The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  A black shape dropped in front of them, just within the shadows cast by the fading moon. Lonan stopped cold in his tracks, frozen by fear of what was about to happen.

  “Bad boys,” came a manic chuckling from within the shadows. “Oh, bad boooooys.” The voice would sound almost child-like, if not for the menace that laced every syllable uttered by it. “Daddy will be so happy I have found you, yes he will.”

  The shape emerged from the blackness. It was female, this time. Much like her brother, she had obsidian skin, a beak mask and a feathered cloak. Her chest was bare, however, and long greasy hair sprouted from behind her cowl, plastering itself across her mask and face.

  “Going to pick a pop of ratties, bake ‘em, fry ‘em, crunch for later,” she sang as she moved lazily towards them on all fours. “Put ‘em in a pocket holding, smack ‘em if they’re being bolding.”

  “Well,” Lonan ventured, assuming there was no way he was going to escape having to tussle with this creature, “Mummy was right. You’re fucking crazy.”

  The creature stopped and cocked her head. “Mummy?”

  Sensing a glimmer of hope, Lonan continued. “Yep, that’s right, the person who gave birth to you? The person who took one look at you and got rid of you? I don’t suppose you were able to speak as soon as you popped out of the womb? Because if you were singing that song as you sprouted from between her legs, that would explain why she abandoned you.”

  The creature ignored the insults. “Lily has a mummy?”

  “Well… possibly. When I last spoke to her a few hours ago, she was planning on taking her life. You have to understand, nobody in their right mind is going to be proud of producing something like you.”

  “No more mummy?”

  “Well, I don’t know. How quickly can you get to the temple?”

  The creature suddenly disappeared. Lonan stood for only a second, then grabbed Adahy again and pushed forward.

  “I give sunrise the best part of an hour. If we can survive for that long, we may have bought ourselves another day.”

  The pair pushed onwards, reaching the top of the cliff and achieving a burst of speed when their feet found a gentler gradient to follow. At every sound Lonan assumed their death had returned. A rustle in the bushes turned out to be a badger foraging for snacks. A dark shape that covered the moon was a stray cloud playing tricks on the forest below it. For the second time in Lonan’s life, dawn was unexpected and welcome.

  With the knowledge that they were safe from pursuit, Lonan led Adahy away from the path and they collapsed in an exhausted heap to catch a few hours’ worth of sleep.

  Again, there were no dreams.

  A Lost Tale of the Corvae

  This is one of the final tales of Artemis the sly.

  Artemis first came across the Lonely House in the days immediately following his theft from the Magpie King. He saw the open glade surrounding the building. He saw the House’s occupant waiting silently at the window.

  Artemis uttered up a prayer of thanks to the gods his people worshipped before arriving in the forest. He gave thanks that he was not desperate enough to seek her aid, and then turned his back on her and left.

  The second time he came upon the Lonely House was years later. Those years had been difficult for sly Artemis, as the Magpie King’s agents continued to pursue him throughout the forest, constantly seeking that which had been stolen from their master. At this visit, Artemis stood for almost an hour, staring at the figure that waited silently for him.

  Finally, he turned his back on the Pale Lady a second time, deciding he would rather face death and ruin at the hands of the Magpie King than strike a bargain with the creature awaiting him inside.

  The final time that Artemis came upon the Lonely House was in his last days, when his hair had more grey in it than brown, and the treasure that he had stolen from the Magpie King weighed heavily on his old frame.

  With a smile of relief, he entered the House without hesitation.

  The Lady was waiting for him inside. She had taken the appearance of a faceless young woman.

  “You have finally brought me the black flower of the Magpie King,” she said. Although the Lady had no mouth, Artemis could tell she was smiling.

  He reached into his bag and withdrew the treasure he had stolen from the Magpie King’s home.

  “It has brought me no pleasure,” Artemis said. “Since I stole this plant, I have been hounded across the forest, unable to stay in one place for more than a few days.”

  “Then why have you kept it for so long?”

  Artemis scowled. “The only thing worse than living a life of being hunted would be living a life in which he gets his own way. I will die before this flower is returned to the Magpie King. Unfortunately, I fear that time is very near to hand.”

  The Pale Lady nodded, silently.

  Artemis held up the black flower, offering it to his host. The Pale Lady leaned forward earnestly.

  “I want you to take the flower. Keep it from him, continue my purpose after I am gone.”

  The Pale Lady paused, tutted, and then leaned back.

  “I am afraid, Artemis the Thief, this I cannot do.”

  A look of dismay flooded across Artemis’ face. “But, this is why I have come to you. You make bargains with others, you give them what they want in return for unthinkable prices. Perhaps I am not being clear enough. I want you to keep this treasure from the Magpie King. In return I offer you my life.”

  The Pale Lady tutted again, the smile returning to her voice. “There are two problems with your request, friend Artemis. First, what you offer me is not worth my time. Your life is now measured in days, not even weeks, and thus holds little value to me. The second problem is much greater. The black flower cannot be kept from the Magpie King.”

  Artemis shook his head. “You are wrong. Look at me, I have succeeded for so long. If I was younger, if age had not crept up on me…”

  “No, the tale of the Magpie King and his gift from the Magpie Spirit is now etched into the very fabric of this forest - it cannot be written away that easily. The forest itself wishes to return things as they were. Just look at the troubles it has sent your way since you stole the flower from him. In my hands the flower could be kept from him for some time longer, but eventually it would be returned. Perhaps at great cost to myself.”

  Artemis hung his head in defeat. “I am without hope then. That bastard and his brood have stolen my people from me, and turned them all against me. I am to be denied my revenge, and his gifts will continue to pass down his line for all of history.”

  The Pale Lady stroked her chin. “You speak of revenge. If this is truly what you seek, then perhaps I can give you what you wish.”

  “You can keep the flower from him?”

  “No. The Magpie King must rule the forest, and he must be able to pass his powers to his heirs, but I believe the story will suffer some small changes.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “The flower shall remain in my care, and future Magpie Kings must seek me out to claim their birthright.”

  Artemis grew angry. “Then nothing changes. The flower is the source of his hold over my people, and if he can still have it then he still controls them.”

  At this moment, the Pale Lady reached out one of her thin arms and trailed her twig-like fingers down Artemis’ face. “Small changes, dear Artemis, and once the forest accepts this small change, more may be made. The forest must always have a Magpie King. But perhaps it may not always be one of the Corvae who claims this mantle.”

  “My people. That is the deal that I wish to make, that his line is broken, that his power passes to my people. And in return I offer you my life.”

  At this the Pale Lady laughed. “You continue to peddle that worthless commodity?” She reached out and took the black flower from Artemis. “No, this shall be my payment. With this I can write myself back into the forest’s story, after being removed from it for so long.”

 
“But his line shall be broken, and my people will rise to power?”

  The Pale Lady nodded. “Yes. Given time - generations - this can be done.”

  Satisfied, Artemis stood, allowing himself a weary smile. “It is done then, the bargain struck. I have succeeded.”

  “Go now, and spend what little time you have left.”

  With that, Artemis left the Lonely House and spent his final days in this world.

  After a fitful rest, they walked alongside the forest path, afraid to use it now in case the Magpie King had his daylight agents hunting them down. Mid-afternoon they came upon the village of Gallowglass.

  Gallowglass was similar to Smithsdown in many respects. The style of buildings were the same, as was the layout around a central green. What was dissimilar was the sizable stream that ran through the village itself, cutting the community in two. Lonan could not fathom how anyone would be able to sleep with that babbling going on about them. Also, Gallowglass did not have a forge. Instead, it was well known for its glassworks, as suggested by its name. A thin plume of smoke floated from one of the buildings, where Lonan suspected the village glassblower was hard at work. This is where the majority of Corvae glasswork came from. However, it had been many years since any meaningful contact had been made between Gallowglass and Smithsdown.

  Lonan was about to move out of the forest onto the village green, but something stopped him. Night isn’t far away, and the Gallowglass cellars would certainly be safer places to hide than in the trees again, but…

  “That is where they’ll be expecting us to go.” Lonan glanced again at his silent companion and then turned to gaze at the green to watch a brood of three children running under the heels of their young parents. “If we stay here, we’ll be putting the village in danger.”

  Lonan continued to watch as the children ran up to their parents, laughing. He felt a hollow sadness well up inside him as he saw the children’s father take the hand of his wife, and Lonan caught a glimpse of the life that he almost had with Branwen.

  “No more rest for us now, old friend. We keep going until this ends, one way or the other.”

  They moved on through the forest, not stopping when night fell, despite every fibre of Lonan’s being urging him to hide. At each moment he expected to hear signs of pursuit. What made their progress all the more difficult was the density of the foliage overhead and therefore the lack of moon or star light to guide them on their way. The untrodden ground they were traversing was a mixture of long grass, tree roots and patches of shrubbery, all covered with a thin layer of autumn leaf litter, resulting in slow progress and painful stumbles in the dark.

  Despite how uncomfortable the dark of the forest was, Lonan felt a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach when moonlight broke through the trees ahead. This meant he had reached his destination. Sure enough, the cover of the trees broke, and there in front of him, in the centre of the clearing, was the Lonely House. It was exactly as Lonan remembered from Adahy’s dream, although the front wall and window was completely intact despite the damage that had been caused to it years ago. Lonan was not at all surprised about this.

  Adahy gave out a low moan, which Lonan initially assumed was due to the familiar sight of the building. He quickly realised, however, it was a reaction to the face that was waiting for them both at the window. Again, Lonan had expected to see the Pale Lady, but the differences between her silhouette now and when Adahy had been younger unnerved him. The white face remained, but it was her hair that was unusual. For Adahy, it had hung covering her face, but now it was suspended, stretched out above her head, waving like a seaweed halo under a stormy sea.

  They may have lost the nerve to continue at this point if not for the inhuman bellow that echoed from the trees behind them.

  “Adahy. IT IS MINE. IT IS MINE.”

  It was the cripple who began moving first, running from the sound of the Magpie King’s pursuit towards the awaiting face. Lonan followed his king’s lead, quickly overtaking him. At this point he realised that the face in the window had disappeared, but he feared the certainty of death that Maedoc offered much more than whatever the Lady held in store. His shoulder hit the door of the cottage with as much force as he could muster, and his efforts were rewarded with a painful shattering of wood as the ancient barrier gave way, swinging open.

  Lonan tumbled onto the ground, his wildly flailing arms proving useless at stopping his face from coming into contact with the floor. A wet explosion and the loss of sight to his right signified that some damage had been caused by the fall, and as he raised himself up the now-familiar dripping of blood to the floor confirmed this. Knowing he did not have the time to tend to minor wounds, Lonan looked around for a possible exit. Based on his memories of the house from Adahy’s dreams, he knew that no force within these woods would convince him to enter the downstairs room that contained the Pale Lady, so his only remaining choice was the stairs.

  This choice was confirmed by the form of Adahy, who barrelled past Lonan, howling as if he was being yanked up those stairs by an invisible chain. Behind Adahy, the door to the cottage slammed shut, closed by an unseen force.

  Lonan expected to hear the rampaging pursuit, to see the door splinter open and to look his death in the face.

  But nothing happened.

  In the seconds it took Lonan to realise that Maedoc was not going to appear before him, the silence of the Lonely House settled over him like a smothering sack. He slowly turned his head towards the doorway that opened to the downstairs room. The dancing shadows of candlelight and a quiet symphony of innocent creaks were the only signs that something or someone might be in that room, but Lonan’s entire frame began to tremble uncontrollably at the thought of facing her now.

  A whimpering noise from above him relieved Lonan of having to make a decision. Swiftly, yet taking as much care as possible to move with little noise, Lonan crept up the staircase to find Adahy perched on the mid-way landing, the king’s fists white with tension as he clutched the banister, staring at nothing in particular, returned to his catatonic state after the action of the chase. Lonan tugged at the old man’s sleeve, but Adahy’s knuckles were white. He was not letting go, and simply moaned in response to the disturbance.

  This delay gave Lonan time to take stock of the situation. He could discern no noises from outside, but was certain Maedoc had not called off his search so easily. From below, the firelight from the downstairs room trickled out to the hallway and up the stairs, but Lonan knew that he was not yet ready to make the journey to see her. That left only upstairs. He raised his head to the landing, which was illuminated only by moonlight from a single window. The landing was thick with cobwebs, all rife with arachnids marching up and down them. These unnatural drapes moved ever so slightly back and forward, but Lonan could not discern where exactly the breeze was coming from.

  At that moment, the moon outside must have unveiled its strength from behind a cloud, because the landing became considerably brighter and Lonan noticed two things at the same time.

  First, perched on a shelf at the back of the hallway was a small clay pot with a single black flower blooming in it.

  But between the stairway and the landing stood the Pale Lady, the faded white of her dress blending with the hanging cobwebs.

  Lonan was transfixed, his mauled fingers suddenly throbbing with the rush of adrenaline that surged through his veins. The Lady did not move towards them, but watched the pair, or at least as much as she could with her flat, featureless face. As it had been when Lonan had viewed her from the window only moments ago, her hair flowed in waves from her head, as if she was submerged underwater. The folds of her thin, white dress also rippled in the unnatural breeze. His eyes tried not to focus on the tree roots below her nightdress, moving like human muscles as she swayed her body. What he could not avoid, however, was the ruined condition of the Pale Lady’s skin. When Adahy had met with her in Lonan’s dream she had appeared as a child, her young skin rippling with snake-like
movements underneath. Now she appeared to them both as an old hag, her pale skin thin and tattered, in some places completely torn, showing the movement of the tree roots. Her human mask was little more than puppetry, a child’s sock pulled over a fearsome hand.

  Tentatively, Lonan took one step up the staircase. “We’ve come for the flower,” he forced himself to say. “May we have it?”

  She did not answer, but cocked her head slightly and stretched a clawed hand towards Lonan, opening it expectantly.

  She wants a gift.

  Lonan cursed his own stupidity. They had nothing to offer her. He wracked his brains to think of anything on his person that might satisfy her. Back home in Smithsdown, he had an array of items that held value for him - a black squirrel pelt, his favourite carving knife, an old horse shoe his father had forged - but he was not sure if any of those items would satisfy her curiosity, even if he had remembered to bring them.

  Maybe she’d be interested in something she can’t hold. A year of my life? The memory of my father?

  My love for Branwen?

  Before he had sufficient time to process these thoughts, the downstairs door imploded.

  The next few seconds seemed to happen so slowly for Lonan, as if all involved were wading through treacle as they performed their next actions.

  Through the dark door below leapt Maedoc. The impact that burst the door open was the same impact that propelled him up the stairway, causing him to land like a spider on the thinly plastered wall. He hung there suspended for what must only have been a fraction of a second, although to Lonan it was an eternity. He could see now that the feathers of magpie cloak that was draped across Maedoc’s back were ragged and old, and many bare patches littered the once-proud item of clothing. What he was wearing over the rest of his body had once been some sort of leather armour, but it too was not a complete item anymore. Gaping holes in the material exposed Maedoc’s flesh to the world, yet his skin was so ill-kept and abused that in the darkness of the night, most would assume it was just a continuation of his clothing. The bespoke helm of the Magpie King was now firmly directed towards Lonan and Adahy. In Lonan’s dreams of it, when it had been worn by Adahy and his father, the helm had been brightly polished and perfectly maintained, as was befitting of the most important symbol of the leader of the Corvae. Maedoc’s reign had given much abuse to the helm, and it had clearly received poor repair work in response. At one point, it looked like it had been broken where the beak joins with the rest of the head, and the weld marks there stood out from the burnished-black metal work on the rest of the item.