The Song of a Poisoned Star

18

Zacconi had been an old drinking buddy, and Molina had been looking forward to hanging around with him: but the years had changed him for the worse, and he was bitter and resentful. He griped and grumbled as they made their way to the training square.

'...the worst though, is Teixeira. Just because he looks older, the Church thinks he should be in charge, and he struts around, telling us what to do...'

Zacconi had received his terrible burns after the war with the Order. The few surviving brightswords that had stayed with the Church had been put to a variety of uses, and he had specialised in hunting down and killing the Order's escaped monstrous wartime creations. Until one day, when he had stumbled into a nest of something, and the pins on the left side of his head had been dislodged by a flailing stinger, and the fire had left a mark that wouldn't heal.

'It's getting better,' he said. 'It's just it will take decades. And the only women who will look at me are the ones I pay for. I've had enough of this place. I should have done what you did, and get away. I will, next year.'

'I did get away, it's true. I was a farmer. But, ah, it was so boring,' said Molina, taking down two small wooden bucklers. 'I'm not very good at farming. You put stuff in the ground, it comes up. It's fun for a bit. But farmers! Farmers are boring. So, here I am, not doing farming, and not doing boring things.'

'Yes, here you are. But what are you doing, exactly?' asked Zacconi.

Molina had decided that it was more important to get Zacconi ready for a fight than it was to catch up with his life. So, ignoring the question, he held a buckler in each hand and set them in a defensive posture.

'This is how they fight. Remember? Their fists are surrounded by darkness. Bilen calls them quiethands. This foot forward here, this one back here. So grab one of those wooden poles and use it as a sword and you can drill against a murmurer,' he said.

An expression crossed Zacconi's face that Molina had never seen him make before: it was a bittersweet look of recognition and regret.

'I remember.'

The two circled each other on the sand of the training ground, Molina moving the way that Bilen had taught him, Zacconi stalking around him. Molina stayed a couple of yards away, edging over the dried mud of the square. Some of the clerical guard stopped to watch them.

'You're out of practice, old man,' Molina said, and then lunged in, one two, one fist high, the other low.

Zacconi tried to parry but was too slow, and Molina knocked him on the torso. Wood thudded on bone, and Zacconi winced.

'You're dead. Let's try again,' Molina said.

Zacconi backed up, grimacing. 'Come on then, you old fucker.'

Molina bowed, grinning. 'Guilty as charged.'

They circled again. This time Zacconi launched a wild attack which Molina stepped back from, before he knocked into Zacconi's left arm with one of the shields.

'You just lost your hand. Again. What happened to the others?' Molina asked.

'A lot are dead,' Zacconi replied. 'Some by accident, some in fights. Some by their own hands. Many by the Church. They'll end you, if you ask. They don't see it as a sin, when you're a brightsword.' He paused to step away from an attack, brought his wooden sword round, and it clattered against one the bucklers. He grimaced in appreciation. 'Not so out of practice, am...'

But he was cut off when Molina swept his foot under Zacconi, knocking him onto the ground, his wooden sword out of his grasp.

'Again,' Molina said, pulling him up. 'Well, you're still here. What kept you going?'