The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  “He was going to save it,” the Shaven said, staring at the boy, her hand on his forehead again. “A Wildman came looking for help, and Starving Pup - this beaten man - was the only Bravador who said yes.” She paused. “Then the half-masked idiot came to the Proving Grounds to recruit some others, to guilt them into joining the cause.”

  Crazy Raccoon laughed again. Not difficult to see how that turned sour.

  The Shaven continued to look at the boy, biting her lip. That was the most emotion Crazy Raccoon had seen on her face the whole time. “He came looking for heroes. Said that’s what we all should be…”

  The woman was deep in thought, her sentence trailing off.

  Crazy Raccoon looked at her, lost in the boy’s words, and then he gave a bark of celebration. “Not you?! You don’t think he was talking to you, was he?”

  Her face shot up, coal-eyes glaring at him.

  “He was looking for Bravadori, Queen’s Blades. We’re the city’s heroes, not some stinking Shaven.”

  For the briefest of moments, a pained anguish burst through the woman’s anger. She looked away from Crazy Raccoon, and when she turned back again, all emotion was gone.

  “Stupid fucking Shaven,” Crazy Raccoon muttered, shuffling away from her. “You had your chance. Just die, or get out of the city.”

  A larger shaft of light broke through the darkness, signifying that the main door to the cell had opened. Crazy Raccoon squinted through the half-light, and caught a glimpse of yellow on the newcomer’s arm.

  “About fucking time,” Crazy Raccoon muttered as he stood up. Unsure on his feet, he walked over the bodies towards the Paw who the constables had let in. He recognised Colossal Newt by the greens and yellows of his mask.

  “What took the Turtle so long?” Crazy Raccoon grunted, shielding his eyes from the light as they exited to the street. “Constables usually send word as soon as they take one of us in.”

  Colossal Newt looked awkward, not sure how to properly address Crazy Raccoon. “He ain’t happy at the moment. Not your biggest fan right now.”

  Crazy Raccoon laughed, and wiped off some of the muck of the cells from his boot. “Aw, he’ll be fine soon enough. He’s used to my little indiscretions.”

  Colossal Newt said nothing, but continued to look uneasy as they made their way across the city.

  A quarter of an hour later, they arrived at the Paws’ headquarters. Galloping Turtle and a good portion of the Paws high command waited for them on the steps. As Newt had promised, Galloping Turtle did not look best pleased.

  Crazy Raccoon smiled, and stepped forward to address the stable master, arms raised. “You put on this show for me? Come on, Galloping Turtle, let’s kiss and make up. You didn’t give me my lick, I made a small mess for you to clean up.”

  “Do you remember what happened to you last night?”

  Crazy Raccoon screwed up his face. “You know what I’m like when I’m in my cups. Broke a few noses, I guess. Drank more than my fair share. You know what it’s like.”

  “You got into a fight.”

  “So?” Crazy Raccoon grinned, catching the eyes of the other Paws. None of them smiled back. A few of them looked worried, but more of them seemed… sad? Disappointed? “Not unusual for a Bravador to knock a few heads together when they’re angry. It’s our right, as protectors of Espadapan. Am I right, boys?” Crazy Raccoon’s attempt to play the crowd fell on deaf ears.

  “You got into a fight,” Galloping Turtle repeated, “and you drew your blade.”

  Crazy Raccoon laughed again, doing his best to dismiss the memory of Galloping Turtle’s command last night. “Well, that’s what it’s there for.”

  “You lost.”

  Crazy Raccoon’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto Galloping Turtle. The old man was deadly serious. An icy pang began to well up from Crazy Raccoon’s innards. “No,” Crazy Raccoon said, shaking his head, “that can’t be right. I never lose. Everyone knows I never lose.”

  In the corner of his eye, Crazy Raccoon fancied that he could see the ghost of Restless Hawk, his former stable master, shaking her head at him, waving the brown and white feathers of her mask in disappointment. You’ve done it now, she seemed to be saying. You let them find out.

  “Now they know you do lose. Half the Bravadori in the city have heard about it already. The rest will know by sundown, the way the rumour is spreading.”

  Trying to not let his hands start shaking, Crazy Raccoon brought them up to his face, mopping his brow. “How many were there? How many of the bastards jumped me?”

  Finally, Galloping Turtle smiled. “One.”

  “No. Not just one.”

  The leader of the Paws stepped down from the porch, fully grinning now. “She was a common whore, Crazy Raccoon. You refused to pay her, so she drew her blade on you.”

  “Dull your blade, you’re lying.”

  “She drew her blade, disarmed you, and beat you in front of a tavern of Storks. From what I hear, it was hilarious.”

  Crazy Raccoon was shaking. He looked at the growing crowd of Paws, and saw the smiles on their faces. They thought it was funny. They were laughing at him.

  “It ain’t fucking true! And even if it was, I must have been plastered, out of my head on something. No way that could happen to me sober.”

  Galloping Turtle shook his head. “You know what, Crazy Raccoon? I don’t think that’s true. Let me tell you something I figured out a while ago. People are scared of you. Other Bravadori. You’ve built up a fearsome reputation for yourself in the city, something or other you apparently did when you were younger.

  “But guess what I realised? I’ve never actually seen you in a fight before. People tend to run from you before you get the chance. And that got me to thinking - how long’s it actually been since this man has had a chance to test himself?”

  Crazy Raccoon, an icy pain growing in his chest, avoided looking directly at Restless Hawk’s disappointed ghost. He had promised to never let their secret out. “That’s ratshit. I get in sword fights all the time.”

  Galloping Turtle shrugged. “You argue with people. Shout at them, then they run away. I thought I was crazy, so I asked around. And I get the same story every time. Nobody, not one of the Paws, has ever seen you in an actual fight.”

  “You’re an idiot. Why’d everyone fear me if I was no good?”

  The leader shrugged again. “Beats me. But you were useful, so I let it slide. As long as none of the others figured it out. But they figured it out last night, didn’t they?”

  Crazy Raccoon took a deep breath and drew his rapier. Many of the assembled Paws gasped, and took a step back. He smiled at that.

  “Don’t do that, lads, girls, don’t worry about this old man,” Galloping Turtle said. “He doesn’t have it in him to best any of you.”

  “They didn’t say that out at the Saltillo estate last year. Whooping Mole there and a group of the young ones helped me scare the bandits away.”

  “You didn’t do anything. You left your sword at the inn and just shouted a lot while the others did the work, isn’t that so, Mole?”

  A grey-masked Bravador in the crowd nodded. Crazy Raccoon’s rage bubbled.

  “Oh yeah? What about when we defended Pachuca? Or the Jackdaw rebellion? Or when we hunted down the last of the Squirrels during the Serpent Summer? None of those fights would’ve been won without me.”

  Galloping Turtle kept grinning, his predator’s teeth relishing the kill. “Never drew a sword. I asked around. You never fought.”

  Crazy Raccoon’s breathing came quick now. Every small movement in the crowd made him flinch. “Plough your mother. Morelia. The massacre at Morelia. Not a soul walked out of there except for me.” His stomach churned, both at the turn of events today, outside his home, but also at having to cast his mind back to that red-stained night.

  The smile left Galloping Turtle’s face, and he shook his head. “Couldn’t find anyone who saw that one, obviously. But you were just a pup w
hen that happened. Built your reputation on that one, and nothing more. You’ve either lost what you had back then, or you never had any talent in the first place.”

  “You’re dead, Galloping Turtle. I’ll rip out your insides and play them like a banjo.”

  Galloping Turtle nodded, drawing his own rapier. “Mark this, ladies and gentlemen. Mark the day that the great Crazy Raccoon left the Lion’s Paws.”

  Crazy Raccoon screamed, lunging at Galloping Turtle, slashing wildly. And then Galloping Turtle was somehow behind him, a red-hot sting flaring on Crazy Raccoon’s buttocks.

  Crazy Raccoon turned, his face flush. There were a few laughs from the crowd. Galloping Turtle had slapped him with the flat of his blade. Spanked him.

  Crazy Raccoon growled, swiping his blade at the onlookers, threatening them.

  “Pay him no mind,” Galloping Turtle said, addressing the rest of the Paws. “He couldn’t hope to take on even the least of you.”

  Suddenly, Galloping Turtle’s blade whipped out of nowhere, slapping Crazy Raccoon’s own sword to the ground. Crazy Raccoon held tight to the hilt, keeping a firm grip, but three times he tried to raise the weapon, and three times Galloping Turtle beat it back to the ground. Crazy Raccoon’s defences were wide open. They had never been closed. Galloping Turtle could kill him any time he wanted to.

  Leaving the tip of his blade trailing in the dirt, avoiding inviting Galloping Turtle to hit it further, Crazy Raccoon retreated, panting hard, wide eyes darting from the advancing Bravador to those crowded around them. Where he had once seen pride, now those eyes held emotions he was not used to - disgust, embarrassment. Disappointment.

  He locked his eyes on Galloping Turtle’s. Crazy Raccoon opened his mouth to speak, but could not find the words to do so.

  When had Galloping Turtle gotten this good?

  Galloping Turtle looked back, an expression of finality behind his turtleshell mask. “Reuben Gallo, also known as Crazy Raccoon, you have brought shame to the honoured stable of the Lion’s Paws. I hereby eject you from our number.”

  “Queen’s sagging tits you will! I’ll kill you first!” With a cry, Crazy Raccoon raised his blade again, lunging forward, aiming for Galloping Turtle’s gut. A kick to his foot unbalanced Crazy Raccoon, sending him to his knees. More lashes to his back, more blows from the flat of Galloping Turtle’s blade, sent him to the dirt.

  A wad of spittle in his face signified the end of the assault.

  “Get him out of here,” Galloping Turtle said.

  Crazy Raccoon did not see who the stable master was addressing, did not see the two Bravadori who grabbed his arms and dragged him through the streets, away from the Lion’s Paws and out of the barrio. Instead, Crazy Raccoon’s eyes were locked on the dead woman staring at him from amongst the bystanders, the knife that killed her still protruding from her neck.

  You told them our secret, she seemed to say in his head. You let them find out.

  I’m fucked, Crazy Raccoon thought, his mind whirring. My name is dirt. I’ll be dead within a week.

  No stable will have me, now. I’m fucked.

  As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan

  Our tale begins in the early days, when the Muridae had first come to the Wilds. Those brave travellers had stepped off their boats, amazed at the vastness of the new lands they had discovered for their Queen. Imagine their surprise when they discovered people already living in these lands, claiming it as their own.

  The Wildfolk who first came into contact with the Mouse people were cautious, unsure of the motives of the newcomers. As instructed by their Mistress, they fled whenever approached by the outsiders, rushing back to their hidden villages. Whenever it seemed the Muridae were getting too close, the Wildfolk would use their magic and their arrows to ward off unwelcome eyes.

  The leader of the Muridae expedition began to despair. His spirits lowered, he would often wander the hills of the coast alone, except for his hunting dogs, worrying about what his queen would say to him when he returned, having to report his failure to contact the natives.

  It was here that the leader, a blond-haired man called Alejandro, encountered a Wildwoman tending her goats on the hills. She, too, had heard the Mistress tell her to stay away from the newcomers, to refuse them all contact and aid. However, the sight of Alejandro’s despair melted her fears away, and his blond hair and handsome face won her heart. She, in turn, was a beauty. Her skin was the colour of honey, her hair as dark as a raven’s soul, her eyes as inviting as an open door. They became lovers, there on the hilltops, amongst the goats and the hounds. More than that, she became his confidant, and together they devised a plan to arrange a meeting between Alejandro and the head of the goatherd’s village.

  When the goatherd eventually sneaked Alejandro into her village and brought him before the village head, the elders were furious, and prepared to take Alejandro’s life as an offering to their Mistress. However, their blades were silenced by the goatherd’s passionate pleas, and by Alejandro’s winning smile and grand promises of friendship. The village opened its door to the Muridae people, curious to find out more about these strangers from across the water.

  When the Muridae came to the village, the Wildfolk and Mouse folk feasted and bonded until the early hours of the morning. The next day, the head of the village reached out to the other Wildfolk, telling them of their discovery, inviting them to come and meet the Muridae for themselves.

  The Muridae explorers began to prosper, they built their own homes in the Wildfolk settlements, and more of the natives came to trust them. The goatherd gave her heart to Alejandro, and fell deeply in love with the man. She gave him a copper locket containing a lock of her black hair, which he treasured and wore always on a cord around his neck. Many of the Wildfolk continued to look upon the Muridae with great suspicion, but hers was the loudest voice to tell them the error of their ways.

  During all this time, the Mistress of the Wilds remained silent. The mystics and shamans who so often contacted her became concerned and confused by her absence.

  Finally, a large celebration was organised, to solidify the friendship between the Muridae and the Wildfolk. All the nearby elders were called to the goatherd’s village, to break bread with the village’s guests. At the same time, more boats filled with Mouse folk arrived, unloading row after row of armoured explorers. Alejandro had sent word to his Queen about the bounties he had discovered, and she had rewarded him with reinforcements.

  The Muridae and Wildfolk leaders feasted at a great banquet table under the stars. The Wildfolk presented the Muridae with hide and leatherwork, and knowledge of their secret ways around the Wildlands. The Muridae rewarded the Wildfolk by slitting their throats. The goatherd’s eyes widened at the sight of the armoured assassins tracing their blades over the necks of her warriors and mystics. Screaming in rage, her eyes met briefly with those of Alejandro, but he averted his own in shame, instead commanding his armies to take control of the settlement, all the time his hand clasping his copper locket tightly. The goatherd was bound and taken captive, given as a gift to the brave Muridae warriors.

  Charged with taking control of this new land in honour of their Queen, the Muridae armies advanced across the flat lands of the Wilds, claiming village after village, erecting new cities from which to rule over their new nation.

  Months after the invasion, the goatherd lay broken and used on the grassland dust, abandoned by the troops when they realised the life within her was finally fading away. She lay, unable to move, angry eyes no longer able to cry. As the light dimmed, she fancied she could see the dirt before her begin to swirl, forming circular patterns as if traced by an invisible finger. The dirt floated into the air, taking the faded form of an old lady, her unclothed body bent and ancient, the folds of her flesh decorating her skin in lines like weathered treebark.

  “Mistress,” the goatherd croaked with the little energy that was left within her.

  For a long while, the Mistress of the Wilds simp
ly watched the goatherd die, content with the suffering of one who had betrayed her people.

  Finally, as the final light left the goatherd’s body, the Mistress of the Wilds spoke. The mouth on her face did not open, but instead a fold of flesh under her arm parted, revealing another mouth lined with dog teeth, which addressed the dying woman. “You led them to us. I told you to leave them alone, but you disobeyed and led them to us.”

  The goatherd did not answer. She had no words to contradict her lady, as she knew this all to be true. This was the singular thought that had passed through her mind as she had been marched from settlement to settlement, abused and beaten, forced to look upon the destruction of the people that she had held dear. In those dreadful months, she had learnt to hate the Mouse folk, but most of all she hated the coward Alejandro who had tricked her, and she hated herself for being a soft-hearted fool.

  The Mistress saw the anger within the goatherd, blazing brightly as all else faded from the woman’s body, and found that this was something she could work with.

  Another mouth revealed itself on the Mistress’ body, this time from behind one of her distended breasts, whispering from behind overlarge serpent’s fangs, “I can give you revenge, if you wish it.”

  Impossibly, the goatherd turned her head and regarded her Mistress with a ferocity that surprised even that elder lady of the world.

  “I wish it.”

  Smiling, the Mistress of the Wilds gently kissed the dying woman on the lips. The goatherd sighed, then died.

  Starting at the lips, the woman’s dead body began to grow black. Stepping back from the corpse, the Mistress of the Wilds observed her handiwork. The dead goatherd was now entirely grey, and her skin began to chip and peel, as if it were covered in paint drying in the sun.

  Then, slowly, the cracks began to widen, and the dead woman’s skin fell away, drifting to the ground like tears. First from her face, then from her arms, then over the entirety of her body. The skin fell, then the bones underneath, then finally a small gust of wind nudged the remains and they collapsed, showering the surrounding earth with black.