“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 when 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 simply 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.
The Mistress’ smile grew wider, and she waited.
The mound of ash before her trembled.
Then, like a family of worms searching tentatively for hungry birds after the rainfall, five needle-like black fingers emerged from the dust, probing the air. Another set of fingers emerged, finding the first hand, and then reaching out to grip the ground on either side of the ash pile.
A moaning noise now emanating from the earth, the slender, wasted arms pulled, and the figure they belonged to birthed forth, screaming her anger to the world as she crawled back from whatever hell she had been tortured in.
The being of poisoned blackness pulled herself upright, ash falling from her face, her scream unceasing.
Unperturbed, the Mistress of the Wilds remained before the creature, smiling. The elder lady reached out with a hand of dust, and stroked the newly born creature’s face. The black thing’s scream silenced at the Mistress’ touch, but its anger remained, still trickling forth in the form of child-like sobs.
Leaning in, the Mistress of the Wilds kissed the creature again.
When she stood back, the smile left her face. The folds of her chins parted, and a wide mouth that curved from ear to ear, lined with tiny, needle-like teeth, spoke. “Now, my Black Shepherdess, now we will discuss our eternal revenge on these mice men, and their offspring, and all their evil works upon our land.”
“And Alejandro,” the Black Shepherdess spoke, her ruined voice bubbling forth dryly, sounding altogether wrong. “Alejandro will suffer too. He will suffer most of all. Him, and all of his lineage, until they are pulled screaming from the face of the earth.”
The Mistress observed her new creation silently for a moment, as if trying to judge where this unbidden urge had come from.
“Yes,” she said, slowly, this time from a toothless opening at her side. “Yes, he and his will suffer too, in time.”
Then the Mistress of the Wilds and the Black Shepherdess withdrew to their hidden place, to discuss how best to rid the Wildlands of the Muridae people.
“You have no money left.”
Arturo sat up in his bed, muscles aching. The Shaven - that was what others called the bald-headed woman who had tended to him over the last week - stood in the doorway to his room, staring at a stain on the wall.
“You have to leave, now, or the innkeeper will call someone in to deal with you.”
It was the Shaven who had dragged him up here, after they had released him from the constable’s cells. She had found the purse he had hidden in his boot - the rest of his coin must have been taken by the constables when he had been arrested - and had used it to pay for the expensive room over the last week. She had slept on the floor at the foot of his bed. That final stash of money should have lasted longer than it did, but Arturo did not blame the Shaven for any extra she may have taken. If not for her, he would have died.
Arturo knew he should have gotten out of bed days ago. He could have, physically, but had no urge to do so. His dream, his desire to become a Bravador, had failed. No, not failed
- he had been wrong to have that dream in the first place. He had come here to become a hero, to make his family proud of him by becoming a legend. But it was clear to Arturo now that there were no Bravadori in Espadapan who could hold that claim. Perhaps… perhaps it had all been a lie. Perhaps there had only ever been true heroes in fireside tales, when liquor and drowsiness allowed men to believe the world might be better than reality allowed.
Aching, he dressed himself, hesitating for a moment before buckling his rapier to his belt and putting his Bravador mask back on.
Walked those streets without a mask would be the same as giving up. That was not a decision he wanted to make in a dark room.
Ready to leave, Arturo walked up to the doorway. The Shaven had stood there the whole time, still contemplating the wall. When she heard him approach, she looked directly at the mask and raised an eyebrow in surprise.
Sheepishly, Arturo looked away.
“They beat you. None of them would have you, and they beat you. You still want to be one of them?”
“I’ve always wanted to be,” he answered, without looking at her. “And I never thought it’d be easy.” But I’d expected them to be so much more than they really are.
The Shaven lowered her eyes at this. From what Arturo could tell from his short time in the city, all Shaven had been Bravadori, once. He could not tell if he had just offended her.
“Right, good luck then. You’ll need it.” She shook her head again. “Although you’ll need more than that to save you from your own stupidity.”
After a week with her, Arturo had discovered a hidden kindness behind the Shaven’s cold continence and harsh words. She had cared for him, saying little, but giving a lot of her time. Even now, as she ridiculed him, her face did not echo the bleakness of her words, and she did not leave him.
“What’ll you do now?” he asked.
“Same as always. Find work, earn coin. Survive. That’s a word you should learn the meaning of, Starving Pup.”
Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords: A standalone Yarnsworld novel Page 10