The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  “Shit.” Crazy Raccoon was not used to dealing with children. Usually, in the city, they ran away at first sight of him. “Shit.”

  The boy did not seem to be put off by Crazy Raccoon’s presence. Neither did he seem to be put off by the Bravador’s swearing. Crazy Raccoon looked at the woman in the bed then back to the boy. Her son?

  The child gave a grin. He motioned conspiratorially for Crazy Raccoon to follow him, and the boy tiptoed outside the cottage. Taking one final look at the woman in the bed, Crazy Raccoon did up the last of his buttons, and followed the child.

  The boy was sitting on another stool outside of the house.

  Crazy Raccoon looked down at him. “So, um, that your mother in there?”

  The boy nodded, staring up at Crazy Raccoon, still grinning.

  “How long were you watching?” Crazy Raccoon couldn’t remember Carlotta ever mentioning a child. He certainly did not remember a child at any point last night. However, he had had a lot to drink.

  “A while,” the boy said. “You’re a masked man. Everyone’s been talking about the masked men who came to save us. Wait till they hear I had breakfast with one.”

  At the mention of breakfast, Crazy Raccoon was surprised to find his stomach yearning for it, despite the fact it was still heavy with last night’s feast. As if in response to Crazy Raccoon’s thoughts, the boy pulled out two corncakes, and offered one to the older man. Crazy Raccoon gladly took it, sat on a grain sack close to the boy, and began to eat. As he tucked into the cold leftovers the boy had smuggled from last night’s festivities, Crazy Raccoon gave another scan of the village. The tables from the feast were still there, littered with a collection of cutlery. Some resourceful soul had managed to kill the fire before retiring to bed, possibly saving the village from the stupidest disaster in the history of the Wildlands. Other than that, despite the sun threatening to peek over the nearby cliffs, there was no movement in the village, save for a domestic dog wandering around the feast tables. The village, much like Crazy Raccoon himself, was probably in sore need of recovery after the night before.

  “Why do you wear them?”

  Crazy Raccoon looked at the boy, his face a question.

  “The mask,” the boy said. “I mean, I like it, but it’s a bit weird. Why’d you wear them?”

  Crazy Raccoon smiled and nodded. “We’ve all got our different reasons. Some Bravadori tell stories with their masks. My colleague, Starving Pup, you seen his?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Every speck of blood on his mask represents a man he’s killed. Lots of Bravadori do things like that. A feather for every duel won, a mark for every sword broken, which is a load of rubbish by the way because nobody breaks a sword. But mine, mine is a bit different.”

  The boy had forgotten his breakfast. Crazy Raccoon was pleased to see the child was focussed on his every word.

  “My mask is a warning. My mask is me. Everyone in the city knows my mask, and what it means.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means, there’s that crazy bastard, run the hell away from him. Better run, or bad things will happen. People see this mask, and they know one thing. They know that I’m the best.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide, and a smile slowly spread across his face. “I think I want a mask like yours.”

  “That’s what they all say, boy. But you can’t have one like mine. Got to find one of your own.”

  The boy was puzzled, and a bit disappointed. “Why can’t I have one like yours?”

  “I already told you, wearing this mask means you’re the best. Only one person can be the best, and that’s me. My mask.

  “Now, time to live up to the stories. Let’s find out where my companions are holed up for the night, then let’s go kill some bandits and save this sorry little shit hole you call home.”

  As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan

  It only takes dedication and a pure heart to achieve something amazing.

  Roaming Iguana was a member of the Friendly Crickets. He had trained hard to develop his Knack, and in return he was allowed to join one of Espadapan’s most prestigious Bravador stables. Roaming Iguana was, however, a dreamer. His colleagues would often laugh at him when hired for guard duty, for he was the worst of their number to choose for such a role, his mind drifting off when allowed even a minute to play by itself.

  “Give me action,” he joked sheepishly to the other Bravadori, when they jeered at him for drifting off. “Give me action, and I will amaze you. But do not ask me to sit here and waste my life away staring at nothing.”

  Like many of the famous Bravadori, the Friendly Crickets often took out contracts to defend the small settlements that neighboured the City of Swords. So it was that Roaming Iguana was part of a group of swordsmen hired to protect a cattle estate, two day’s journey from Espadapan’s gates.

  “This is our most important celebration,” the estate owner told the Bravadori when they arrived, the estate courtyard already decorated with brightly coloured flowers and lanterns. “This is when we celebrate the death of my grandfather, the man who travelled across the sea and created this future for his family. He honoured us with his life, and we honour him in death.”

  The Bravadori nodded, knowingly. Many of the Muridae, especially those whose families had done well in the Wildlands, held similar traditions.

  “We want nothing to go wrong as we honour his memory, so we ask you to protect the estate for the three nights we celebrate.”

  The Crickets did as asked, each of them taking up position on the estate’s walls, keeping their watchful eyes on the flat Wildlands, not allowing themselves to be distracted by the festivities behind them, each of them watching the long loneliness for danger.

  All of them watching, except for Roaming Iguana. He tried his hardest, but his eyes were drawn to the crowds, to the ladies whose large dresses swelled into circles as they spun, to the men who laughed and slapped each other heartily on the back, to the musical Knacks who played into the small hours of the morning.

  Roaming Iguana’s eyes fell upon a figure that stood out from all others. There, on the edge of the dance floor, was a young lady dressed in white. She was not smiling, but even from this distance Roaming Iguana could tell she was beautiful, and his heart broke at the sight of such a woman, for some reason unable to enjoy the celebration.

  Forgetting the job he had been asked to perform, Roaming Iguana left his post and moved through the dancers, finally stopping in front of the lady, whose pale face was empty and drawn.

  “I cannot stand to see you like this,” Roaming Iguana said to the lady, reaching his hand out to her. “Come, dance with me, and enjoy life.”

  She seemed surprised at first, but gingerly took his hand, and he whirled her off onto the dance floor. All around him turned and laughed at the Bravador taking part in the celebration, and just briefly the young woman smiled back at him. They danced together for hours, Roaming Iguana not wanting to let the fragile lady out of his sight. Eventually he turned away from her for a few moments, and when he returned she was gone.

  In the morning, the estate owner was not happy with Roaming Iguana for leaving his post.

  “And why,” the furious man continued, “were you making such a fool of yourself, dancing alone in the courtyard like an idiot?”

  “Alone?” Roaming Iguana replied. “No sir, not alone. I was attended to by a beautiful lady in white, whose face needed a smile to grace it.”

  The estate owner paled, and made the Queen’s mark before him. “That was no lady you danced with. That was the ghost of my grandfather’s niece, who died generations ago. Many have sighted her during previous dances. None have dared to dance with her.” He made the Queen’s mark again. “Great Mouse protect us from ill omens.”

  Roaming Iguana was surprised by this revelation, but was not horrified as the estate owner had been. Instead, the Bravador’s mind rested on the ghost girl’s face, so beautiful yet sad, as if death had
stolen more than her breath and her warmth.

  He returned to the city with his stable mates, but found his mind continuing to wander back to the ghost’s face, and that brief smile she had shared with him as they had whirled together on the dance floor. She haunted him, in his dreams and as he woke. Where Roaming Iguana had once been a happy man, he now became drawn and distracted, unable to sleep, irritable if interrupted from his thoughts.

  Eventually, he knew he could go on like this no longer, and set off alone in the Wilds. His adventures during this time are famous in themselves - every schoolboy knows of his battle against the pack of Cadejo, how he hid from the seven covens of witches and their balls of flame - but he finally reached his destination, the home of the Mistress of the Wilds.

  This tells us how desperate he must have been, for a Bravador to approach the Mistress herself. And desperate he was, but he was also smart, for he came to the Mistress with a bargain, knowing that she and her ilk liked to trade.

  The Mistress of the Wilds appeared before Roaming Iguana as an ancient woman in a cloud of dust. She said nothing.

  “I seek the land of the dead,” he pleaded, falling on his knees before her. “To reclaim the life of one who was taken too soon from the world. In trade, I offer you my Knack, my skills as a swordfighter. This Knack was made to carve legends with, and will serve you well.”

  The Mistress smiled, and pulled on the threads of his Knack, unravelling it and pulling it towards her. Then, with a flick of her wrist she set Roaming Iguana spinning, drilling him down into the earth, not giving the man so much as a moment to cry out in panic.

  That was how Roaming Iguana found himself alone and Knackless in the land of the dead, the first and only living person to set foot in that place. The very air around him, he later told people, was made of colours, a glowing aura of reds, yellows and purples. He was underground, but the cavern he was in was so vast, he could not see the roof overhead. Something up there sparkled, and he would almost have sworn they were stars if he had not been under the earth, so he supposed they must have been precious rocks fixed high above him.

  Before Roaming Iguana rose a city of bone, painted in a rainbow of colours, discordant music flowing from its streets towards him. He feared the city, knew somehow that if he set foot inside it he would never want to leave, would allow that haunting rhythm to catch him and pull him into the never ending dance of the dead.

  Instead, he called the ghost’s name, summoning her to him. It did not take long for her to come, alone and surprised, still wearing the white dress she had worn during the party. She walked out of the city to him, still silent, and he took her by the arm.

  “I am taking you out of here, back to the surface,” he promised her, and they raced back to where the Mistress of the Wilds had summoned him.

  However, nobody is supposed to return from the land of the dead, and even with the Mistress’ magic helping Roaming Iguana, the guardians of the dead would not let their charge escape so easily.

  The first warning Roaming Iguana had of their pursuit was the rumbling of the earth beneath his feet. Eventually, however, he saw it - the guardian serpent, Mictehka, its skull as tall as the Queen’s cathedral, its body as wide as the largest Grasslands river, slithering over the cavern floor, boulders crushing under its weight as it gained upon them. He ushered the ghost girl towards the opening, urging her to run back to the land of the living. He turned, drew his sword, and faced the giant serpent.

  Perhaps if he still had his Knack, he would have had a chance. Perhaps if he had not faced Mictehka in its own realm, where its powers were strongest. Perhaps.

  The serpent opened its jaws, preparing to clamp down upon the insignificant Bravador. Suddenly, from behind him, the ghost girl let out a scream of defiance, and threw herself into the serpent’s maw, sacrificing herself for this love-crazed man who had risked everything for her.

  Roaming Iguana’s eyes widened at the final act of kindness from the woman, and attacked Mictehka with renewed vigour. He stabbed the giant snake in the eye, forever blinding it, causing it to open its mouth and scream in pain. Quick as a prairie dog, Roaming Iguana reached inside the mouth and grabbed his lady in white, pulling her to safety and running hard back into the land of the living.

  Roaming Iguana and his ghost girl married, although she never spoke a word to him or to anyone else during her second life. They had many fat babies, all of whom were born with a head of curiously white hair, the colour of which never changed as they got older. Today, if you walk down a street and see anyone with white hair, you know they are of Roaming Iguana’s line. Remember to pay respect to the heirs of one of our greatest heroes.

  “Wake up.” The command was accompanied by a boot nudging Arturo’s shoulder. “Wake up, Pup, we’ve got a bandit to catch.”

  Head slightly groggy, Arturo opened his eyes to see Crazy Raccoon standing grinning over him.

  Arturo shifted, propping himself up on the wooden floor. “What time is it?”

  “Time to carve your name in the pages of history. Time to prove to every stable in the City of Swords you’re worthy of wearing that mask.”

  “So, morning then?”

  Crazy Raccoon laughed and grasped Arturo under the shoulders, pulling him to his feet. “Yes, morning. Breakfast is ready, justice is waiting.”

  Blinking the last of the sleep from his eyes, Arturo looked around to get his bearings. He was sleeping on his bed roll in the corner of Father Morales’ home. He vaguely remembered the man last night trying to offer Arturo his own bed, but he had refused. The ache in his back made him wish he had reconsidered. At least the old man just had daily village life to put up with today. Arturo was going to war.

  Crazy Raccoon beckoned him to follow. Arturo had very clear memories of Crazy Raccoon enjoying himself considerably more than Arturo had last night, both with wine and women, and was surprised the man was not suffering for it now.

  Arturo walked outside and followed Crazy Raccoon to another home, where breakfast was waiting for him on a plate outside. Arturo sat, ate with his hands, and contemplated what he was planning to do today. Today would be his first great task since he put on the mask. No more wandering about aimlessly in the City of Swords, trying to prove himself with words and with promises. Today, Arturo would be a Queen’s Blade for real, protecting the innocent and impressing his peers. He had been wearing his mask for weeks now, he had had the Knack for years, but by the end of today, Arturo would really have earned the right to call himself a Bravador.

  “Have you seen Yizel this morning?” Arturo asked Crazy Raccoon.

  Crazy Raccoon shrugged, unconcerned. “Not yet. I imagine she’ll show, if she’s still in the village.”

  The impending violence did not seem to affect Crazy Raccoon at all. The older Bravador would be the one to lead them into battle today. At the very least, the mere presence of the masked swordsman would be enough to strike fear into the heart of many of Procopio’s bandits.

  Distracted from the sausage he was chewing, Arturo became aware of a black clad figure walking across the village green. It was Yizel. Arturo looked for her plate, then realised there was none for her. Ashamed he had not thought of her before, Arturo stopped eating, ready to offer her what remained on his own plate. He had forgotten about the food, however, by the time she reached him. He was too busy taking in her face. It was a mess, a patchwork quilt of bruises. It was clear that her right eye had taken the most damage, a red, wet cut sliced through the purple skin above and below it. It took him a moment to realise that the cut had been performed by Yizel herself, to allow her eye to open today.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Yizel, seemingly untouched by his concern, gave her familiar deadpan look. “I got into a fight.”

  “Who would dare to fight you here?”

  Yizel said nothing, but Arturo was aware that she glanced very briefly over at Crazy Raccoon. Arturo turned to study the man, who was paying Yizel and Arturo very little attentio
n. Arturo’s gaze was drawn to the raw knuckles of the older Bravador’s right hand.

  Arturo’s mouth opened, shocked at his realisation. He stood to speak to Crazy Raccoon, but glanced at Yizel just before any words left his mouth. The look of anger on her face was directed at him. She clearly did not want him to say anything about it. Arturo’s brow furrowed. Perhaps, now would not be the best time. If Yizel did not want to speak about it any further, nothing would be gained by Arturo bringing up any bad blood between them before they marched into battle together.

  Arturo nudged his plate towards Yizel, offering her the food. She didn’t acknowledge him, but picked up what remained of his breakfast.

  “Time to go,” Crazy Raccoon said, dropping his empty plate to the ground and puffing his chest out as he stood.

  “I want paid,” Yizel said, not looking either of them in the eyes as she finished off Arturo’s breakfast.

  “What?” Arturo said, confused.

  “I need money. It’s going to be dangerous, today. I changed my mind - I’m not going out there unless you make it worth my while.”

  Arturo’s heart sank. This was not the point of their mission, their quest. They were supposed to be different from the others back in Espadapan. They were supposed to be here because they wanted to help, not because they wanted to profit. Yizel knew Calvario had no money to give her.

  He opened his mouth to retort, but Crazy Raccoon spoke first.

  “Not a surprise,” the older man said, his voice oddly smug. “Not a surprise. And you’ll have it, Shaven, once the village is safe.”

  “Double what you already gave me,” Yizel said, still staring out to the horizon. “I’ll not move for anything less.”