'

She sat up too, and ran her hands through her short dark hair.

Well, here I am, she thought. In a wooden fort at the edge of the known world. I'm looking for a poisoned star in a pale forest, and I don't even know what that means.

She rubbed her eyes, scratchy with lack of sleep, and then pulled out a waterskin from her bag and sipped it. She poured some water into her hands and splashed her face.

The bunk shook as Molina clambered down.

'You think breakfast will be good here?' he asked, stretching so that his bones clicked. Then he looked down at her. 'Still worried about the job?'

She smiled at him: there was no point lying.

'Yes, I am.'

'Do you know why I've lived as long as I have?' he replied. 'Yes, it's because I'm incredibly handsome and good at dancing and I have these things in my head' – he touched the studs in his skull – 'but it's mostly because I know when to run away. We'll be fine! We'll run away. Now, come on. I'm hungry and I'm too shy to go on my own.'

#

Bilen opened the door to their little room, and walked outside into the grey dawn.

She was in her early thirties, with cropped black hair, deep brown skin stained with curving blue tattoos, quick eyes and a quicker mind. She was short and slight and agile, and skilled with both rites and knives. Even though she'd left it years ago, she still wore the clothes of her Order: a sleeveless tunic and sirwal, wide brown leather belt and a plain bag.

She looked out across the fort, seeing it for the first time in daylight.

Alejandro Molina ducked through the door behind her. He was a full head taller than her. He had a trimmed, dark beard and amber skin, and although he looked about her age, he was much older, at least a hundred years. The short metal studs in his skull peeked through his untidy brown hair and gleamed in the early morning sun. He was whistling something tuneless and stupid.

The fort had a garrison of maybe thirty soldiers from the Grand Duchy of Illia, pale young men in brown uniforms. They were sitting on benches at long tables, or queuing for food. Some of them glanced up at Molina's whistling. Most didn't bother.

Further over, there was a unit of four mercenaries, all wearing armour that marked them as from the North of the Old World. They were laughing and shouting, their voices loud and abraisive in the cold morning air.

And sitting on his own on a bench was a sight which shocked Bilen.

She froze, heart racing.

'He's from your Order, Bilen,' Molina murmured.

'Yes, he is,' she replied.

He was tattooed like her, blue curves on his arms and hands showing the places to let blood, the places to eject the darkness. His clothes were similar: baggy sirwal, a short-sleeved tunic, a leather band around his left wrist, a leather bag at his waist. Unlike her though, the tattoos were blue on pale skin, his short hair was blonde, his mouth thin and cruel.