A thick fog draped the mountainside dotted in frailejones, brought on by the ending day. The trail to Gegania was on the other side of the village, which sat on the crossroads to the only road out of the Páramo. If Reina couldn’t reach Gegania before dusk, she would have to spend the night in Apartaderos. She could make a stop in the town for food or at least to pick up talk of an antlered woman passing through, if there were any.
As she descended the gravel path, dread licked its way up Reina’s spine upon seeing the tents circling the town, marked by ?guila banners. Don Enrique’s soldiers in Apartaderos meant nothing more than trouble. They’d never mistreated Reina, but she had seen the intent in their eyes. She had seen their disgust and had even heard the whispers of confusion, of “How could the brutal Ursulina Duvianos have a duskling half-breed for a granddaughter?”
A soft whistling broke through the fog, curling the hairs along her arms. The climbing melody was unmistakable. She was reminded of tattered clothes and bloody grins. Likely, with their overabundance of iridio, Don Enrique’s soldiers were attracting a whistler.
The whistling grew fainter as she neared the first homestead, where she could only see up to an arm’s length away due to the fog. Reina was so exhausted and fog blinded that casting a spell of bismuto became necessary.
She slapped her hands together, then pulled her palms just enough so her opposing fingertips never disconnected. Fingertips still touching, she flicked her wrists to opposite sides, finalizing the incantation. The surge of bismuto power filled her. From her rings, to her fingers, up her arms, and into the rest of her body.
At once the world took a sharper form. The cloudy brightness became blinding. Crisp Páramo air bit her, carrying the scents of moss and earth and, faintly, of rotted whistler blood. A tingle of electricity shot through her muscles, through strong calves and trained biceps, and swelled her with the strength she had lacked. She unsheathed her machete.
The air went still, heavy, devoid of all sounds save for the crunching of her bootsteps on rocks and dried ferns. Reina’s transplant pounded, the memory of her previous clash against a whistler beating furiously against her rib cage. Her gloved hand squeezed the hilt of her machete, sweat slicking her palm.
She couldn’t hear the whistling anymore.
Reina came upon the town square, where the stone statue of three women from the revolution welcomed all travelers with determined faces and pointing arms. The familiar sight, which ought to offer reprieve to anyone making the long trek across the mountains, only filled Reina with apprehension. The streets were silent, every door closed and every curtain drawn. Then a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the fog. She vaulted in the direction of it, toward the center of town, as the screams gurgled and then choked.
Reina swiveled this way and that, breathlessly seeking the screaming woman, but the mist felt impenetrable. She spotted a crouching figure in the distance and approached it. A pool of blood bloomed around the figure like a crimson halo. The figure heard Reina and turned, regarding her with a grin dripping with freshly spilled blood. Underneath it was a rent-open woman, her eyes and mouth gaping with her incomplete scream.
Enraged, Reina flushed with boiling-hot blood. She lunged at the whistler just as it drew up to its full height, all long limbs and tattered shepherd’s clothes. Sweet decay filled her nostrils as the creature swung. But this time Reina was ready, and she was furious. She dodged the whistler’s blow and replied with a machetazo that sundered the whistler’s arm, the smell of putrid flesh slapping her on the nose.
The whistler screeched, nearly deafening her in her bismuto high. Its other claw caught her, tearing through clothes and skin. Fire erupted from her side. Reina was hurled to the ground, knees and elbows scraping and streaking blood on the cobblestones. She dodged a slash that would have shredded her face, her mind razor focused on the battle and not on the sharp stings of her injuries. It was either that or lose her life to this petty fight.
She sprang up and rounded on the creature, slashing its neck from ear to ear. A shower of blood caught her right in the chest, the splatter coating her lips and besmirching her mouth with a bitter taste. Then the whistler collapsed to the ground as she stepped away.
Reina’s breathing was the loudest thing in the town square while the whistler’s decayed blood pooled on the cobblestones around her. She sheathed her machete. Her gaze gravitated to the fallen woman. Reina didn’t have to hope for a pulse. Even from where she stood, it was clear the life had left the body.
The inn across the street burst open with a party of ?guila soldiers, shattering the town’s silence. A good dozen of them approached her. Their smirks made her pulse pound, overwhelming her with the instinct to run away.
The man with the captain’s insignia eyed Reina and said, “And here we hoped the whistler would finish you off.”
“You were watching?” she said. Seeing them, with their shiny armor and unscathed leather, flared every bruise and gash the whistler had given her. The pain made it hard to speak, but she said it anyway: “Why didn’t you help? Protecting these lands is your job.” Her tail thrashed behind her, whipping the air with leftover adrenaline.
“You dare tell us what to do, duskling?” one of the men spat. “That woman was dead before anyone could do anything about it. Some homeless whore meandering around even after hearing the whistling. Too bad the beast didn’t take you on a trip back to where you came from. To save us the work and all.”
Reina swallowed the slight. The lie humans loved to scoff at her face, of nozariels originating from Rahmagut’s Vacío.
“The whistler was attracted by your iridio, and they’re going to keep on harming innocents while you’re here.” Reina gestured at the corpse.
The leader laughed at her. “We’ll leave, but you’re coming with us.” To his men he called out, “Take the Duvianos bastard!”
“What?” Her voice came out like a squeal. She stepped back once, sensing the men behind her.
“You stole a Dama del Vacío from the caudillo.” He rallied his men, announcing loudly to anyone who would listen, “The little bitch thought she could leverage her return to ?guila Manor by betraying Don Enrique.”
One of the men swung at Reina with a battle cry.
Reina leapt out of reach, her panicked heart reaching as high as her throat. “That’s a lie! I haven’t taken anybody!”
“Seize her!” the leader repeated, and the closest four charged.
The sound of the sword slicing the air behind her sent Reina into motion before she could think. She dodged, a blade whistling past her and narrowly missing her. Her fear was a metallic tang in her mouth.
Her fist crashed against the jaw of the closest lunging man, sending pain like impaling icicles up her wrist. The soldier staggered far, buying her a second. She dodged another’s reach with an instinctual, though awkward pirouette. Then she swerved out of a sword’s slice, so close that she heard it whistling through the air. And when the whole group crowded her, her feet reacted for her, the bismuto electrifying her soles. Reina sprang up and landed on the inn’s tiled roof with a painful roll that almost sent her slipping off the other side.