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

by Benedict Patrick

  There was a silence from inside, then a female voice spoke. “Do we really need to? Some of the men have been talking. We were wondering, is this really necessary?”

  The first voice, Crazy Raccoon assumed it was Procopio, did not seem happy with the question. “What exactly have they been saying?”

  There was another uneasy silence. “We know you hold close to the Wildfolk ways. Queen’s tits, half the people here have Wild in them, so nobody’s got a problem with that. But, Procopio, nobody else nowadays uses people. Small animals, something we can easily rear and get a good number of. That’s enough for most villages. Why do we need people?”

  “Because we do. I do. It’s just a superstition for most. Tradition. Something that lets them sleep at night, to ward off memories of the stories their parents and grandparents told them. You know it’s different for me. I’ve got something… specific to hide from. This is what kept my father safe. This is why I’ve lived so long.”

  “Yes, well, I believe you, but you got to understand, it can be difficult for everyone to feel that way. We’ve taken on a lot of new faces in the last few years and, well, it’s not easy to put up with. The death. I mean, nobody here has an issue with chopping someone’s head off and taking their belongings. But the gates, that’s different. It lasts longer. It… this sounds stupid, but it don’t feel right, you know? And some of the men, well, like I said, they’ve been talking.”

  The conversation continued in this way for a while, but Crazy Raccoon stopped focussing on the content.

  Three in there. I should be able to take them, provided none of them have the Knack for a fight. Best I catch a glimpse of the situation, just in case there are some silent parties that might fuck things up for me.

  The door in front of Crazy Raccoon was closed tight. Slowly, making sure he was moving while the conversation was still taking place, he began to push the door open.

  Not all the way, not yet. Just enough to see what I’m up against.

  The door moved silently, but still the conversation in the room behind it stopped.

  “Hello?” came a voice from inside the bedroom. Procopio’s voice.

  Shit. Crazy Raccoon stumbled backwards, turning around in panic.

  “Don’t mess around out there,” Procopio shouted. “There are no secrets from anyone in this camp. If you want to come in, just come in.”

  Shit.

  The corridor that led back to the stairway was long, but had many side rooms off of it, a good choice of places to hide in. The only problem was, Crazy Raccoon had no idea if anybody was in those rooms.

  “Who in Alfrond’s name is out there?” Procopio’s shout was followed by footsteps towards the bedroom door.

  Crazy Raccoon ran. Unfortunately, he did not have the wherewithal to move his scabbard, which got tangled in his legs, throwing him to the ground, face smashing onto the floorboards.

  Crazy Raccoon turned onto his back to see the door open, and an older woman standing there, weather-beaten face looking at him in confusion.

  “What?”

  Crazy Raccoon did not stop to engage in conversation. Before she could recover from the shock, he picked himself up and ran to the stairway.

  Behind him, more voices joined in. “Stop! Who was that? Stop!”

  “He had a mask. He’s a swordsman, wearing a mask.”

  “Bravadori.” And then, at the top of his voice, Procopio shouted, “Guards. We’re under attack. Get me that masked man.”

  Shit.

  Crazy Raccoon blundered down the stairs, the female bandit in the doorway now standing to attention, unsure what was going on. Her cup was still in her hand, her machete just beginning to rise, as Crazy Raccoon thrust his blade into her chest.

  “But-” was all she could manage before life left her.

  Barrelling past, Crazy Raccoon threw the body to the ground, jumping after it as it tumbled down the manor house steps. The courtyard, which had been empty only a few minutes ago, now had half a dozen bandits in it, moving towards the manor house. Most of them already had weapons in their hands. They paused only briefly when they saw Crazy Raccoon and their dead colleague, then raised their clubs and machetes, shouted, and ran at him.

  I can do this. I’ve taken on odds like this before. None of these pants-wetters seem to have a Knack worth worrying about.

  Crazy Raccoon looked around for a better vantage point. All he could see was the gap in the wall he had run through, and nobody was in his way to get to it. Not stupid enough to try to meet six people in battle at once, Crazy Raccoon began his mad dash for the hole. However, mere seconds from reaching it, a patrol emerged from behind the servant’s house, blocking Crazy Raccoon’s exit.

  Shit.

  He turned his head wildly, the closest bandits almost having closed the distance now. He took a split second to judge their momentum, to guess their skill based on how they held their weapons, and the order in which they would reach him. It was too close. There was no way even a swordsman like him could survive those numbers at the same time. The patrol, a man and a woman, both wielding metal clubs, charged towards him.

  Taking the only safe option, Crazy Raccoon bolted for the building to his left. He thanked Alfrond that the door was not barred, and dived inside. In dark hallway immediately behind the door there was a small chair which Crazy Raccoon used to wedge under the handle of the main door. He secured the door just before the first of the bandits reached it, throwing themselves against the wood and cursing at him.

  Taking a moment to catch his breath, Crazy Raccoon assessed his situation.

  I’m fucked. Alfrond’s balls, I’m fucked.

  “Shit.” Yizel, still lying beside Arturo, stiffened, then pulled herself to standing position. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Arturo, panicking, stood with her and scanned the encampment below, looking for trouble. It was not hard to see the hornet’s nest that was buzzing below him. Crazy Raccoon, now exited from the main building, was not difficult to spot, the white rings of his mask glaring in the midday sun. He was sprinting across the central courtyard of the old estate, a good half-dozen black figures scrambling behind him, pouring out of the mansion he had been sneaking inside.

  “Oh no,” was all Arturo could say. In his chest, his heart felt like ice - dead, not daring to move.

  “Come on,” Yizel said, grabbing his sleeve, pulling him towards the embankment they had climbed earlier.

  “Where’re we going?” Arturo asked, stumbling in the dirt as he half-ran, half-fell down the scree.

  “He’s going to die,” Yizel said, having similar difficulties as Arturo with the loose stones. “We’ve got to get him out of there.”

  Reaching the bottom of the embankment, they began to run towards the faded whitewash of the estate buildings. As they ran, Arturo looked at Yizel, at the purple bruises on her face.

  He beat her up last night. He beat her up, and now she’s thinking of saving him? The shame that overwhelmed Arturo was worse than the shame he had felt after what had happened to Tomas. It should have been him to suggest saving the friend in trouble. It should have been a Bravador saving Crazy Raccoon, not a Shaven.

  They reached the buildings, the commotion clearly audible from within the estate. Pulling themselves up to peek over the unguarded wall, Yizel and Arturo could see one of the smaller buildings now surrounded by the bandits. Crazy Raccoon must have secured himself inside, realising he had no chance of getting out without being caught.

  They lowered themselves back, Arturo panting heavily. “Now what?”

  She had acted without thinking. Long dormant reactions, fostered by a previous lifetime as a Bravador, had jumped into play once Yizel had realised Crazy Raccoon was in trouble. Starving Pup had followed her and, only now, after reaching the wall and seeing the impossible odds waiting for them in the courtyard, Yizel stopped to think.

  We can’t do this. There are far too many of them. The boy is untested, and I… I am who I am. Even if they came out one at
a time, we’d still be dead.

  The young Bravador was waiting beside her, white faced and looking expectantly.

  “There’re too many of them,” she said, stating the obvious. “He’s got no chance of getting out of there with them swarming the building like that. We have to get some away.”

  “A diversion?” Starving Pup asked. “Got anything in mind?”

  Her brain working as fast as it could, Yizel could not come up with anything that would not put them in danger.

  “They’ll have to chase us. Or one of us, at least. Grab their attention, pull them away, present them with a better target. The other one will get to Crazy Raccoon.”

  She saw Starving Pup breathe deeply, and inside chided herself again for what she was doing.

  We shouldn’t be here. We should be running. We’re going to die if we stay. In the village, they’ll suffer too. The bandits will know someone sent them, and punishment is just around the corner. We should be getting out of here, and warning them before running back to Espadapan.

  “I’ll do it,” Yizel said. She could not quite believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. However, the look of shame and pride that Starving Pup gave her as she said that made it worth the high price she suspected she would have to pay later.

  “It’ll be dangerous,” Starving Pup said, doubt dawning on his face.

  “Dangerous? All I’m doing is shouting at them and running away. You’re the one that’s going to go in there and get that fat fool out.”

  Starving Pup smiled at her weakly. “All right then. Queen’s blessing to you, Yizel.”

  Yizel nodded in response, then made her way to the main entrance of the encampment. She turned only briefly to see Starving Pup creeping around the west side of the estate, presumably looking for one of the gaps in the wall he could climb through once she got the bandits’ attention.

  Yizel could smell the main gates of the estate before she could see them. The streets of Espadapan were not known for their pleasant aroma - in certain districts waste was thrown onto the streets, in others it was dumped into the nearby snickleways, still not far enough away to fully get rid of the smell. The stench that assaulted Yizel now was nothing like the smell of the city. This was not even the smell of dead things, something that she had plenty of experience with, as would anyone who had spent any time close to any of the city abattoirs. No, this was not the smell of something dead, but of something dying. Yizel rounded the corner to see the gates of the bandit estate, and the two dying Wildfolk that had been nailed to the wall on either side of the doorway. Nose wrinkled, Yizel did her best to settle her stomach. The odour was a heady mix of shit and rotting flesh. One of the villagers - a woman - was no longer moving, and Yizel offered a quick prayer to the Great Mouse, hoping she had already died. The other - a man - was clearly still alive, twitching constantly, but not seeming in any way coherent.

  Barbaric. It’s one thing to rob the village and kill those opposing you. It is another thing entirely to do this.

  Yizel had come here to cause a diversion. She now knew exactly what she was going to do.

  She moved closer to the dying man. His eyes opened at the sound of her footsteps, stared directly at her, his eyes wide and white, his pupils tiny dots. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a low moan emerged. She could see his tongue, swollen to twice the normal size, dry and cracked.

  Face expressionless, Yizel stepped forward and drew her sword. The look of relief on the man’s face was not unexpected, and he lay his head back against the wood he was nailed to, closing his eyes. He sighed only briefly as Yizel thrust her rapier into his heart. Checking to make sure nobody was watching as she crossed the gateway, Yizel performed a similar act on the woman nailed to the other side. The woman did not react at all to the blade entering her body, giving further credence to Yizel’s initial guess that she had already died.

  Yizel looked at the suffering she had just brought to an end.

  Not enough. I’m sure these bandits have other villagers waiting inside to take their places.

  Yizel reached into a pouch at her belt and drew forth her flint, also pulling her knife from her belt.

  Time to really get their attention.

  Arturo crouched behind the rubble of the wall, watching more bandits pile out of the manor house.

  Procopio.

  A tall man, wielding a thin blade, wearing a waistcoat underneath his long leather jacket, stood out from the others. He seemed well groomed and in command, but his face was dead. Arturo was shocked to see it - the man’s face was grey, not just lacking colour, but it was burnt, lines running all down it like a log that had cracked and broken in the fireplace.

  That must be Procopio.

  Procopio ran up to the house Crazy Raccoon had barred himself in, and pounded on the door with his fists. The man turned and shouted something inaudible to the rest of the gathered bandits, then stood back as they took it in turns to ram the door with their shoulders. As the commotion continued, more bandits emerged from the surrounding buildings, coming to see if they could help and earn glory in the eyes of their leader.

  Come on, Yizel, Arturo thought, as the numbers grew. There were well more than a dozen bandits swarming the building now, looking for another way in. We need that distraction before it’s too late.

  As if she could read his mind, a cry went up from the back of the group of bandits. One of the women turned, pointed at the entrance of the camp, and shouted again.

  Procopio ran beside her. His expression was a mix of horror and shock that made a surge of anticipation run its way through Arturo’s body.

  “The wards!” Procopio shouted, clear this time, panicked. “See to the wards! Don’t let them go out!”

  Procopio and most of his men ran, presumably towards whatever Yizel had done. Three bandits remained. If Arturo was ever going to have a chance, this was it.

  He began to run, sprinting low, trying to avoid being seen for as long as possible. Three bandits, more than the two that had inspired the tears on his mask. Those bandits, during that night on his father’s estate, he had fought one at a time, picking them off in a melee that many men were involved in on both sides. The enemies before him now were different. They were together, and Arturo was alone.

  He had hoped to rush the group and kill one before they noticed him. He had no such luck. One of the bandits spotted him as soon as he left his hiding space, and they were all aware of him well before he reached them.

  “Another Bravador,” the one who spotted him shouted. He was a man, probably the same age as Arturo’s father, and was holding a rusted machete. The other two - a man and a woman - both wielded iron clubs.

  Arturo let his Knack come into play, slowing time, straining it to deal with so many combatants at the same time. He could tell straight away that none of these had a Knack for combat, their initial stances showing little evidence of skill or training, and allowed himself to relax just a little. The task of taking them out had gone from impossible to very probable. Judging by their movements, and by how the others kept glancing at the man with the machete, he would be the first to move. Rapier raised, Arturo took a few steps towards the woman, forcing her to stumble back in panic. He smiled again, but this time for effect only. They clearly recognised him for what he was because of the mask, and he wanted to use that fear against them. Machete did not seem too intimidated, but Arturo could tell he would have no problem dealing with the man if it was single combat. The trick now was to whittle the odds down to his favour.

  Machete lunged, but Arturo saw the move coming well before it happened. Arturo batted the machete wide, but instead of countering his attacker, Arturo immediately ran at the man with the club, giving a scream as he did so. The shock of the cry and the unexpected attack had the desired effect - the man stumbled backwards, in danger of losing his footing. The bandit’s panic gave Arturo all the opening he needed, stabbing his blade into the man’s neck before wheeling round to face Machete again.
r />   The wounded bandit fell to the ground. One more tear for the mask.

  Arturo was certain of success now.

  Relaxing slightly, Arturo allowed himself a glance at the entrance to the camp. There was a fire there that had drawn most of them away.

  The gates, Arturo realised. Yizel burnt the gates, the dying villagers. Must have been really important to Procopio, for him to react so strongly. Good choice for a diversion.

  In the distance, Arturo was dimly aware of the sound of metal clashing upon metal, but could not focus too much on anything other than the combat in front of him.

  “Stay close to me,” Machete ordered the woman. “Not even a Bravador can take on two at once, if we work together.”

  Unsure, the woman did as she was told. Arturo’s forehead creased in concern. He did not have long before Procopio and the bandits would return, or more would emerge from their homes. He had to make this quick.

  Normally preferring to wait for his opponents to make stupid moves - he was so used to fighting unKnacked opponents, with whom this tended to happen very quickly - Arturo felt wrong rushing in to attack. He was faster, but the two enemies were hard to manage, especially the woman’s club. It smashed against his rapier, threatening to throw Arturo’s balance off. Machete saw the opportunity to take another slash at Arturo, tearing a chunk of fabric from his sleeve, but Arturo’s Knack-enhanced reflexes saved him from any further injury.

  He looked back at the diversion, and paled. The smoke from the fires was dimming, and many of the bandits at the gate had spotted him and were running back, Procopio included, his dead features fixed solely on Arturo now.

  “Crazy Raccoon!” Arturo shouted, all pretence of stealth gone. “I’m outside. We’ve got to go, now!”

  As if waiting to be called, the older Bravador burst from the house he was hiding in, bellowing in anger, face red with battle rage. This, finally, caused Machete to lose confidence, and the bandit withdrew from the combat, waiting for Procopio and the reinforcements before engaging again.