The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  “I don’t believe it. One dozen of them and he bested them in zeconds. The man is incredible, he...” The rest of Celso’s sentence of praise died in his throat as it was opened up by the point of a Magpie Guard spear. In death, the diplomat was finally silent.

  “Count the bodies. I can only find ten. I read twelve before the clouds came. Can anyone see the others?”

  “Are you certain? I thought there were only eleven.”

  “There are still only ten bodies, damn it. Take the prince and flee.”

  The warning came too late as a dark, hulking mass of fur and fangs leapt from the foliage, disembowelling the guard captain with a single swipe.

  Adahy had never seen a Wolf up close before. The creature’s body was roughly humanoid, but it seemed disproportionately muscular, with every sinew of gristle standing out and flexing on the thin leather of its belly. The rest of the creature was covered in dark, thick fur which sprouted from it like legs from a spider. Adahy faced the harbinger of his death with a detached curiosity, all at once wanting to take in as much information about this nightmarish figure, but also keenly aware of his impending and violent demise.

  As the captain’s body slowly fell, steam rising from his freed warm innards, Adahy peered into the face of the beast, grey eyes and dark fangs reflecting the now-menacing moonlight. It flexed its fingers and lowered its gaze to regard Adahy, emitting a grunting laugh. It knew who Adahy was.

  The prince closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

  A boyish scream pierced Adahy’s serenity. He opened his eyes to the sight of Maedoc falling to the ground, having intercepted a killing blow that was meant for the prince. A thud to his right signified the arrival of a second Wolf who began to tear apart the remainder of the guard. The first creature moved closer, its lethal grin betraying the pleasure that it took in stalking the young prince.

  Magpie Spirit, give me the strength to die with fight in my heart, Adahy prayed, yet he remained rooted to the spot. A spreading warmth in his undergarments alerted him to the fact that he had just soiled himself. He was going to die a coward.

  And then the Magpie King was there. Adahy’s father was just a man, but in the dark with his feathered cloak swirling about him, he seemed like a giant. In each hand he wielded two giant black iron sickles, a single one too heavy for Adahy to hold aloft for any length of time. His key distinguishing feature, however, was the mask that he wore to cover his face. The decorative iron helm protruded forward and down, mimicking the beak of a Magpie, and was connected to the king’s cloak by a matching mane of black and white Magpie feathers. When he wore it Adahy’s father stopped being human and took on the mantle of his ancestors, pledged to protect the Corvae and the forest.

  The Wolf moved too slowly, and in a graceful dance the Magpie King breezed past it, moving to intercept the second while the first Wolf’s torso slid into two halves. The last remaining guardsmen had managed to keep the final Wolf at bay with their spears and the sacrifice of two of their number. In a smooth movement, the King reached his sickle forward and opened the beast up.

  Then the Magpie King was at his son’s side. “Are you hurt?” The uncanny utterance of those tender words from such an imposing figure was ignored due to how welcome they were.

  “Father,” Adahy began, and then to his shame he embraced the Magpie King and sobbed openly.

  “My lord…” This spluttered address came from Maedoc, who miraculously had survived the Wolf’s blow, but his torn face would never recover.

  “Quick, boy,” the Magpie King commanded, “see to my son. There will be more on their way, and our numbers are much depleted.”

  Maedoc looked briefly at his master in shock at being asked to continue his duties with half of his face hanging off, but with a muttered, “Yes sire,” he thrust himself under the shoulder of a still-sobbing Adahy and limped his way in the direction of the Eyrie.

  “What happened here?” Adahy could hear his father query in the direction of Celso’s corpse.

  “Mouse wouldn’t shut up, led the Wolves right to us,” came the reply.

  “What a shame,” the Magpie King’s gravelled tones continued, “that the Wolves took him first.”

  A pregnant pause was followed by the remaining guardsmen’s affirmations, but Adahy was already miles away. He was a coward, and he would have died a coward tonight. Even poor Maedoc, a slave boy, had more courage than the young prince.

  I will never be worthy of taking the mantle of the Magpie King when my father is gone.

  A tale from the fireplaces of the Low Corvae.

  Many seasons ago, seasons more than any in this village have seen, there lived an old pig farmer. He was a kind man whose wife had passed on many years ago through a sickness in her lungs, yet before she left she had gifted him with three beautiful daughters. These fine girls were the sole source of the farmer’s happiness, and he guarded them jealously from the outside world. In turn, the farmer’s daughters loved the old man more than life itself. They would tend to the pigs for him, prepare his food, tidy his home and sew his clothes, all to provide joy in the old man’s world. But often, the girls would stare wistfully at the forest path that wound its way beside the fences of the pig farm, their minds filled with desire for the life that might exist for them outside of caring for their old father. This pang of curiosity would go unsatisfied until the youngest of the girls reached her sixteenth birthday.

  When the autumn leaves laid a rust-strewn blanket throughout the dark forest, they brought trouble with them. This was not the evil of wolves or of birds, but instead was an untrustworthy, handsome smile and hard leathered feet, for the leaf fall brought sly Artemis with it. An apple in hand, travel sack thrown across his back and a patched cloak sheltering him from the misty winds, the trickster walked and skipped his way towards the farm. Indeed, he may very well have continued past it if the old farmer’s youngest daughter had not decided to take that very moment to lean over the fencing of the pig sty to throw out the muck that the animals had produced for her on that day. Artemis took a greedy bite from his apple and decided he was hungrier than an apple would satisfy, so took it upon himself to go knock, knock, knocking on the old farmer’s door.

  The old man himself answered, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of handsome Artemis. The farmer did not like this confident stranger turning up on his doorstep, but could not ignore the responsibilities of hospitality so he reluctantly invited sly Artemis into his home.

  Artemis relished the reveal of the second and third daughters, both hard at work preparing supper for that night.

  “You are welcome to sit and eat with us, of course,” the farmer offered the stranger, “but I will ask my daughters to stand and watch us eat. They shall not feed until we have finished and you have left our table. These three girls are the only joy left to me in the world, and it would break my heart if a strange man stole them away from me under my own roof.”

  Artemis agreed wholeheartedly with the farmer’s suggestion, and bowed to each of the daughters in turn, begging their forgiveness for delaying their meals. The girls smiled back at the stranger, causing a knot of dread to form in the farmer’s gut.

  After Artemis had dined, he rose from the table to allow the daughters to sate their hunger. As was custom, Artemis enquired for a basin so he could wash himself after a day of travelling. The farmer nodded, and ushered his girls to boil water for the stranger, filling a basin in front of the stove.

  “However,” the farmer warned, “whilst you bathe I shall ask my girls to leave the house and wait outside for you to finish. Their eyes have never before beheld another man’s body, and they shall not do so tonight. These three girls are the only joy left to me in the world, and it would break my heart if a strange man stole them away from me under my own roof.”

  Artemis thanked the kind old man warmly, and apologised again to each of the daughters as they wrapped their shawls around their shoulders to help them brave the bite of the evening air while Artemis bath
ed. The girls smiled back at the stranger, forcing the knot in the farmer’s gut to writhe like a starved rat.

  The girls returned inside after Artemis had bathed and clothed himself again. Being as close as it was to moon rise at that time, the old farmer was obliged to offer Artemis lodgings for the night.

  “However,” the old farmer warned, “I can only offer you my barn for your rest this evening. There are two beds in this house, one for myself and the other for my daughters. I cannot trust another man to be under the same roof as my girls during the night. These three girls are the only joy left to me in the world, and it would break my heart if a strange man stole them away from me under my own roof.”

  Artemis was in complete agreement with the farmer, and thanked him humbly for the straw and roof to sleep under. As each daughter made her way to bed, Artemis gave them a kiss on the hand to wish them goodnight. In turn, each daughter again smiled at the stranger. The knot in the farmer’s gut threatened to crawl up his gullet, leap out of his mouth and strangle the stranger where he stood, but the old man was satisfied to see the handsome man finally leave his home.

  However, every smile that the farmer’s daughters had given Artemis had just made the stranger want them more, and the final wanton glance from the youngest daughter as she closed the bedroom door behind her had made Artemis’ mind up for him. As soon as the farmer had shut Artemis outside in the cold, the trickster began to hatch a plot. During his time in the old man’s house, Artemis had noticed that the farmer’s eyesight was very poor, and often asked his daughters to clarify what he was looking at. This gave Artemis an idea.

  After a smoke on his pipe and a stiff drink, the farmer decided to turn himself in for bed. As was his routine, the farmer lit a candle and crept into his daughters’ bedroom to kiss them goodnight. His girls were sleeping restlessly that night, shuffling and squirming under the covers. A result of this evening’s intrusion, the farmer decided. He moved across the head of the bed, planting a soft kiss on the pink skin of each of his daughters in turn. Confident that his girls were safe under his roof, the farmer slept peacefully that night.

  The daughters were not, of course, safe under his roof. While the old man had been smoking his pipe, Artemis had secreted the girls one after the other out of their bedroom window, replacing each in their bed with a piglet from the farmer’s own herd. It would only be in the morning that the farmer would realise he had not kissed any of his daughters goodnight at all. While the piglets rested, the daughters were being seeded by Artemis in the barn, having their eyes opened to the life that existed beyond the pig farm fences.

  By morning, the stranger was gone, leaving behind him only an old man’s broken heart, three awakened appetites and three well-rested pigs.

  Lonan awoke with a start. Wide eyed, he looked around the room, expecting to see Magpie Kings and wolf men jumping out at him from the shadows.

  What a dream. He shook his head, doing his best to sort out reality from the vivid fiction of last night. Normally my dreams are about my past. Where did all of that come from, then?

  Lonan blinked, willing himself to deal with the real world, and looked around the cellar. The ceiling door was already open, and Mother Ogma had already helped Harlow upstairs.

  How long have I slept in? He pulled himself out of bed, still wearing his clothes from the night before, and marched upstairs.

  En route Lonan pondered the strange characters that had appeared to him last night. What kind of names were Adahy, Maedoc and Celso? They were nothing like the names of the villagers, who took their names from their people’s history before they hid in the forest. Mother Ogma had said once that dreams were your brain’s way of sorting out the information that got jumbled up in your head throughout the day. That would explain the presence of the Magpie King and the monsters - those figures were an aspect of daily life for the villagers - but the images that his brain had summoned to represent those mythical figures made Lonan shudder involuntarily. It was not uncommon for village children to wake up screaming at the nightmares that their brains conjure during the night, but never had Lonan experienced anything so real. He allowed his mind to wander back to the night he lost his father. Did the shadowy image of his father’s killer match the Wolves from last night?

  “Good morning, Lonan,” Mother Ogma cheerily welcomed him, already working away at the fire. “Sleep well?”

  Lonan glanced over at Harlow in his chair, who had already fallen back asleep. “You shouldn’t have taken him up by yourself,” he reprimanded, “I should have been awake ages ago.”

  “You won’t catch me disagreeing with you there, but everyone needs a little treat now and again. You were so unsettled last night, I thought you might need the extra rest.”

  Unsettled? Lonan did his best to blink the sleep away, opening his eyes up wide to drink in the reality of the cottage interior. His dream last night had been strange. So violent. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “So, yellow flowers?”

  “That would be nice, yes. Oh, and we’re low on agaric toadstools if you happen by any.”

  “I’ll grab them if I see them, but I’m heading up the ridge today. Don’t catch many agarics up there.”

  Mother Ogma shot him a curious glance. “Anything I should know about?”

  Lonan shook his head dismissively. “Just planning a little jump to see if I can fly.”

  Mother Ogma grinned. “You can’t scare me that easily, dearie. A few years ago perhaps, yes, but not any more. Too much fire in you now to give in like that.”

  “How was last night? The roof looking okay?”

  “I had a quick peek and couldn’t spot anything, but you know what my eyes are like. Take a look for me when you go out, won’t you?” She waited for him to respond and then added, “The village seems peaceful enough.”

  “Good for them,” Lonan muttered under his breath, grabbing an apple from a small bowl of fruit and making his way towards the doorway.

  Blinking to adjust to the daylight, Lonan took a quick turn around the cottage to survey the roof. No new marks seemed to have been added to the doors or window covers, but he did notice some deep indents in the straw roof that he would have to reshape later. It confirmed what he thought he had heard - something had definitely been up there last night. This was not an unusual occurrence in Smithsdown. The villagers hid themselves in the cellars because the dark of night was almost guaranteed to bring the monsters. Most of the time, locked doors and windows were enough to dissuade the invaders from bothering the village any further, although a keen eye could always find evidence of their prying. Indents in the thatching of roofs, scratches on window frames or signs of burrowing at front doors.

  It had been a few years since a Smithsdown cottage had been broken into after nightfall, and the night that Lonan’s father was killed was the only time in Lonan’s life that any cellar doors had actually been breached - his family’s and Branwen’s. But even though the possibility of an attack was low, there were enough signs every morning to remind the village that danger was always very, very close.

  As was his ritual, Lonan walked in the direction of his mother’s house to catch a glimpse of his sister before heading off to forage. He gave a grin as a giggle signified his sister’s safety from inside the cottage. After confirming Aileen was in good health, he walked around the outside of the settlement, continuing to ponder what he had seen last night.

  It had been Smithsdown that was being attacked in his dream, he was sure, right down to the fact that Quarry would be fool enough to leave the forge fires running. And he knew that something had definitely been on Mother Ogma’s roof last night, but that was not unusual. He imagined that most homes in the village were disturbed in some small way at least once a week.

  The villagers never knew exactly what threatened them at night. They simply referred to them as ‘the monsters’. Only a small handful in Smithsdown had ever caught a glimpse of the creatures and survived, and none of those survivors were left in a sound enough st
ate of mind to recall an accurate image of their attacker. Lonan wrinkled up his nose and tried to remember what he had seen on the night that his own cellar had been breached, the night his father had been killed. Could that dark shape have been some kind of wolf man? The memory of that time had been so twisted within Lonan’s mind that he could not really trust it.

  Lonan stopped and blinked. Am I really trying to find evidence that the dream last night was real? A dream that had the Magpie King in it?

  He allowed himself a chuckle at that thought. He had long ago decided that the Magpie King was a myth, a story tale figure like Artemis the trickster designed to make people feel safer in their beds while death stalked the streets.

  If the Magpie King does exist, why can’t I remember anyone from the Eyrie contacting the village? Lonan raised his gaze to the distant highlands in the north, to the sight of the ancient fortress that blended into the rock of the skyline. There were a number of villagers who had attempted the trip during Lonan’s lifetime - the Eyrie was a day’s worth of hard travel away, which made the risk of being caught in the forest at nightfall a real threat - but none of them had ever returned. The other Corvae villages were about the same distance away, and contact with them had been more fruitful, but the dangers of any travelling in the forest meant that contact with the villages remained sparse.

  Despite Lonan’s doubts, he could not help himself. The blacksmith’s cottage was where most of the action would have been last night, where the Magpie King had attacked most of the Wolves. A quick peek at that part of the village would put his mind at rest, and then he could continue about his day as normal. He edged around to the south of the village to where his father’s former forge lay. A quick scan of the area betrayed no sign of any conflict, although peering closer drew Lonan’s attention to some grooves on the window frame that could have been claw marks…