The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  Nearby, a bunch of Bravadori, blue-banded Broken Mirrors, were watching Crazy Raccoon, deep in conversation, their eyes moving between him and the others in his small group.

  Crazy Raccoon smiled back at them. Not alone anymore, am I? And soon I’ll have a story to share with the rest of Espadapan, the story of Crazy Raccoon the hero. Then you’ll all want a piece of me again.

  Smug, content that the world was falling back into place, he sauntered over to tell the others what to do.

  As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan

  The night Balefire burned, the men, women and children of the village cried, but even their combined wailing could not drown out the cackling that drifted to them on the winds from the northern hills.

  The morning brought with it the sombre realisation that the events of last night were not a dream. They also brought the Silent Sparrow.

  As luck would have it, the legendary Bravador had been travelling in those parts, for reasons we are not certain. Some say her parents had lived there, and she came to spit on their graves once every three years. Others say she had business in a neighbouring settlement, with bandits or minions of the Mistress they needed protection from. There are a few that say she just appeared from the morning mists, drawn to the suffering of those sworn to be protected by the Queen. That, however, is a foolish notion - the Silent Sparrow was a woman, flesh and blood like you and I.

  She stared down her black-beaked mask at the remains of Balefire, and her sudden appearance brought only looks of suspicion from the surviving villagers.

  “You come to laugh at us?” one of them asked her.

  “What has happened here?” she said, ignoring the accusation.

  The women of the village pushed forward, ashamed of the ignorance of their men-folk. “It was the witches of the hills!” they cried, tearing at their hair as they did so. “They have been sent to punish us, for turning away from the Mistress of the Wilds, for not making offerings to her at our gates. They came down upon us in balls of flame, stealing our babies and burning our homes. We were told the Mouse Queen would protect us, if we swore fealty to her instead of our former Mistress. Is this how she protects us?”

  The Silent Sparrow drew her sword, and studied the naked blade for a long while, thinking.

  “Where in the hills do they live?” she asked, eventually.

  “Don’t be stupid,” the men said, their pride wounded by the Sparrow’s bravado. “All of us together could not hope to hold them off. What could one woman do, taking them on in their own homes?”

  The Silent Sparrow smiled, and at the sight of that soulless grin not a person standing there doubted she had it in her power to right their wrongs.

  “I am a Bravador, a Queen’s Blade. And in this matter, I will be the Queen’s retribution.”

  She set out on a journey that the village told her would take three days. The first day took her halfway across the plains of the Wilds, the hills where the witches lived waiting for her in the distance.

  On the first night, she found an abandoned cave to rest in. Inside this cave the Silent Sparrow found shelves and shelves of painted clay dolls, some smiling, some crying, some already crumbled to dust. She found one of the dolls that, curiously, looked much like herself. This doll was grim-faced, and none of the others sat close to it on the shelf.

  The Silent Sparrow wisely chose to leave the dolls alone, sleeping instead in the mouth of the cave. From there, as she drifted off, she saw the sky behind the hills glow orange with the light of the witches’ fires.

  The second day of travel brought the Silent Sparrow all the way to the foot of the hills. That night, she slept under a dead tree, ignoring the stinging bites of insects drawn by the nearby lake. She was awoken by a man dressed as a giant, black bird, perched in the tree above her, staring at her through the eyes of his sinister, beaked helm. The man started when she woke, and leapt high into the sky, his black and white cloak trailing behind him like a comet’s tail.

  He did not return, but the Silent Sparrow slept restlessly that night.

  The third day found her climbing, marching high on the back of the mountain, towards the witches’ lair. Finally, as the sun lowered itself into the horizon’s embrace, she found what she was searching for. A series of small wooden houses, bound together in the branches of a copse of trees. Silent Sparrow waited in the grass that grew on the mountainside. The grass was long and offered plenty of cover, for no goats would dare venture close to where these evil women lived. As the last rays of sunlight faded, the witches emerged from their huts. Dressed in little more than rags, which did nothing to hide their shame, three shrivelled old ladies hobbled out to meet in the middle of the trees. There, they kissed and embraced each other, held hands, and then ignited into flame.

  Walking legend though she was, this display of magic startled Silent Sparrow. What she thought were the hags’ cries of pain as the flames licked at them became clearer, and Silent Sparrow realised the ladies were laughing. The flames around them expanded, and formed unnaturally perfect spheres, which lifted from the ground, dancing around each other in the sky. Then the balls of fire - the flames of which now completely obscured the hags within - flew away from the mountain top, the witches’ cackling eventually fading into the distance.

  Confident the fetid ladies were no longer there, the Silent Sparrow moved quickly towards their huts.

  Shortly before dawn, the Balefire Witches returned, their spheres of flame travelling in an undulating line, eventually touching down on the clearing they had originally flown from.

  “That was well done, sisters,” the lead hag said, her near-bald head reflecting the amber glow of sunrise that bled through the night sky. “Another village that regrets bending the knee to the Mouse Queen.”

  The other two cackled in response, and then began to yawn, their eyes narrowing to slits as the sun broke the horizon.

  “To bed then,” they said, “until the moon brings more opportunities for revenge.”

  The trio separated, each making to their own small hut that stood close by. They entered their doors, and the world seemed to breathe as the evil creatures withdrew from it for a time.

  However, not half an hour had passed since sunrise when a scream of pain filled the mountaintop. Two of the witches rushed from their homes, mole-eyed in the daylight, unable to comprehend what had just taken place. All was revealed when they inspected the home of the third and found their sister dead in her bed, a look of permanent pain frozen on her face, her chest an open wound of red.

  “No, sister, no!” they cursed, and tore the hut apart to find their sister’s assassin.

  Sometime later, no sign of the assailant had been found, and fatigue made the witches falter in their search, daytime’s cruel light stinging their eyes.

  “We will find you,” the lead hag shouted from the mountain, certain that whoever had killed her sister would be able to hear. “When night comes, we will find you, and you cannot comprehend the manner of our revenge, and how long it shall take us to finish with you.”

  They retired again, grief-stricken and frustrated, eager to avenge their sister.

  However, not another half hour had passed until a second scream tore across the mountain top. This time, only the lead hag emerged from her home. Slowly, quietly she entered her remaining sister’s home, and was not surprised to find the woman lying dead in her bed, in the same manner as before.

  The lead hag stood there for a long time, studying the scene, trying to ascertain how this had happened. This witch was the eldest of the sisters, and it was she who had approached the Mistress of the Wilds and pledged them all to her service in return for her gifts. This witch would not be tricked as easily as her sisters.

  After some time, she returned to her home. However, she did not go to sleep, but instead lit a small lamp and stood in the middle of her room.

  “I know you are here,” she said. “I know you crept inside as soon as I entered my sister’s home. You will not s
urvive this.”

  With a small movement of her hand, her bed lifted from the floor and flew across the room, smashing into the far wall. There, exposed now on the floor, lay Silent Sparrow, ready to plunge her blade into the hag’s heart as she slept.

  “You killed my sisters, the only creatures in all the world I cared about,” the witch spat, reaching out with her hand and pulling Silent Sparrow to her feet by tugging on unseen puppet strings. “I will enjoy watching you die.”

  The hag stepped closer to the Bravador, certain that the assassin was now under her control and posed no further threat.

  “Tell me, little murderer - which part of your body should I eat first?”

  The sneer on the witch’s face turned to shock as Silent Sparrow plunged her blade - now glowing with a white light - into the hag’s heart.

  “How?” was the last thing the witch said before dying on the end of Silent Sparrow’s sword.

  “I am a Bravador, a Queen’s Blade” Silent Sparrow answered, pulling her blade free and allowing the final witch to drop to the floor. “Nobody can command me but my Queen. And she has commanded me to protect all of her people from creatures like you.”

  The light from Silent Sparrow’s rapier faded, and she left the witch’s body where it lay, beginning her walk back down the mountain, journeying to tell the people of Balefire that they were safe once again, that the Queen watched over them.

  The buzzing of insects was maddening. Arturo had been putting up with it all day, tramping through the Wildlands with the others. The route to a small village like Calvario was not the same as travelling to any of the larger Muridae cities. The path they were on, if you could call it such, showed little signs of use, much of it overgrown with the dry Wildlands grass. Tomas was probably the only person to have travelled this way in the last month.

  “You came all by yourself?” Arturo asked the Wildman again, incredulous. Despite the company around him, Arturo had never felt so alone, and he was used to growing up surrounded by the Wildlands. However, this was different. Espadapan had disappeared beyond the horizon, and all they could see was rock, dirt, and sparse pine trees, sucking up what little moisture they could pull from the soil.

  Tomas shrugged, giving a sheepish smile, using his machete to hack away at some of the long grasses in front of him.

  “Nobody else was going to do it,” he answered, “and how else could we stop Procopio? I did it for my Rosa, and for my girls.”

  “Your girls?”

  It had not occurred to Arturo that Tomas might have had a family at home. The little man had certainly not mentioned it during their time together in the city. However, now on the road, Tomas was a much more amiable companion.

  “My wife and daughters. One of them… Valeria, she is gone now. The bandits took her on their first raid, and she… we found her two days later. She is happier, now.” Tomas made the Queen’s mark, looking to the sky.

  Arturo grew solemn. He had not contemplated the losses that Tomas might have already experienced, the events that would have led him to starting his dangerous journey.

  “Didn’t know your kind prayed to her,” Crazy Raccoon interrupted.

  Arturo jumped at the sound of the Bravador’s voice. He had grown up hearing stories of Crazy Raccoon, and still found it difficult to believe the famous Bravador was now his travelling companion.

  “The Queen?” Tomas asked. “Yes, yes we do. We, um, it was part of the pact our great-grand fathers made, to put aside the worship of our former lady and to pay homage to Queen Isabella instead. And she has been good to us.”

  “Really?” Arturo said, uncertain. He had seen little in his life to convince him the Queen was still alive, or still held any power.

  “Yes,” Tomas said, looking at the Bravadori walking beside him. “Yes, she has sent us you.”

  Arturo was silent, slightly stunned by the reverence in Tomas’ voice. Me, a Bravador. I’m the last line of defence for you and your people. It had been a different experience on his father’s estate when Arturo had joined in with a large group of seasoned professionals, hired to protect his family’s land. They would have succeeded with or without Arturo’s help. Calvario had no such guarantee.

  “Yes, indeed she has,” Crazy Raccoon agreed with the Wildman, slapping Tomas on the back in response to the compliment. “And no finer pair of Bravadori could you have to protect your little village. Me, a veteran of many years, a walking legend, so they say. And Starving Pup, a fresh page, a new story waiting to be written.”

  A walking legend. Arturo smiled at those words. Crazy Raccoon was exactly what he had come to Espadapan to find. The man was a hero, and Arturo had lapped up the stories of the Raccoon’s exploits just as readily as he had the tales of El Elephante and Vengeful Badger. And finally, when Arturo was losing faith in his dream of becoming a Bravador and all he had thought it would entail, this man had walked into his life. Crazy Raccoon had joined them without asking for reward. The man seemed excited to be able to do good, he seemed so willing to trust in Arturo and his fledgling abilities.

  Crazy Raccoon was all that Arturo dreamed he might one day become.

  Smiling, Arturo did not turn to look at the black figure that walked a short distance behind them. Yizel had been quiet ever since Crazy Raccoon had joined them, but she had still agreed to come along. Arturo, to his shame, understood her silence. Arturo had not realised how reviled the Shaven were by rest of the Bravadori, had not realised how evil her crimes must have been to be branded in such a way, but Crazy Raccoon had made that abundantly clear in his short time with them. The Bravador was harsh with Yizel, but Arturo could not argue his logic. The Bravadori celebrated success, and condemned failure. Losing one’s mask was the highest form of failure for a Bravador. Yizel had indeed fallen low. From the corner of his eye, Arturo considered Yizel, wondering what horrible crime she had committed to have her mask stripped from her.

  “What’re they for, then?” Crazy Raccoon said, snapping Arturo’s eyes back to him.

  “What, sorry? What?” Arturo said, realising Crazy Raccoon was studying his mask.

  “Your marks on your mask, the blood. They mean something? My rings are just decoration. Inspired by a raccoon, obviously. But a lot of Bravadori mark their masks to mirror their actions. Those drops of blood - they men you’ve killed?”

  Arturo nodded. “Bandits. Two bandits. They attacked our estate not long after my Knack emerged. I killed them before the rest ran off.” Arturo neglected to mention how terrified he had been at the time, or how sick he had been afterwards.

  Crazy Raccoon nodded in appreciation. “Not bad, not a bad start. There’ll be plenty more drops on there before this is through. Might have to rename you after that. Red River. Could be a good name, if you’re decorated in red.”

  Red River. Not half as bad as Starving Pup. Now I just have to earn it.

  As night fell, so too did Arturo’s spirits. The buzzing of the insects did not stop, and he fancied he would never get to sleep with the droning invading his thoughts. He was just thankful that very few of the mosquitoes decided to feast on him.

  Tomas worked on a campfire, and Yizel drew close to the rest of the group for the first time.

  “Won’t a fire attract attention?” Arturo said, nervously, looking at the flat land around them. He knew all the stories about chupacabra, witches and other monsters that roamed the Wilds, but even as remote as his estate had been, none of those creatures had ever come close. There was also the constant threat of bandits, which of course he had more experience with.

  “Yes,” Tomas said, in reply. “Yes, this light’ll be a beacon to them, and they’ll come running towards it. But only so far. Most of the Wild beasts fear the fire, and having one going’ll keep us much safer than none at all. Even if they couldn’t see us, they’d smell us. Long as we keep the fire burning through the night, we’ll be safe.”

  “We’ve got to keep the fire going? How did you survive the nights when you were travelling
to Espadapan?”

  Tomas gave a weak smile. “Didn’t get much sleep. I’m warning you now, we’re going to hear a lot of noises tonight. But we’ll be safe enough.”

  Arturo paled.

  Yizel pulled out some flint and started to make it spark, with Tomas joining in. Both did not speak much.

  Arturo moved forward to help the two of them, but Crazy Raccoon put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

  “No,” he smiled at Arturo, shaking his head. “That kind of work is for them. Our work begins when the fighting starts.”

  Arturo felt a small bloom of shame when Yizel glanced his way at this, but he followed Crazy Raccoon’s lead and retired to a nearby cluster of rocks, eager to spend some time learning from the great Bravador. There was something Arturo had been wanting to ask him since he had joined the group. Something Arturo had been curious about ever since putting his own mask on.

  “So,” Arturo began, after a few moments of silence watching Yizel and Tomas bring life to the campfire, “what’s it like?”

  “What?” Crazy Raccoon said, confused.

  Arturo winced. He did not know why, but he was embarrassed to ask the question. “What’s it like being a Queen’s Blade?”

  Crazy Raccoon’s confusion remained for a brief second, then the man smiled. “What do you mean? You’re a Queen’s Blade too. All Bravadori are. And we know what it feels like to be Bravadori, don’t we?” Crazy Raccoon leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “Magnificent.”

  Arturo leaned back, unnerved by the wolfish grin on Crazy Raccoon’s face, and shook his head.

  “No. I mean, it is great being a Bravador,” he replied, unsure if he really meant that answer. “I mean, it’s what I’ve always wanted, so it is great to finally be living my dream. But being a Queen’s Blade… does it happen like they say in the stories?”

  Recognition dawned on Crazy Raccoon’s face, and he leaned back, a smug smile forming. “Ah, what is it like to feel the Queen’s power flow through you, to know you are her instrument, protecting her people so far from their homeland?”