The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  The Yarnsworld is a place where folktales and fantasy meet. It is a place where monsters from stories are real.

  In the Yarnsworld, the line between reality and stories isn’t quite as defined as in our own. It is a place where folktales – and a knowledge of those tales – are an important aspect of life, no matter where in the Yarnsworld people live. Knowing those stories can be the difference between life and death.

  The Magpie King’s forest in They Mostly Come Out At Night is a dark place, haunted by shadowy creatures, where the only hope can be found in fireside tales.

  The Crescent Atoll from Where the Waters Turn Black introduces the weird and wonderful aspects of a remote, detached civilization where gods and monsters walk among people.

  Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords takes us to the city of Espadapan, and its surrounding Wildlands. This is a grittier part of the Yarnsworld, where morally conflicted masked swordfighters take advantage of whoever they can to rise to the top of the heap.

  Enter, gentle reader, and prepare to discover danger, and adventure...

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Artemis and the Three Daughters

  Chapter Two

  The Magpie King and the Black Squirrel

  Chapter Three

  Artemis and the Mouse

  Chapter Four

  The Magpie King's Bride

  Chapter Five

  Artemis and Mother Web

  Chapter Six

  The Magpie King and the Pies

  Chapter Seven

  The Coming of the Outsiders

  Chapter Eight

  The Thief and the Lady

  Chapter Nine

  Artemis' Last Stand

  Chapter Ten

  The Healer and the Boy

  They Mostly Come Out At Night

  Copyright 2016 Benedict Patrick

  All rights reserved.

  www.benedictpatrick.com

  Cover design by Jenny Zemanek

  www.seedlingsonline.com

  Published by One More Page Publishing

  To be notified when Benedict Patrick’s next novel is released, and to get free stories set in the world of They Mostly Come Out At Night, please sign up for his newsletter.

  Splintered wood, teeth and claws, blood in the night. Lonan had seen these events so many times before. He knew exactly what was coming.

  “Can’t you get him to shut up?” The voice belonged to Lonan’s father. This was a dream about that horrible night eight years ago, and back then, Lonan had been unable to stop screaming.

  His father grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. “Boy, you have to stop. They are above us, we can hear them through the floor. You will lead them straight to us.”

  Lonan was a young man now, but could not help the guilt he still felt about that night. He had known that to survive the dark, he should be silent. If a child needed to cry, they did so with their head tucked under their pillow. But Lonan also knew that back then, back eight years ago, he was desperately trying to tell them all something.

  Nobody had listened.

  “I don’t want to do this,” his father said, before slapping young Lonan across the face with the back of his hand.

  That was the last exchange that took place between Lonan and his father before the cellar door cracked open and the creatures took his father’s life.

  As always, it was as those sinister clawed hands reached into the cellar that Lonan woke up. The dawn bell was ringing, signalling it was safe to go outside. Lonan knew he was going to be in a foul mood after his dream, so he chose to slink out of the cellar and make his way into the forest without having to speak to anyone.

  Most of the village hated Lonan. Even now, years later, they blamed him for the events of that awful night, for the multiple breaches and the lives that had been lost. It had easily been the worst night in Smithsdown’s history. The villagers were right about one thing - there was somebody to blame for those events, but it was not Lonan. However, back then, nobody had wanted to listen to the boy who they believed had led the monsters to their doors, and now nobody wanted to listen to the man he had become.

  Lonan made his way into the forest because he had roots and herbs to gather for the village healer. However, as often happened after he dreamt of his father, Lonan instead wasted the day away dealing with his anger, taking it out on the forest so as not to mistreat the few in the village who still cared for him.

  As the sun began to fall, Lonan returned home, eager to see the village buildings before the sky darkened. As he crossed the river that ran close to Smithsdown, he stopped, looking downstream. There in the distance was Branwen, the woman who used to be Lonan’s closest friend.

  On seeing her, Lonan quickly hid in the bushes. Branwen had not welcomed the sight of him for a long time. Out of all of the villagers, it was she who hated him the most.

  What’s she doing? It’ll be dark soon, and they’ll be coming. Why is she still here?

  From his crouching position in the bushes, Lonan strained his neck upwards to look at the setting sun. In truth, it was still around two hours until nightfall, which gave her and him plenty of time to return to the village and to safety. However, like many of those who lived in the forest, the hairs on the back of Lonan’s neck always stood on end when the sun began to fall. Worried, he turned to look at the young woman he was hiding from.

  When they were children, they had spent as much time together as possible, playing on the village green or in the wild of the woods. But now…

  Now, Branwen despised Lonan most of all. He knew they could never have a future together anymore, all because Lonan had been blamed for a crime committed by another.

  Worst of all, Lonan’s boyish affections for Branwen had changed too. His memories of his childhood friendship with her were precious to him, and as he had grown into a man, his feelings of affection towards her had deepened. This was why her attitude towards him hurt so much.

  He gave a small breath of relief when he saw Branwen finally gather her washing, adjust the small bundle she held swaddled to her chest, and left for home. Once she had disappeared from sight, Lonan stood, stretching his thin legs and ruffling his scruffy, dark hair to loose any brambles that had become tangled in it. It had been a number of weeks since he had last seen Branwen. Even now, he dared not get too close. His battered heart could not cope with the inevitable look of loathing she would give him. Worse still were the recent changes in Branwen’s life. Lonan had been actively avoiding seeing her because he feared that the sight of Branwen and her newborn baby would finally convince his heart to give up on the chance of ever being able to be in her life again.

  His journey back home after a day foraging in the woods brought him past families whose talents contributed to the endurance of the village as a whole - seamstresses, tinkers, fishermen, pottery makers - and all gave Lonan dark looks as he walked, some opting to include a sneer or a whispered comment to their companions at the sight of him.

  The village itself was unremarkable. It was made up of a selection of about a dozen stone, wood and thatch buildings, home to as many families. The most prominent building in the village was its titular smith, and as always Lonan gave it a wide berth. He travelled west of the main buildings of the village, doing his best to avoid the busier central area.

  Dragging his heels, he finally made his way to his mother’s cottage. He gave himself a few moments at the doorway, pulling in a deep breath before entering.

  The cottage was dark, lit only by the small tease of natural light that made its way into the buildin
g via two windows set into the east and west walls, and by the coals in the fireplace opposite the doorway. The stone walls provided the family with only one room, as was common in Smithsdown, and as a result the room was very busy. It was dominated by the large table in the centre of it, currently covered in a number of pots and plates that his mother was using to prepare dinner over the fire. These would soon be cleared away in time for the meal, and as usual Lonan would uninvite himself. Lonan’s mother kept her back to him, not acknowledging his entrance. He was used to this response, and instead turned to the owner of the blonde curls whom he spied crouching behind some grain sacks off to his left.

  As he made his way over to see his sister, Lonan dropped a hemp bag onto the kitchen table with a small thud. “Found a family of mushrooms. Thought they might be different for you both.”

  His mother’s head turned slightly to glance at the parcel, but otherwise she did not respond.

  Lonan tossed a smaller bag to his sister. “Here you are, don’t gobble them all in one go.”

  “Berries?” Aileen asked, wrinkling up her nose as she picked up one of the small fruits and squashed it between her fingers, letting the purple juice dribble down her sleeve.

  Lonan put his hand on her head and gave his sister a playful push, just enough to force her off her knees and onto her bottom. “Blueberries, stupid. Good for eating, and for making a mess.” He pointed a finger at her face to suggest he was getting her into trouble, but the playfulness in his eyes betrayed his true intent. “And I gave you them for eating, so no messing, you hear?”

  His sister giggled in reply, plunging her fingers into the bag and squashing a sticky mass into her mouth, prompting her to let out a large chortle.

  Like a mother hen suddenly alerted to her brood’s peril, Aileen’s laughs prompted Lonan’s mother’s immediate reaction. She dropped the copper ladle that she was stirring her stew with, allowing it to tip up in the pot, sending it and a generous amount of food careening to the floor. With a stern face she rushed over to her daughter, shoving Lonan out of her path.

  “What is that?” she barked at Lonan, her eyes never leaving her daughter’s mouth, which was now pinched between a calloused forefinger and thumb. “What have you given her now?”

  “Poison, of course. Thought it was about time we got rid of her.” Lonan’s reply was laced with spite, but he made sure to catch Aileen’s eye so she knew he was not serious. He should not have worried - his sister was used to how the rest of her family interacted by now.

  His mother gathered a lick of purple juice on her finger and placed it on her tongue, sneering her lips in response to the sharp sweetness of the fruit. She chose this moment to finally look at her son, the glower in her eyes showing that she was clearly unimpressed with his gift.

  Lonan’s lips pursed at his mother’s disapproving gaze. The blood boiling behind his eyes urged him to say something to her, to invite her into an argument. History had shown him that his mother was more than willing to fight. But Lonan had long since learnt the cost of these arguments, how hollow and alone they made him feel afterwards, so he bit his tongue and said nothing. Lonan still loved his mother even if she was unable to love him back.

  His mother swiftly gathered the remaining fruit into the pouch and hurried back to repair the damage left at the abandoned cooking pot.

  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Again, this was uttered without looking at her son. Instead, her eyes were focussed on the meal.

  “You know I’ve nothing better to do than enjoy our witty banter,” Lonan shot back, regretting the harshness of his reply instantly. He had never heard a kind word from his mother, never even seen her smile, since the night that his father had been killed. Her love for Lonan had died that night too, and Lonan struggled to remind himself that this was not truly her fault. She believed that Lonan had been responsible for the death of the man that she loved, a lie that the rest of the village was also guilty of believing.

  Before leaving, he knelt down to Aileen again, giving her a heartfelt hug, enjoying the feel of her blonde curls tickling his ears. “Magpie King protect you,” he whispered into her ear.

  He pulled back to look at his sister and was greeted by a face full of curiosity. “What’s up, spud?”

  “Is he real? Really? Niall Tumulty says there’s no such thing, like bears and dragons.”

  Lonan gave a knowing grin. “The Tumulty boys know nothing. ‘Course he’s real. Who else looks after us at night?”

  This was the response his sister was looking for and she gave her brother a stronger hug before he got up to leave. By now, a bowl of stew was waiting for him on the table. He picked it up and left the cottage without further disturbing his mother, fearful of further darkening her mood.

  Once outside, Lonan’s eyes went immediately to the sky. It was getting darker - he gave it less than an hour before nightfall. He trudged slowly down the village paths, gathering big chunks of stew onto his spoon before gulping it down his throat. It was mostly grain, but a mix of carrot, trace amounts of bacon and a healthy assortment of herbs served to turn it into an interesting meal. Lonan’s mother no longer loved him, but he could still enjoy the benefits of her Knack for cooking. It was a good skill to have in the family, but unfortunately it did not provide them much to barter with. His mother was certainly not the only cooking Knack in the village.

  He marched in a circle around the village, giving the Tumulty boys an exaggerated nod as he passed by them coming back from the day’s harvest.

  “Knackless,” Callum muttered in return, a clear insult.

  Otherwise, they ignored him, which was probably the best response Lonan could have hoped for. They were a family of farming Knacks, experts in sowing and reaping, and this made them indispensable for life in the village. They did not let their importance go to their heads and had the reputation of being a friendly, generous bunch. Lonan was the exception to this rule.

  Giving himself time to finish his meal, Lonan quietly settled outside the north window of the Hammer household. Smithsdown had no storytelling Knacks, not any more, but Grandfather Hammer still knew a fine selection of tales and, best of all, he was loud. It was not uncommon for him to recount one to his grandchildren before they locked down for the night, and as luck would have it, he was beginning a tale right now. It was the story of Wishpoosh, the giant beaver. Not one of Lonan’s favourites, he had heard it so many times before, but one of the young Hammers often requested it. However, it did have Artemis in it, and it was tales of Artemis that Lonan preferred. That sly man was ever the outsider, yet never let anyone talk down to him or deny him anything. Lonan rolled his eyes at the screams of the Hammer grandchildren as Artemis yet again tricked Wishpoosh into swallowing him whole. Lonan chose this moment to take his final walk of the evening, not needing to stick around to hear the end of the tale.

  He paused briefly outside the blacksmiths. This was a building he dare not look at directly for fear of his own reactions to the sight of it. So many of Lonan’s formative years had been spent inside it, watching his father beat metal into pots, cauldrons, weapons and decorative items. The sounds of the smithy - the clang of hammer onto anvil-pressed iron, the hissing protest of water as angry metal was lowered into it, the crackling of coal in the forge - had been a balm to Lonan as he had watched his father’s powerful Knack at work. When he had been truly focussed, Lonan had seen his father’s eyes turn amber and sparks fly from them to mirror those he crafted by the beating of his hammer, the sign of a truly potent Knack. The other families of Smithsdown provided for all of the inhabitants of the village, but it was Lonan’s father’s skill, and the skill of his father before him, that had made Smithsdown just as important to all of the Corvae people, or so Mother Ogma often told Lonan. In the days when people had moved more freely throughout the forest, other villages had sent envoys on day-long treks to place an order with the Anvil family. It was said that the Magpie King himself had regularly sent his people from the Eyrie to
claim Lonan’s grandfather’s taxes in the form of wrought-iron decorations or weaponry, but the last contact with the Eyrie had been made before Lonan’s lifetime.

  His father’s Knack and his smithy should have been Lonan’s inheritance. Instead, Lonan had to settle for standing outside this building and listening to the fumbling crashing of a hammer being slapped against abused copper, the resulting tune a bastardisation of the skillful notes his father used to play. Knowing it was a foolish act, Lonan could not help but turn his head to catch sight of Jarleth Quarry, wearing Lonan’s father’s leather apron, pummelling away in the workshop. The curly-haired young man looked up, caught Lonan’s eye and flashed him a knowing, taunting grin.

  Lonan snapped his gaze away from the smithy, spat the remnants of his stew onto the muddy path, and took off. His fists were tight and shaking, and as Lonan focussed on the path in front of him, he had to will his rage to dissipate before he entered Mother Ogma’s house. She could not abide his fits of anger.

  Quarry had no Knack for metalwork. Neither did Lonan, for that matter. He had always hoped that time would allow the Knack to develop, someday giving him ammunition to claim his father’s legacy back, but long before his twentieth birthday Lonan had given up the hope of any Knack materialising for him, let alone the potent one that his father had possessed. There was a lot of debate in the village about where Knacks came from. Most believed that they were inherited, passed down from father to son by blood. Lonan believed differently. He believed that a Knack was earned, that it was a type of magic that somebody developed by applying themselves to a certain task with dedication and pride. After his father’s death, Lonan had been denied the chance to practice blacksmithing, and as such had been denied the opportunity to develop his family’s Knack.

  It was clear to Lonan and to anyone else with experience of what a decent smithy could produce that Jarleth Quarry had never developed this Knack either. However, Lonan knew all too well that Quarry did have a Knack of his own, one that Lonan could not hope to combat or expose, and these facts made any attempt to reclaim the forge futile.