The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  Gavrilla’s cheeky smile returned to him. The Bravadori could do with someone like you.

  Arturo sighed. He had no doubt that charging blindly towards the Shepherdess would have put his name in the history books, but he also suspected that most people here would have paid dearly for that prize, himself included. Perhaps the Queen would have gifted him with her power at the last moment. She certainly had not aided Crazy Raccoon or Yizel, but Crazy Raccoon had no blade, and Yizel was no Bravador.

  He shrugged, smiled, and shook his head.

  It did not matter. He could not have hoped to have achieved better than this.

  “Coin for your thoughts, Hungry Wolf?”

  Arturo snapped his head around, confused by the sound of his original Bravador name, so alien to him now.

  It was Yizel, walking back from the healer who had been tending to her face. With the uniqueness of the attackers they had faced, there were very few wounded in the village. Most who had been touched by the ash creatures had been killed instantly. The Shepherdess had left no survivors herself. Only a few sported the same kind of wounds that Yizel had on her face - grey, cracked skin, still falling off in flakes.

  Most of the right side of Yizel’s face was ruined.

  “Sorry?”

  “Hungry Wolf,” Yizel said, lowering herself to sit in the dust beside him, passing him a jug of some kind of ale. “I heard you use the name when you first visited the Whispering Mice. Reckon you’ve earned the right to use it now.”

  The Whispering Mice. They seemed so far removed from all of this, and so long ago.

  Arturo shook his head. “Hungry Wolf sounds more suited to Espadapan, doesn’t it? Swordfighters trying to make themselves more important than they are with colourful masks and scary names. I never got anything good from my time there, except maybe my new name. I’ll stick with Starving Pup. Gives me less to live up to.”

  She chuckled. It was such an unusual sound coming from the Shaven, and Arturo looked at her in surprise. Yizel misunderstood his gaze, and self-consciously raised a hand to the ugly greyness of her wound.

  “They think it’ll pretty much stay like this,” she explained, in a voice that told Arturo she did not want to admit how much it bothered her. “Said it might get some colour back, but not to get my hopes up.”

  “Oh right,” Arturo answered back, rummaging around in his jacket pocket. “Well, listen, you can’t go walking around looking like that.”

  The look of shock and anger she flashed him made Arturo suddenly afraid for his life, so he quickly withdrew his hand from his pocket, holding up the item he had been looking for.

  “Yeah, you need to cover yourself up with something.”

  In front of Yizel, Arturo held a simple black domino mask.

  The anger in Yizel’s face was instantly replaced with shock. She sat, frozen, staring at the mask as if it was the Shepherdess herself.

  Arturo moved the mask towards her, gesturing for her to take it. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my short time as a Bravador, but what I’ve learnt is… well, the Bravadori seem to have a lot of stupid fucking rules about how to act that have nothing to do with what the Bravadori are supposed to actually do. Protect the innocent. Honour. Selflessness. That’s what the stories are all about. I don’t even care if they’re true or not, what matters is that they give people hope. Those idiots back in the city - can you think of a single one of them that could achieve what you did today? Can you think of a single one of them who saves lives without the promise of coin or glory in return? If they get to wear a mask then, fuck it, half this village should be allowed to. And there is no doubt in my mind that this belongs to you.”

  Finally giving Arturo a grateful smile, Yizel accepted the mask from him. She looked at it fondly for a moment.

  “This will have to do for now,” she said, grinning playfully as she fitted the mask over her eyes, “but we’ll have to make some changes soon. It’s the wrong colour, for one thing.”

  It was Arturo’s turn to laugh. “I just realised I’ve never asked - what’s your name? Your Bravador name?”

  Yizel pursed her lips, savouring the moment. “Red Magpie. They called me Red Magpie.”

  Arturo nodded in approval. “And they will do again.”

  “Drink my own piss, what a pair.”

  Arturo sat up nervously as Crazy Raccoon approached. The man was still maskless, as he had been when he had returned to the village during the attack. The older Bravador had said very little since the Shepherdess’ death, and had been helping dig new graves just outside of Calvario’s boundaries.

  “Crazy Raccoon,” Arturo greeted him.

  The older man looked uneasy at the mention of the name. “Yeah, well, I don’t think that suits me anymore, you know?” He looked back towards the graveyard.

  Earlier, Arturo had spotted Crazy Raccoon hanging his old black and white mask from a plank in the graveyard, but decided against bringing this up.

  “Yeah, a lot has changed,” the man once known as Crazy Raccoon said, distantly.

  “Is that it, then?” Arturo asked. “You’re giving up being a Bravador?”

  “Plough your mother,” the older man said, rounding angrily back on Arturo, finger pointed accusingly at Yizel. “If she gets to wear a mask, I reckon I fucking get a chance at it too. Half-masked stupid that someone who can take on a demon of the Wildlands doesn’t get to be a Bravador, just because he’s better with his fists than with a blade.”

  Yizel said nothing, but looked at Arturo and raised an eyebrow.

  “Just not Crazy Raccoon. Not that mask, not that name,” the older Bravador said. “Need a new one,” he continued, flexing his fists, his duelling gloves now gone, his knuckles bandaged. “I’m sure something’ll come to me.”

  Giving a small smile, Arturo reached into his pocket again, and took out his final black mask, offering it to the man.

  Crazy Raccoon took a moment to put his simple mask on, and then the three of them stood facing each other, giving shy smiles, as if meeting for the first time.

  “So, where we off to now?” Crazy Raccoon - Arturo would struggle thinking of him as otherwise - asked.

  “We?” Yizel challenged, indignant, her bruises still showing from Crazy Raccoon’s beating a few days ago.

  Crazy Raccoon gave a winning grin. “Aw, don’t give me that. What’re we going to do, head back to Espadapan? They never liked Starving Pup, they’d rip that mask off you in a heartbeat, and they’d gut me like a pig and leave me for dead. We can’t head back there.”

  “You want to travel together?” Arturo asked, guarded. He had hoped he and Yizel would have stuck together, but had not yet plucked up the nerve to ask her if she wanted a travelling companion. Never had he considered asking Crazy Raccoon.

  “Why not? The Shaven, here-”

  “Red Magpie,” Yizel interrupted.

  Crazy Raccoon looked at her for a moment, and it seemed to Arturo that the Wilds held its breath, waiting for his reaction.

  “Red Magpie, here,” Crazy Raccoon continued, as if acknowledging Yizel as a Bravador was the smallest thing in the world, “is the best fucking swordfighter I’ve ever seen. Me? Both times I’ve used my fists in combat, they’ve written stories about it.”

  “They haven’t written any stories about the Shepherdess,” Yizel countered, rolling her eyes. “It was only a few hours ago.”

  Crazy Raccoon smiled, slyly. “Oh, they will, Magpie. You can bet your mask they will.”

  Arturo nodded in agreement.

  Crazy Raccoon did not mention Arturo’s contribution to the team, but he did not have to. Arturo had already chosen his place, in the shadows of history. He would walk alongside legends like Red Magpie and Crazy Raccoon, but he would never be one of them.

  But he would make a difference. The three of them, working together, could change people’s lives. They already had. The Bravadori needed people like this.

  “Fine,” Yizel said finally, eyeing Crazy Raccoon.
“We travel together, for a time. See what we can make of things.”

  To Arturo’s surprise, Crazy Raccoon reached out with both arms, grabbing his companions around the shoulders, and pulling them close to him in a hug. “Can you feel it, world? This moment, they will sing about this moment. The joining of heroes. Come, my friends,” he said, letting go of them both and walking away from the village, “let us go and carve our names across the Wildlands.”

  Arturo shook his head, smiling now. “Not just yet. There are homes to rebuild, people to mourn. Calvario still needs us.”

  Crazy Raccoon paused, then turned red in the face again. “Building? Crying like children? These things are beneath the Bravadori.”

  Arturo’s eyes lowered, thoughtful, and he looked back to the Wildfolk trying to remake normality from the horror today had brought them. He could see Yizel - Red Magpie - looking at them too, then she drank the rest of her ale and started to walk back to the village.

  “Perhaps these things are beneath the Bravadori of Espadapan,” Arturo explained to Crazy Raccoon, who still seemed to be in shock at what was being asked of him, “but they are not beneath us. Today, we help the village.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” Arturo looked away from Calvario, across the flat nothingness of the Wildlands, dust storms curling across the brown land like the delicate hair on a newborn’s head.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll see where that horizon takes us.”

  You've made it to the end! Congratulations, and my humble thanks for sticking with the Yarnsworld so far.

  I made some unusual choices with these first three novels. When it was released in 2016, They Mostly Come Out At Night got a little bit of attention. Some people read it and, to my surprise and joy, they enjoyed it and wanted more. What would have probably been a financially sound move would have been to immediately write a follow up set in the Magpie King's forest.

  Nobody ever accused me of making sound moves.

  I was worried about getting pigeon-holed. I love dark fantasy, I loved writing They Mostly Come Out At Night, but I knew I did not want to get stuck writing the same style of story for the rest of my career. I also knew the Yarnsworld had potential to be so much more than what I had shown of it in that first book, so I decided to write a story set on the opposite end of it, a tale with a much more optimistic outlook and, shock of all shocks, a happy ending. Where the Waters Turn Black and the subsequent City of Swords set the goalposts for the Yarnsworld, as it were - one of them a bright adventure focussing on friendship (which has been since compared to My Little Pony, and I struggle to debate that argument), the other a profanity-filled struggle in a city of grey characters. I reckoned, if the reading public would accept those tales existing in the same world, then I could pretty much get away with writing whatever I want in the future.

  It is early days, but it looks like my gamble has paid off.

  As I write this at the close of 2017, a direct follow up to Mostly is now in progress, and I hope to revisit the other two Yarnsworld settings in the near future. What I also have, however, is an exciting playground in which I can tell a wide range of stories, and I'm going to have fun finding out how far I can push that envelope.

  I hope you'll stick around and see how things go...

  The best way to get the latest Yarnsworld info is to sign up for my newsletter. I send messages once or twice a month with updates on my writing and bits and pieces from the wider world of fantasy fandom. Newsletter readers also have access to a number of exclusive Yarnsworld tales, including more information on who exactly the Pale Lady is, or what happened to Yam after the events of Where the Waters Turn Black.

  Head HERE now to get your stories and to stay in touch.

  I'd like to finish by asking for your help. Honest reviews of my books are the best ways to bring them to the attention of other readers.

  If you've enjoyed this collection, it would mean the world to me if you would take the time to head over to the book's Amazon page to leave a review (it can be as short as you'd like).

  Thank you for your time, and until the next Yarnsworld tale, take care...

  Benedict Patrick

  December 2017