She was reminded of the Phantom Squirrels back in Espadapan, how they would often climb impossible buildings to taunt the other Bravadori from. At the time, she had marvelled at their stupidity. Now, she marvelled at their stamina, to have been able to pull off stunts like that so regularly.
Espadapan. Gripping for her life, knife clamped between her teeth, Yizel was surprised to find herself thinking of home. She hated the place, she realised. Out here, mere days after leaving the oppression of Espadapan and her rules and her swordsmen, Yizel was already making her way in the world. She was leading men to their deaths, she was finally being recognised for what she was good at, not for past mistakes she had made. She would never go back, she promised herself. If she survived this.
Finally, Yizel reached the top. She pulled herself over, exhausted, not giving herself time to catch her breath, but instead turned to reach for the militia man.
He was not there.
He must have slipped away, silently, not crying out as he fell to his death. There was no disturbance in the ash warriors below to suggest his fall had been recent.
The ash warriors. Looking at them now, from above, she realised they were pressing against the walls of the building, but so far they had not been able to amass enough force to do any damage. The largest crowd of them was pushing against the copper doors - thankfully resistant to the decay of their touch - and that was where they would eventually be successful. The metal would hold, but Yizel judged that the locking mechanism - probably just a thick plank of wood barring the door from the inside - could give at any time.
From the roof, Yizel ran down the steep staircase of the belltower, blade raised, hoping there were no signs of breach inside.
At the bottom of the stairs, the room opened out into the main chamber of the building. A few candles were burning, and the walls were sporadically shaking because of the commotion outside. Her eyes went straight to the door, which was indeed barred by only wood. The room was almost empty, other than a group of five men who stood by the door, machetes in hand.
“Where’re the others?” Yizel asked, puzzled, as she climbed the rest of the way down to join them. She had expected to find most of the village in here.
The men started when she addressed them, turning around with weapons raised. Yizel’s heart sank to see that one of the men was Jorge, the one who had propositioned her during the feast.
Jorge’s eyes narrowed as she approached. “How’d you get in here?”
“The roof,” she motioned with her head. “Where’re the others?”
He ignored her question, looking upwards incredulously. “Impossible. There’s no way to reach the top of the bell tower from here.”
She shook her head, frustration growing. “Not impossible, just difficult. Four of us tried. I’m the only one who made it.”
Jorge’s eyebrows wrinkled, doubtful.
“Now tell me, where are the others? And by Alfrond’s hairy cock, don’t make me ask a fourth time.”
One of the others motioned to the back of the church. “Over there, in the priest’s chambers. Got a big wine cellar they can lock with an iron gate. Thought it would be best once we found out what they can do to wood.”
“Good.” She eyed the plank barring the church’s copper doors. It continued to shudder under the impact from outside. “That needs braced,” she ordered. “That wood shatters, we’ve all had it.”
She issued the command without thought - the militia had not hesitated to obey her when she had given them orders outside. However, when the men did not respond to her instructions, a chill blossomed in Yizel’s gut. These men’s minds had already been poisoned against her. Knowing what Crazy Raccoon had told them about Shaven, they could well decide to ignore her instructions, and then go and fuck everything up for the rest of the village.
Jorge stared at her for another heartbeat, then nodded. “You heard her,” he said to his companions, still eyeing Yizel, “find something to brace the door with. And quick.”
Turning so the men could not see her relief, Yizel ran off to the priest’s chambers. The cellar entrance was easy enough to find - in the small warren of dimly lit rooms, half a village confined in a small space made a huge amount of noise. Father Morales stood closest to the gate, the majority of the faces behind him swallowed up by the darkness.
“You’re back. Is it over?” he asked.
Yizel had the good grace not to laugh. “You have the key?”
The man nodded.
“Keep it far from the gate. Open for nobody, until you are convinced they are alive. Many of the village have already been turned.”
The old man made the Queen’s mark, and nodded again.
Yizel began to jog back to the church’s main chamber, but stumbled into a sprint when she heard the panicked voices of Jorge and his men shouting for her.
“They’re coming through!” Jorge shouted, straining against the copper doors, along with the rest of his crew.
Great Mouse, Yizel thought, looking at the beam bracing the doors. It was rotting away, disappearing into ash, thin grey fingers having wriggled through impossibly small cracks to drain the life from it.
“Fuck it! There are dozens of them out there, we’ve no chance of holding the door against them. They’re coming through, we’ve got to get clear!” she yelled, slamming into the door beside Jorge, adding her momentum to his natural strength.
Jorge looked at her, both of them straining against the weight of dead men and women outside. There was no sense of panic on his face, just an overwhelming sadness. This was a man who knew he was going to die.
“We’re all going to run,” Yizel shouted at the men. “On my mark, we’ll run together. If we can make it to the chambers in the back, their numbers won’t matter as much.” She did not mention how impossibly vast the church hall seemed to her right now. She had seen the ash warriors run, and they were fast.
“Go!” she shouted.
The men sprinted towards the priest’s chambers, the rotten beam cracking and splintering as they withdrew their support. Yizel dived away from the copper doors too, but was pulled backwards almost straight away, her arm caught on something.
In horror, she looked to the side, to the three ash-grey hands that reached from the crack in the doorway - the crack that she had allowed herself to get too close to - grabbing onto her sleeve. She tried to pull away, but the hands pulled back, and she instantly knew she was lost.
“Run, you dull-bladed fucker,” she said to Jorge, who had stopped and turned to find her, eyes wide as he realised what was happening. “Get to the cellar and save the village!”
Those were the last words Yizel said to them, before more arms reached to pull her through the doorway, back outside to where the ash warriors waited for her, the skin around her face turning grey as the ruining touch of the warriors found her flesh.
Seconds later, the wooden beam barring the church doors gave way, allowing the horde waiting outside to flood into the village’s last sanctuary.
Crazy Raccoon knew he should have fled at the sight of the black figure looming in the sky, but he stood to watch it, captivated in the same way that he could not help but watch a tavern brawl breaking out in front of him, knowing full well the possibility of violence spreading and involving him. The black cloud was about to break over the village now, but Crazy Raccoon could see that the battle was already lost. Scores of grey figures ran around the village, invading the buildings. There was no sign of any living people. From what Crazy Raccoon could gather, the church seemed to be defended, but he had no doubt the sheer numbers involved would soon overpower them.
Serves them right, for getting rid of me.
He spotted movement between the buildings, and could tell from their clothing that his fellow swordfighters were still alive, leading a band of survivors through the village.
He sniffed in grudging admiration.
Won’t be enough though, he thought. No way out, and once the Shepherdess gets there,
they’re fucked good and proper. Should never have convinced me to leave. A time like this, they need Crazy Raccoon. The only true Queen’s Blade.
Rustling to his left caused Crazy Raccoon to draw his rapier and fall into a defensive stance.
“Who’s there?” he bellowed. “Show yourselves.”
Crazy Raccoon was shocked to see the village boy from that morning stagger out of the bushes, still wearing the makeshift Bravador mask he had worn to challenge Starving Pup. The boy collapsed in a heap in front of Crazy Raccoon. There was no blood anywhere, but most of the child’s right arm was gone. It ended in a dark stump, from which flakes of skin were falling away, like ash from a log lifted from the morning hearth. The boy had similar grey marks spreading down the left side of his face and neck, the skin of which was already peeling away in the slight breeze.
Crazy Raccoon scrambled over to the child, knelt down and propped the boy up, causing flakes of flesh to crumble to the ground.
“Kid,” Crazy Raccoon said, doing his best to not look at the boy’s rapidly decaying flesh. “Why aren’t you with everyone else? They’re safe in the church. Why didn’t you go with them?”
The boy looked at Crazy Raccoon as if noticing him for the first time, and from under the boy’s mask Crazy Raccoon could see a smile. There was ash mixed with the saliva on the boy’s tongue, the sight of which made Crazy Raccoon’s own mouth run dry.
“I wanted to be the bravest,” the boy croaked. “I wanted to protect my family so I could be like you. I wanted to be the best.”
Crazy Raccoon, by reflex, gave a snorting laugh, welcoming the return to a familiar conversation. “Don’t be a fool. I told you, only Crazy Raccoon can wear that mask, and you’ll never be as good as Crazy Raccoon.”
The boy looked at Crazy Raccoon in distress, but held the expression only for a moment.
A second later, the child was dead.
Crazy Raccoon’s mouth fell open. “No, kid, wait.” He shook the child, but stopped quickly as more of the boy’s body turned grey and fell apart. Although the boy’s face was disappearing, that final expression hung in Crazy Raccoon’s mind.
The last thing Crazy Raccoon had given the child was disappointment.
“You didn’t let me finish,” Crazy Raccoon said urgently, hoping the boy could still hear him. “It was just a joke. Just a stupid joke. You were brave, helping your family like that. You should be wearing a mask. You hear me? It’s fine. You’re good enough. We can share it.”
The dead child in his arms gave no sign that he had heard him.
Crazy Raccoon, gaping now, searching for words that did not exist, lifted his head and looked about, as if expecting somebody to emerge from the Wilds to help him fix this. He looked back at the dead boy.
You’ll never be as good as Crazy Raccoon.
Crazy Raccoon took off the boy’s Bravador mask, a hastily stitched together fabrication of his own black and white bandana. With what remained of the child in his arms, Crazy Raccoon brushed the boy’s fading hair away from where his eyes used to be.
“You’re good enough to wear that mask. Foolish and brave, exactly what you need to be a Bravador. Better than many I’ve known.”
“Better than you, Crazy Raccoon.”
Crazy Raccoon kept his eyes fixed on the dead child, not looking at the phantom that had sidled up beside him, at Restless Hawk come to witness his failure. She was not really there, he knew. If he looked right at her, she would not be there. He did not need to respond to her, a figment of his imagination.
He spoke anyway.
“Shouldn’t be anyone better than me. You told me I was the best.”
In the corner of his eye, the old woman grinned. “I lied. I lied from the beginning. I needed you to think that, needed others to think it, so they’d be scared of you. So they’d run at the sight of you. I lied well and good, even after finding out what you really are, you Knackless fool.”
“I have a Knack,” he said, through gritted teeth.
The dead woman laughed at him. “A pauper’s Knack. Don’t compare that half-masked shit with what it takes to become a Bravador.”
“You told me my Knack didn’t matter.”
“I told you it mattered if they found out. They found out, Crazy Raccoon, you done let them find out our dirty little secret. And now you don’t get to be no Bravador no more.”
He spun his head and glared at the empty air beside him.
Crazy Raccoon thought of the years he had spent watching others do the dirty work. He thought of Restless Hawk’s death, and his worry of discovery after she had gone. He thought of his ridicule at the hands of Galloping Turtle, punching the Shaven again and again when she had refused to fight back, his failure against Procopio. Ending this boy’s life with utter disappointment.
“You’re certainly better than me,” he whispered to the body in his arms, reaching up to take off his own mask and fitting it on the child’s head.
Crazy Raccoon stood, eyes fixed on the village behind him. The crowd of ash warriors continued to mill around the church. There was no sign of the villagers any more, and no sign of Starving Pup and the Shaven, Yizel.
This child, this Bravador, needed to be returned home. His family needed to know how brave he had been.
As if hypnotised, emotions run dry, a man called Reuben Gallo cradled a dead child in his arms, and walked down the slope to bring the boy back home, leaving his own rapier lying in the dust.
As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan
This is a story not many have heard. They tried to hide it, the ones responsible. They did not want people to know of the horrors they had committed. But most of all, they did not want any to know the truth behind the rise of the living legend, of the man they now call Crazy Raccoon.
It took two weeks for the Lion’s Paws to march the boys from the City of Swords to the village of Morelia. Do not look for Morelia on any of our maps today - it is no longer there. Just another Muridae settlement that could not survive the weathering forces of the Wilds.
The children - all boys - were happy, chattering. They had been plucked from lives that nobody would envy. All wharf rats, snickleway dwellers, whoresons. All boys that nobody would miss. That was why they had been chosen.
Only three Bravadori came with them, only three of the Paws were chosen to honour the contract their leader had signed with the relatives of the inhabitants of the village. Morelia was a place of no great importance. Nobody would care if it was not looked after as well as had been promised. It was so far from civilisation, nobody would notice.
As they travelled, the boys were encouraged to pick up large branches from the roadside and beat each other with them, practising their swordplay. In the evenings, when the sun fell and the horrors of the Wildlands treaded just outside of the campfires, the Bravadori would take some of the more promising lads to the side and would tutor them in their footwork and stances, but most were left to their own devices. The boys used mud to paint their faces, aping the heroes who had rescued them from the city gutters, who had fed them and promised them adventure.
It was only when they arrived at the city that the boys realised something was amiss. From the hilltop they camped on, even from that small distance away, they could tell Morelia was dead. The streets were empty, many buildings already in disrepair. An air of sadness seemed to float from it.
There were more Bravadori waiting for them, and these were not as kind as the boys’ handlers. The men and women were rough, businesslike, and did not look the children in the eye as they barked their commands.
“You rotten lot want to be Bravadori?” they asked.
In unison, the boys replied in the affirmative, for what young man growing up in Espadapan’s shadow did not dream of developing the swordfighter’s Knack?
“Fine then,” the Lion’s Paws responded, “You’re Bravadori, then.”
They presented the boys with a sword each, and a simple black mask, and with two small gifts they won them
over completely. So excited the boys were with their new toys, they did not pay attention to the Paws looking worriedly at the setting sun, at the black windows of the dead village.
“You’re Queen’s Blades now,” the Paws told the boys, “so you’ve all got jobs to do. See those houses there? The people inside them, they’re not right any more. Not people anymore, not really. Turned on the Queen, they’re Wild Beasts now. It’s our job - your job - to make sure they don’t hurt nobody else. That’s what you’ve got to do, now you’re Bravadori.”
The boys cheered, and allowed the Lion’s Paws to herd them towards empty Morelia. They forgot about their fear of the dark as the moon rose. They failed to notice that the adults stopped some distance from the town border, allowing the boys to travel between the buildings alone.
The first realisation that something was wrong came when the torches began to disappear. The boys who had been given burning brands to carry in their offhands did not travel around the corners after their peers. They entered doorways and did not return. The orange flame ahead of a column of mayfly Bravadori went out, without explanation.
Then the first of the villagers appeared.
It was clear from the sight of them that these were no longer people. The villagers shambled from their homes, eyes wracked with pain from the torchlight, arms outstretched towards the youngsters. The villagers were like mistreated rag dolls, limbs broken at impossible angles, body parts shifted across their skin, as if their flesh had melted and had reset after its features had drifted apart. Many of them had clearly been sewn back together, limbs taken off and reattached where they did not belong, some with arms reaching out from behind their backs, others with dry tongues searching aimlessly from the sides of their necks.
Their mouths made no sounds, not the old or the very young. Their mouths only opened and closed, a wet smacking sound as their lips parted, their needled teeth thirsting for human flesh.
Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords: A standalone Yarnsworld novel Page 28