Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords: A standalone Yarnsworld novel

by Benedict Patrick

  Crazy Raccoon addressed everyone there. “Don’t believe the lies, people. I’m still here, more dangerous than ever. So, watch your tongues.”

  On saying that, Crazy Raccoon’s eyes fell upon a pair of Crickets propped up beside the bar. Unlike the normal citizens in the room, these men were eyeing Crazy Raccoon critically. Suddenly, he felt naked, as if they could see something they were not supposed to. One of the Crickets smiled at him.

  Face stern, Crazy Raccoon gathered up his belongings and marched out of the inn.

  Stupid, stupid. Should’ve checked to see if any Bravadori were there. What were they doing there, anyway? Small, smelly place like that isn’t fit for Bravadori - they’ve got much better establishments they’re welcome in. Establishments I should be welcome in.

  Walking down the street, Crazy Raccoon turned his head, checking if he was being followed. The streets were too full of shoppers for him to see properly, but the hairs on the back of his neck told him something was wrong.

  Breathing heavily, he dodged down one of the unfamiliar snickleways, trying to lose his pursuers. Most snickleways did not travel in straight lines, and this one was no different - a small, tight lane, mere gaps between buildings than a planned route for people to travel down. Hopping quickly down a tight stairway, Crazy Raccoon spied a door onto the snickleway that was slightly ajar. He pushed it slowly, and was pleased to see that it opened into an empty, dark storeroom. The owners of the building probably didn’t even know it was there, or avoided using it because it was so far away from their main entrances.

  Crazy Raccoon went inside, closed the door and leaned against it, allowing his eyes to get used to the dark. Sure enough, minutes later he heard the sound of footsteps hurrying down the steps outside. They did not stop at the door, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  I could take them, of course. Two are always more difficult than one, but should still be doable. No point in taking risks, though. Even the best of us have bad days, and Galloping Turtle has seen to it that I’m getting the lion’s share of those at the moment.

  He smiled at his own joke, but then frowned.

  This isn’t going to stop. They’re going to keep having a go at me while I’m on my own. I’ll die with a knife in my back, now they’re all out there wanting to take a piece of the Crazy Raccoon. I need a new stable, and fast. Problem is, Galloping Turtle’s seen to it that there’s no chance of that happening.

  He chewed his lip, face souring at the thought of his predicament.

  I need to prove him wrong. Prove that I’m still the best, that Galloping Turtle was lying. Then all the stables will be killing themselves to have me wear their band. Might even group up with the Mice. Bet Sinister Crow would love to stick it to Galloping Turtle after what he did in the park.

  But if I wander the streets of Espadapan looking like this, I’ll never have the chance to prove myself again.

  After a moment of indecision, Crazy Raccoon raised his hands to the back of his head, and began to undo the buttons of his mask.

  A few minutes later, an unrecognisable, round, muscular older man walked out of that snickleway, his brown-grey long hair matted and unruly due to being crushed under his mask all day. He still had his rapier at his side, which would earn him a number of curious glances, but without his Bravador mask Crazy Raccoon could walk unseen in Espadapan.

  His face burned with shame at the first people who looked at him, and he was unafraid to let a tear fall at the thought of what he had lowered himself to.

  Plough your mother, I’ll gut you for this, Galloping Turtle.

  Nevertheless, he was thankful that for now he could walk without fear of some hot blooded swordsmen taking him on.

  The question was, what was he going to do now?

  Crazy Raccoon pushed through the crowds as he thought. He was used to passersby giving him a wide berth, recognising that he was a Bravador, even if they didn’t realise exactly who he was. It was an alien sensation for this to not happen, and Crazy Raccoon was irritated by the constant jostles he received from people not paying enough attention to where they were going.

  The obvious thing to do would be to prove Galloping Turtle wrong as quickly as possible. Crazy Raccoon had taken too long to recover from the fight at the Paws’ estate, and by now the rest of Espadapan was already poisoned against him. He needed to prove his name still meant something, and fast. The quickest way to do this would be to take someone on - someone big, possibly even Galloping Turtle himself - and win.

  As all who wandered the streets of Espadapan eventually did, Crazy Raccoon walked out into the open space of the plaza, currently full with traders and shoppers. His irritation increased as he began to find it difficult to make his way through the crowds. He kept a hand on his purse at all times, and gave glares to the many citizens who shot him curious looks when they realised he had a blade on his belt.

  Despite realising it was his best course of action, the idea of challenging any Bravadori gave Crazy Raccoon an uneasy feeling in his gut. He could not ignore the fact that he had indeed lost the fight against his former stable master. Galloping Turtle had clearly been cheating, rigging the combat in his favour, ensuring that Crazy Raccoon was off his game, but even Crazy Raccoon knew that did not matter. If you lose, you lose - it did not matter if it was dirty or clean. Challenging any other Bravador and losing again would destroy his name forever.

  The crowds became denser towards the middle of the plaza. Apparently, some lack-talented actors were putting on a children’s show, flapping puppets around to the delight of the idiot crowds. Crazy Raccoon squinted his eyes as the performers used some kind of trick to make the light of the puppets’ swords glow brightly, chasing off some sort of dark monster. Through the haze of the flare, Crazy Raccoon saw a possible answer to his predicament

  It was the Shaven, and the young Bravador she had been nursing in the cells.

  His heartbeat increasing, his now-unfamiliar smile finally making its way back onto his face, Crazy Raccoon burst through the crowd, fumbling for his mask as he did so. He staggered into the performing area, breaking and tearing the small puppets as he pushed past them, their glowing blades falling to the slabs, now dead and lifeless. The performers turned and began to give off at their livelihood being destroyed, but they stopped when they realised who they were looking at.

  Even these fools know who Crazy Raccoon is, the Bravador thought, his mask restored.

  Breaking through to the other side of the makeshift stage, Crazy Raccoon reached out his hand and grabbed the young Bravador - Starving Pup, wasn’t it? - by the shoulder, spinning him around.

  Starving Pup was too shocked to react, but the Shaven’s reactions were better. She had her knife in her hand straight away, snarling at Crazy Raccoon as she tried to figure out what was going on.

  “Easy, Shaven, easy, nothing to worry about here,” Crazy Raccoon soothed, focussing on Starving Pup. “You should control her better, Pup. Shaven aren’t worth their fee if they gut people just for taking them by surprise. This is the City of Swords, not some backward village out in the Wilds.”

  The Shaven’s lip began to curl, but Starving Pup was the one to speak, slightly confused. “I-what? What… What?”

  The confusion on Crazy Raccoon’s face was not a play. “You’ve never heard of me? Crazy Raccoon?”

  Starving Pup’s face erupted into awe. “How could I not know about the Crazy Raccoon? The Bravadori that visited my father’s estate mentioned you all the time. You rode two horses into battle during the Jackdaw rebellion, practically ended it single-handedly.”

  Crazy Raccoon nodded, grinning. “They always remember that one, don’t they? How did the story go - how many of them were there?”

  “Two hundred, at least. And they say you sorted them out without even drawing your sword.”

  Crazy Raccoon shook his head. “Not quite that many, but still enough to make it impressive. They are right that I never used my sword.”

  “I heard yo
u’d lost it,” the Shaven spat, her knife still raised.

  Crazy Raccoon looked at her curiously, as he would look at a dog which had never barked its entire life, but had finally decided to make some noise.

  Alfrond’s cock, she’s heard the stories already. “What did you say?”

  “Your sword. That night, during the rebellion. I’d heard you had to use your fists because you’d lost your sword.”

  Not quite as bad as all that, then. “You’re moving away from the real story though, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter why I didn’t use my sword. What matters is that I didn’t use it. Anyway, better to lose a blade than a mask.”

  Crazy Raccoon was satisfied to see the Shaven physically recoil from his comment, and he turned back to Starving Pup, for the first time noticing the small Wildman standing close by the young Bravador. “So, I hear you’ve got bandit trouble,” he said to the Wildman.

  The dirt farmer’s eyes widened. “You’ve heard of the troubles of Calvario? Yes, yes, we have bandits. Starving Pup and his friend here have agreed to help rid us of this problem. You… why do you ask, senor?”

  Crazy Raccoon contemplated the little man’s words, then looked at Starving Pup again. “You hired this Shaven?” Starving Pup and the dirt farmer could be controlled. Things would be better if he could get rid of the uppity Shaven, even if they lose their coin.

  Starving Pup glanced at the Shaven, then back again. “She… Yizel’s coming to help us. She’s… we’re all volunteering to save the village.”

  Crazy Raccoon looked between them all, taking a few moments to comprehend what he was being told. Once it all clicked into place, he gave one big bark of a laugh, then looked at the Shaven in mocking shock. “You’re volunteering?” The Shaven lowered her angry eyes, her face reddening. Crazy Raccoon looked at Starving Pup as if he was mad, and grabbed him by the arm. “Come here, I’ve got to fill you in on something.”

  Starving Pup trotted along, pulled along by the famous Bravador. Crazy Raccoon pointed at the Shaven, making it clear he was to be obeyed. “Stay here. Shut up, and stay here.”

  He pulled Starving Pup a few steps away from the Shaven and the Wildman, close enough to still see them but talk in private. Crazy Raccoon lowered his head so it was closer to Starving Pup’s, and spoke in hushed tones. “You’re letting that Shaven help you?”

  “Yes. No, Yizel said-”

  “Yizel?”

  Starving Pup pointed at the Shaven. Crazy Raccoon was pleased to see the woman flinch at the attention. “Her, the… the Shaven. Her name’s Yizel.”

  “You don’t fucking name them,” Crazy Raccoon laughed, gesticulating to the nearby crowd as if someone was going to pop out and agree with him. “The Shaven don’t get names anymore. They’re lucky enough to be allowed to keep their blades, all the fucking good they are with them.” The boy looked lost, unsure what to say. Crazy Raccoon lowered himself back down. “Do you even know what a Shaven is?”

  “She’s… they’re fallen Bravadori, right? She lost her mask.”

  “She hasn’t just lost her mask. She didn’t wake up one morning and it wasn’t there. Her mask was taken from her. She did something horrible, something that shattered the Bravadori code. Most Shaven I’ve known were murderers. Why would you want someone like that helping you?”

  The boy’s face reddened, and he looked down at his feet. Crazy Raccoon was pleased to notice the Shaven see this reaction, and she turned her own head away.

  “What choice do we have?” Starving Pup said, not able to look the legendary Bravador in the eye. “Tomas has been all over the city, and no other Bravadori agreed to help him. I was almost killed when I tried to recruit more to the cause. We’re without hope anyway, an extra bit of hopelessness can’t make things any worse.”

  Crazy Raccoon did his best to give a winning smile, and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Starving Pup, hope has just arrived. I’ll go with you to this dirt village.”

  The light in the young Bravador’s eyes lit up Crazy Raccoon’s soul. That adulation was what Crazy Raccoon lived for, what he was due every day of his life. Fuck Galloping Turtle for trying to take that from him.

  “Come on, let’s tell the Shaven to clear off and then I’ll sort out what we’re doing next.”

  The boy stiffened. “No, she’s still… shouldn’t she still come? There’s only two of us, that can’t be enough to see off a host of bandits. Even if she isn’t as good, shouldn’t we still take her?”

  Ah, that’ll cause problems. The boy’s taken with the Shaven. I could probably shake him off her, but don’t want to risk pushing him the other way instead.

  “Fine,” Crazy Raccoon said, eventually. “Fine, she can come. I’ll do what I can to keep her in line. Let’s head back and tell her the good news.”

  A spring in his step, Starving Pup marched back to the Shaven and his Wildman.

  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 she
lves 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.