The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  Lonan swore at the sight of a scarred face at the window, which quickly vanished when it made eye contact with him.

  “Time for me to get out of here,” he muttered, but it was too late.

  He heard the sound of the front door opening and angry footsteps pounding dirt, moving around the cottage.

  “Artemis, give me strength.”

  “Lonan Anvil, you stay the hell away from my baby,” came the angry shriek from Branwen. “Just stay the hell away from us.”

  Lonan bit back the retort that threatened to bark out in response, and instead waved his assailant off and attempted to move towards the forest.

  Unfortunately, Branwen’s cries had already attracted the attention of other members of the community, including her husband.

  “Oh hells,” Lonan swore.

  Jarleth Quarry strutted out from behind his forge, leather apron and gloves still attached, and his puzzled face turned to a sly grin when he noted Lonan’s presence.

  “All right, forager, what have you done to upset my beautiful wife?”

  Jarleth’s snide comment seemed to have more of an effect on his spouse than Lonan, with Branwen flinching at the mention of the word ‘beautiful’, causing her to raise a hand to her afflicted face. Of course, Jarleth’s irritation of his bride was all designed to make her angrier towards Lonan, who she blamed for scarring her.

  Branwen took a step forward, pummelling her calloused hands onto a shocked Lonan’s chest. “What did you do to us? Why did they come?”

  Lonan stood stunned, taking the blows while puzzling through what was happening. Is she talking about eight years ago? I know she still holds a grudge, but it’s not like her to explode in public like this.

  More faces appeared as further villagers came to see what the commotion was all about. Branwen continued to beat Lonan.

  Has Jarleth done something? Lonan raised his arms to fend off Branwen’s fists as he puzzled the source of her rage. Maybe that ‘beautiful’ was the last in a string of insults? I wouldn’t put it past the man at all.

  “Just what is going on here?” a gruff voice from the gathering crowd addressed the trio. Old Man Tumulty emerged from the growing throng, his thick white beard and bald pate announcing his identity. “Branwen, this rascal bothering you?”

  “Oh, nothing to worry about, Mr Tumulty,” Jarleth responded, arms open wide in a welcoming gesture at the sight of the village elder. “We’re used to this one by now.” He turned to regard Lonan, but also to hide the spark in his eye caused by his Knack being brought into play. “It’s just that poor Branwen is more tired than usual with the wee ‘un, and after everything last night.”

  “Wait, what?” Lonan said immediately. “Something happened last night?”

  “Now listen here, you… rogue. Why can’t you leave this family alone?”

  “Did anyone else notice she came over to me? No, anyone?” Without waiting for a response to his question Lonan continued, pointing his finger at Jarleth. “Now, what the hell happened last night?”

  “I said leave them alone, dammit.” The rebuke from Tumulty was accompanied by a slap to Lonan’s hand. “What happened to ye, Lonan? I remember such a nice little boy from my visits to yer father’s forge. Why’d ye have te change?”

  “Well, you are getting pretty old. Maybe your memory isn’t as good as it used to be.” Lonan could not help but lash out as he rubbed his stinging fingers, but catching Jarleth’s wicked grin moments later made him instantly regret it.

  This is exactly what that bastard wants - more reasons for the village to hate me.

  “I knew your father well, you little pissant, and I can tell you one thing - he’d be ashamed to see you here today.”

  Lonan looked Jarleth in the eye as he answered Tumulty’s retort. “Well, finally we found something we both agree on.” He turned to Branwen again and did his best to be as sincere and to sound as commanding as possible. “What happened last night?” Please, you used to trust me. Just answer my question. Magpie Spirit, let her hear me. For the first time in many years, Lonan looked Branwen directly in the eye.

  She gasped slightly, and Lonan hoped that this meant she had realised that he had no clue about what had happened last night. However, it was her husband that responded.

  “We were breached last night. Only the house, not the cellar of course, but it brought up… bad memories. You know what I’m talking about, right? Well, Branwen has been suggesting all morning that you might have had something to do with it - why would that be? I’ve been doing my best to calm her down. Guess you chose the wrong time to go sneaking up behind our cottage.”

  All the while during this speech, Lonan could see amber glints in Jarleth’s eyes telling him his Knack was in play. Branwen seemed to remain unaffected this time, her face displaying confusion and guilt more than anything else. Lonan could not help the small grin that crept across his own face at the realisation that he was winning over Jarleth’s Knack. For the first time in eight years, Branwen was listening to him instead of the man who stole her away.

  You’ve made a mistake, Lonan wanted to say, forgetting all about the dream last night. For so long, you’ve made a mistake. It’s me you should be with, me you loved.

  However, at this moment Lonan became aware of aggressive changes in the body language of many of the surrounding villagers. The larger male villagers. This is what Jarleth did, he changed people’s minds, this was his Knack. The worst thing is that Lonan was the only one who knew. Every other deluded soul in the village was convinced that Jarleth had developed a metal-working Knack. Convinced by Jarleth, of course.

  Time to cut and run. “I’m sorry to hear about last night,” Lonan responded, looking straight into Branwen’s eyes again. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  I have to leave now, but I won’t give up on you again. It should be my hand that comforts you, not his.

  “Well, I appreciate the sentiment, forager,” came the reply from Jarleth, Branwen too conflicted to make any response. “Just as much as I’ll appreciate you staying away from my family in these difficult times.”

  Lonan gave Branwen a final nod, turned, and walked towards the forest. As he disappeared into the trees, the gossip mongers began their work.

  Breached? That was the word that rang through Lonan’s head as he plodded deeper into the forest, climbing up the wooded hills that lay to the south of Smithsdown. His thoughts turned back to the coincidences that existed between the dream last night and the state of the village this morning.

  Had the blacksmith’s cottage been breached in my dream? None of the characters mentioned it, but they were really more focussed on saving their own skins. Except for the Magpie King, of course. By Artemis, if I believed in an all-powerful protector that watched over the villagers and kept us safe, then I’d want it to look like that guy. He was immense, so fast, and in the end he was really damned scary. Definitely the most terrifying thing about that dream.

  There had been evidence of commotion around Quarry’s cottage, of course, but nothing that had given Lonan the impression that anything had gotten inside.

  But it wasn’t really me watching the events last night. It was the prince, Adahy. Adahy hadn’t noticed a breach, but maybe he wouldn’t have. Would a prince notice if one or two villagers got caught up in a struggle? He certainly didn’t have much of a reaction to those guardsmen that died protecting his life. Or the whipping boy, Maedoc, who lost his face to give the prince some extra time to shit himself. The forest was in trouble if this guy is going to end up looking after it.

  Lonan chuckled as he caught himself thinking of the figments of his imagination as real people. The more he thought about it, the more he was able to tie the elements of his dream to aspects of his waking life. The assault on the cottage was obviously a mental reaction to seeing Jarleth working his father’s forge yesterday evening. And the whipping boy’s face was clearly to mirror the damage caused to Branwen when she had been attacked as a child. The atta
ck Lonan had caused, as far as the rest of the village was concerned.

  Lonan had not always been hated. As the son of the local blacksmith, he had been well received by all in the village, even as a young boy. In fact, the only person who had ever held any spite for him had been Jarleth, but since Quarry had never strayed far from his mother’s arms, Lonan had never felt any threat from one boy’s jealous looks.

  This changed on the night Lonan had turned to wave goodbye to Branwen as her family locked up for the night. Lonan had spotted Jarleth turning a key in her house’s lock. He was unlocking the door. Lonan had let out a cry to alert someone, but his father misunderstood and had dragged his son into the cellar, worried about a twelve year old’s screaming attracting too much attention as night fell. Jarleth had seen, however. He had been terrified when he met Lonan’s eyes across the village centre, but had scuttled off all the same, leaving Branwen’s door open. The open door served as an invitation for the monsters, and that night her cellar was breached and her mother and face were taken. Worse still, Lonan could not rest knowing that something was wrong, and down in his family’s cellar he had continued to scream out of panic and frustration. This brought the wrong sort of attention, and that was also the night that Lonan’s father was killed.

  Lonan never found out why Jarleth had done it. He had always assumed Jarleth had decided that if he could not have Branwen, then nobody was going to have her. The motives did not matter though. In the morning, when the village rose to the massacre, Lonan found himself accused of foul play. This was the first time he realised what Jarleth’s Knack was. All those years of convincing his mother to do his bidding had brought it out in him - Jarleth had a Knack for making people believe him. They believed it was Lonan who unlocked the Dripper door as the sun went down. Nobody, not Branwen nor his mother, had ever treated him the same again.

  With these foul thoughts polluting his mind, Lonan found himself unable to locate the ridge that Adahy had stood upon in his dream last night. He did not find this surprising at all, as Lonan was now fully convinced those events were all figments of his imagination. What he did find surprising, however, was how much he had allowed himself to care when he did think that an attack might have taken place last night. He meant those last words that he had spoken to Branwen - his heart felt considerably lighter knowing she was all right. Lonan’s brow creased in confusion at these thoughts. How could he feel that about somebody who hated him so much? Somebody who had let him down. She should have never believed Lonan would ever have put her or her family in danger, Jarleth’s Knack be damned. What good would it be now if she finally decided that Lonan was innocent? She was a Quarry now, with a Quarry child. Any hope that the earlier encounter with his former love had given Lonan was slowly drowned in these dark thoughts as he stumbled about the hillside.

  Lonan shook his head to urge these thoughts to leave him. I have to get out of Smithsdown, go somewhere that’s not been poisoned against me. Magpie King forbid I allow any feelings for that ruined woman to hold me back.

  He found the rest of the day to be unproductive, and returned to Mother Ogma as nightfall beckoned, shrugging off her soft reproaches at the continued lack of evening primroses for her medicine cabinet. He curled up in bed in a black mood, craving the oblivion sleep would give him.

  Adahy felt terrible. Ever since last night, he had remained in his room, staring out of the glass window to gaze at the dark forest that sprawled out beneath the Eyrie. His father had not spoken to him since their embrace last night. Poor Maedoc had been taken away to the healers and Adahy had not seen him since. All that the young prince was left with was the shame of his lack of action when the moment had called for a hero. He had always fancied himself to be a great warrior in the making. The tales of former Magpie Kings were his stories of choice from his nanny, fuelled by the promise of becoming a legend when he reached adulthood. He hated that child now, sitting upright in his bed with his optimistic, feckless grin.

  He clutched at a small portrait of his mother, her tumbling white hair framing her young face. Adahy missed her so much at moments like this. He wanted to bury his head in her arms, for her to stroke his hair and to tell him that everything would be better soon. Adahy’s father was not capable of replacing the tenderness of her touch.

  There was a knock on the door. After waiting for a few moments, a voice from behind it queried, “Adahy? It’s me.”

  Maedoc. Adahy ran across his chamber, opened the door and embraced his wincing friend. The prince did not care that tears ran freely down his face - he just wanted to feel comfort from somewhere.

  “Argh, no, not so tight,” Maedoc begged.

  Sniffing, Adahy backed away, beckoning the whipping boy into the room. Head lowered, he took this time to glance at Maedoc’s wounds. The entire right side of his friend’s face was bound by wine-stained linen, tied to his head by a bandage that wound diagonally across his face. He walked with a limp and cradled his right arm horizontally at his waist.

  “By the Great Spirit, Maedoc, your face...”

  “I know,” Maedoc replied, his lip wavering between a sneer and a grin. “The eye’s gone.” He sat on a stool, tapping the table top rhythmically with his good arm. “And when this comes off, I’ll look like a monster.”

  “Gods...” Adahy’s’ voice wavered off. “You saved my life.”

  “Hmm...” Maedoc continued his tapping. “What did your father say?”

  “He hasn’t spoken to me.”

  Maedoc raised his remaining eye.

  “I imagine he hates me right now.”

  “Nah, you’ll be all right. He won’t abandon his son.” Maedoc did his best to worm his fingers under his bandage at his ear, to scratch an itch. “Not sure what my prospects are now, though.”

  “Are you kidding? You saved my life. You’re a hero.”

  Maedoc raised his eyebrow. “The Magpie King didn’t seem to notice last night. Reckon he thinks it’s about time to get rid of me. Guess you’re too old to be spending so much time with servants, now.”

  Adahy fell to his knees in front of the servant, grabbing the lower-born boy’s tapping hand. “Never. I’ll never let it happen. I wouldn’t be here without you, I won’t abandon you.”

  Maedoc gave the prince a weak grin. “You gonna argue with him?”

  Adahy’s heart sank. Both of them knew that his father’s word was law.

  As if their combined thoughts summoned him, a black shape appeared in the doorway, regarding the kneeling prince with a stern gaze.

  “My son?”

  Maedoc was the first to react, going to his knee and bowing his head. “M’lord.”

  “Leave us.”

  Maedoc grunted as he stood, and Adahy felt a silence rush into the room as the whipping boy left, leaving the prince with the stifling sensation that the air in the room had already been breathed by a crowd of people.

  “I’ve shamed you, Father,” Adahy finally uttered, hanging his head as befitted those words. “I am not fit to carry the legacy of our people.” He looked up to find his father regarding him dispassionately, cradling the cowl of his station with one arm.

  “Follow me,” came the command. With that, Adahy’s father fitted the mask on his head, and to Adahy’s eyes he almost doubled in size as he became the Magpie King. The creature walked to the window overlooking the forest, pushed the glass pane open and stepped outside.

  Adahy allowed himself time to blink and take in what had just happened. There is no balcony to my room - where has he gone?

  The prince rushed to the open portal and thrust his head into the darkness, spitting rain peppering his face. Adahy’s window was cut into the slate roof of the Eyrie, and a few feet away was a sheer drop down the side of the castle and the mountain it was built on top of. The forest floor, which Adahy knew was below him, was invisible in the dark. Adahy’s eyes found his father hunched like a gargoyle on the edge of the roof, a brooding sentinel keeping watch over his forest kingdom.

&
nbsp; It became clear Adahy would receive no help in making his way across the rooftop, and it would be foolish of him to wait until the Magpie King had to reissue his order. Gingerly, Adahy stepped out onto the wet slope. In all the years he had lived in his room, this was something he had never contemplated, let alone actually done. Getting the second foot onto the roof was considerably more difficult, as if his brain’s survival instincts were actively fighting the danger that he was placing his body in. Hands gripping the edge of his window frame, he swung his legs outside and painfully inched along the roof. The last stretch towards his father involved having to let go of the bay window and trusting to the grip between his bare feet and the ancient rooftops. With his heart feeling like it would leap out of his mouth with every frantic beat, Adahy slowly slid his hands and feet across the slate until his father’s cloak was in reach, and then he threw himself towards it, panting with relief at reaching safety.

  “Hold on tight,” was his father’s only acknowledgement of Adahy’s accomplishment, before grabbing him tightly by his collar and leaping off the parapet towards the valley below.

  Despite his fear at what should be a fatal fall, Adahy was oddly confident his father would keep him safe. The young prince pulled himself into the Magpie King’s cloak, taking comfort in the feathers’ soft embrace. His father was controlling their decent by aiming himself at protrusions from the fortress and the cliff, using the momentum of their fall to propel them to the next available outcrop. This was a technique that many Magpie Kings used in the old stories, but Adahy had never heard of it being performed whilst carrying a passenger. It would be an impressive sight to behold if the young prince didn’t have his eyes closed the whole time.