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

by Benedict Patrick

  Most of the boys ran, flinging their blades and masks behind them as they did so. None of these children made it out of the village. Despite their warped features, the remnants of the villagers of Morelia had animal cunning, and they had surrounded the Bravadori boys in the dark, and were waiting for the runners in the blackness between the buildings. The screams of the dying children alerted their companions to the true nature of their predicament.

  Those who remained drew their swords, tried to remember what the Lion’s Paws had taught them, and used their cold steel to fend off the monsters, praying to the Queen to give them her gift. No magic illuminated their blades on that night, yet still they were able to dispatch some of the monsters as they approached. However, even the youngest of them could see that the night was lost, and there was no chance of defending for long against such numbers.

  They retreated to the remains of a tavern in the main street of the village, hoping to bar the doors and windows of the building. The things in the dark were relentless, and the boys - despite their masks and bravado - were young and unKnacked, and one by one the false Bravadori fell, feeding their enemies.

  They fell, until only one remained. This boy was close enough to being a young man that he should have known better than to trust the Bravadori when they had approached him at the wharfside, when they had promised him a better life. However, the promise of greatness had been too much for him, too strong an allure, and now it had led to the end of his life.

  The creatures shambled towards him, silent mouths open, still dripping red from his fallen comrades. He looked at the blade in his hands, and wondered how he could have hoped to use such an alien thing to change his fortune. He had never held a blade, not even a dagger, before. Down on the docks of Espadapan, he had learnt to survive with his own wits, with his own two fists. He had spent his short lifetime fighting with them, every day using them to survive, to take from others what he needed to live. It was his fists that made him special, not this stupid sword the Bravadori had given him. It was his fists that he used to fight. That was where his talent lay.

  That was where his talent lay.

  For the first time in the boy’s life, his Knack flared into being. Instantly aware of what he had to do, the child - now on the road to becoming a man - dropped his rapier, took a step towards the closest of the abominations, and pummelled his fist into the creature’s nose. Cartilage shattered, bone splintered, and was pushed back into what remained of the thing’s brain. It dropped down, dead, but the boy did not notice. He had taken another step, had landed another blow, to similar effect. Methodically, as if hypnotised by the amber sparks that now leapt from his eyes, the boy continued to step forward, then attack, step, attack. Sometimes he punched, sometimes he grabbed, sometimes he gouged. There was no clumsiness of footwork here, no child-like bumbling through stances and manoeuvres that he could not hope to understand. This was a force of nature, pounding his way home.

  Outside of the village, the Lion’s Paws waited.

  “You’re sure this will work?” one of them asked.

  The leader, an older woman whose mask sported a headdress of brown feathers, nodded. “That’s what they said. When the creatures feed, a blood lust takes them, and they swarm from the safety of the buildings, out here into the open. Let them finish the children, and then they will fall into our trap.”

  The Bravadori waited until long after the final dying scream of the boys, but none of the warped villagers emerged. The Paws shifted restlessly, not wishing to be the first to voice doubt about their leader’s strategy, not less the sacrifice that had just been made.

  “There!” someone shouted, finally spotting movement at the end of the village.

  The Paws drew their blades, readying themselves for action.

  The figure continued to move towards them, slowly.

  “There’s only one?” one of the Paws questioned.

  The leader narrowed her eyes. “Hold up your torch,” she demanded of her second.

  He did so, as the figure stepped closer, and they all gasped.

  There before them was a vision from their nightmares, but it wore the face of a child. The boy was painted in blood, as if anointed in a thick black oil. They could not tell where his clothing ended, and the ribbons of flesh and gore began. More than one of the Lion’s Paws was sick at the sight and smell of the child.

  The only parts of him that were visibly human were his eyes, wide and white, not really looking at the people he was walking towards.

  “Alfrond’s cock,” the leader of the Paws swore, motioning for her men to move forward to inspect the village. However, looking at the boy’s hands, broken and bloody, she could already guess at what had transpired here.

  She stepped forward to the child.

  “You’ve lost your mask,” she said to him.

  This seemed to break the boy from his stupor, and he turned to stare at her, eyes wide and questioning.

  “You, young master, are a hero. You are our hero, one of the Paws. But you have lost your mask. Remember: a Bravador is never seen without his mask.”

  The boy gave a half smile at this, and then his gaze wandered away again.

  “Great Mouse, look at him,” one of the other Paws whispered, loud enough so all could still hear. “Look at his eyes. Wide as a raccoon’s.”

  The leader grinned on hearing this, as she reached into her belt and drew out another simple black mask, fitting it on the child’s gore-soaked face.

  “This will do for now,” she said, “but we shall have to come up with something special for you when we return to the city. Got to get you a good name, too.”

  Another questioning look from the boy.

  “After all,” she continued, “when everyone back home hears about what you have done? Well, nobody will forget your name ever again.”

  This, finally, was the straw that broke the dam. This finally let the boy find his voice again.

  He tipped his head back, stared at the dust-blood moon above him, and laughed.

  Arturo leapt across the final rooftop, rolling with the impact, turning himself quickly to see what was happening behind him. Procopio was already in the air, blade pointing forward, Arturo’s Knack screaming needlessly that the dead man’s rapier was meant for Arturo’s chest.

  Arturo rolled again, leaving Procopio to land on his feet on the wooden roof tiles.

  Dull my blade, but he’s fast, Arturo thought, rushing clumsily to his feet, holding the point of his blade low in preparation for the next attack.

  Death having stolen all fatigue from his frame, Procopio was relentless. Arturo had learnt this in the few minutes they had already fought together, just as he had learnt how skilled the bandit leader really was with his blade. Multiple shallow wounds were opened across Arturo’s face and arms in testament to the dead man’s skills, Arturo’s own Knack the only reason he had suffered nothing worse. Yet. Thankfully, although Procopio appeared to retain his Knack, with his death the bandit had lost much of the art from his fighting style. The patterns of his attacks quickly became predictable, much more than those even of an unKnacked opponent, as if whatever force now animated Procopio had only a handful of moves available to it, and had lost all ability to improvise.

  Procopio flicked his wrist, tapping his blade against Arturo’s whilst stepping to the side, forcing Arturo to reposition himself. If Procopio’s early attack patterns were anything to go by, he would go for a lunging strike after the next side step, which Arturo would bat away with his duelling glove. The dead man’s predictable patterns were exactly what Arturo needed to survive this.

  Despite this good fortune, however, Arturo knew he was going to die. Procopio was predictable, but he was fast, he was strong, and Arturo was finding it increasingly difficult to move his blade to intercept Procopio’s attacks, even though he knew when they were coming. The dead thing in front of him did not appear to share this problem. That was why Arturo had made the last two rooftop leaps, to give his arm muscle
s precious seconds to recover. However, now he was on the final rooftop, with only the sheer walls of the church belltower to greet him next time. Arturo had seen the militia fall when they had attempted the climb. Going by his performance when first jumping across the roofs, and by the dead weights his arms felt already, Arturo knew he would make a similar plunge.

  As predicted, Procopio lunged forward, his white-scared face’s rigid grin mocking Arturo’s attempts to bat aside the attack. Arturo was too slow this time, and the bandit’s blade caught his right thigh before he was able to muster enough force into the push, tearing through leather and flesh before he was able to knock it aside.

  He staggered back, struggling to put weight on the wounded limb.

  Queen’s tits, that was a deep one.

  He did not dare move his eyes from his attacker, but he knew it was bad - he could feel the flowing blood like soft, stroking fingers down the back of his knee and calf.

  Procopio grinned, as he had no other choice. The dead man’s wide eyes fixed Arturo. The shade knew it had won.

  A noise from below him, from the church’s copper doors, caught Arturo’s attention. He saw a glimpse of a hint of pale skin in the sea of grey, coupled with a bellow of rage and pain. And then, the church doors buckled, and the Shepherdess’ creatures surged into the building.

  Yizel?

  Procopio was single-minded in his intent, and was not distracted by the events below. He lashed out at Arturo with a shoulder swing, an uncharacteristically strong attack for the shade, but an apt response to an opponent who had let his guard down. Warned by his Knack, Arturo lifted his rapier to deflect the blow, but still the edge of Procopio’s sword drew a red line across the top of his forehead. Arturo cursed, blood from his wound flowing down into his eye, half-blinding him.

  I can’t win this fight. I’m not good enough to best Procopio.

  Eyesight restricted to one eye, he looked down again at the church entranceway. The ash warriors continued to push their way inside, but were obviously meeting resistance, as their initial surge had been reduced to a slow trickle. There, outside the church, beneath their feet, was the forgotten form of Yizel, curled into a ball of pain, her hands over her face.

  I’m not good enough to beat him. But Yizel is.

  Switching to the offensive, Arturo took an unskilled slash at Procopio, forcing the ash warrior backwards. However, Arturo was not interested in pressing his advantage any further. Instead, he ran to the edge of the roof, and jumped down towards the sound of Yizel’s voice, leaving dead Procopio to grin alone on the rooftop.

  Reuben’s mind was full of the past as he walked. He thought of that night back at Morelia, of when Restless Hawk told him he had become a true Bravador, back when she had given him the name Crazy Raccoon. To him, being a Bravador had never been about what he could do for others. He had heard the stories, he had known about the Queen’s gift and about protecting Espadapan, but for Crazy Raccoon, being a Bravador had been about elevating himself, about being lifted from the slums he had lived in for all of his childhood. Where he was from, the Bravadori had respect, and were due that respect because of their skill and service to the city. He had never had a problem with that status quo as a young wharf rat, and he certainly had no problem when he rose through the ranks of the Paws. In his young life as a Bravador, his secret hidden by his stable master, he had been shown success after success, and only now did Reuben see the falseness behind his rise. He had not earned that praise, he had been given it to add fear to his name, a name that already carried weight because of what people said about him in Morelia.

  The stories of Morelia were wrong, however. Crazy Raccoon had not dispatched an entire village full of Wild Beasts with his sword. Reuben had done it with his fists. Not a skillful Knack, blessed by the Queen. A Knack born from the need to survive. A Knack that tens of dozens of other wharf rats developed. A pauper’s Knack. Nothing special.

  Reaching the edge of the village, ash warriors crowding around the church, Reuben lowered his gaze to look at his hands. The boy he had been carrying was no longer held in them, despite the fact that his arms were still curved into the shape needed to cradle a small child. Instead, Reuben’s leather gloves were covered in ash, with his own mask crumpled in a grey heap held within his right hand.

  He felt no sadness at the sight of his empty hands. He did not even feel confusion. Reuben was numb, overcome by his role in the death of the boy, and overcome with his realisation that everyone else was - for once - correct. He had never been the best.

  He looked up again. Some of the ash warriors had spotted him, and were running towards him, hands outstretched, reaching.

  Still numb, Reuben looked back at his empty gloves, and clenched his fists. Something about that small motion felt good, right.

  He raised his head just as the first ash warrior reached him, drew back his right hand, and punched it into the creature’s face.

  The ash warrior’s head exploded in a shower of grey, the rest of its body collapsing a moment later.

  Two more of the dead men reached him, one after the other, both dispatched in a similar manner. Reuben was doing more than just mindlessly punching the creatures. Despite their inability to speak, the ash warriors had some level of intelligence, and were not lining themselves up to be beaten down by him. However, Reuben’s feet and body were at work, manoeuvring him into position so he could replicate his first effective attack.

  His mind was moving quicker than he could ever remember, working automatically. His fists felt indestructible, as if their forward motion was destined to be ended only by the breaking of his enemies.

  Fighting these ash warriors was the most natural thing in the world, and his enjoyment of this basic Knack brought him shame. At the corner of his eye, Reuben was aware of the spectre of Restless Hawk, silently laughing at him, the former legend now a regular pugilist. His face burned, and he snarled in anger.

  He moved forward aggressively now, attracting more attention from the Shepherdess’ army, but he welcomed their advances. Snarling, Reuben grabbed at them, pulling arms from their bodies, hurling them back into each other, breaking more heads. He was a storm, pushing back against the black cloud that threatened the village, that had taken the child’s life, that had unveiled his forgotten shame. Without contemplating it, his snarl turned into a roar. The dead faces of the ash warriors blended into one, his arms filled with a welcome ache from the repeated exertion they were not used to.

  A dark shape overhead distracted Reuben. A figure fell from the roof above him, bouncing into the grey crowd ahead. It was then, through the haze of rage that he was now swimming in, Reuben was vaguely aware he had made his way to the church door, beating a path through the milling ash creatures.

  Shouting incoherently with each blow, Reuben pushed his way through the warriors that blocked his advance, his leather duelling gloves now splitting at the knuckles. Each contact with an ash warrior’s skin was accompanied by a blaze of pain from his hand, but Reuben ignored it.

  Curse these hands. These simple, stupid hands.

  Reuben stumbled when he put his fist through a warrior’s head, and was greeted with the sight of Starving Pup standing facing him, the Shaven on the ground beside the boy, curled up in a ball in the dirt, her hand clutching her face, grey crumbling from behind her fingers.

  Starving Pup shouted something at Reuben, but the older Bravador could not make out the boy’s words beyond the roaring of his own voice inside his head. There were too many enemies about them now, and the sensation of his Knack reawakening was too raw for Reuben to cope with. Instead, he stood back to back with the boy, using his fists to keep the monsters at bay, Starving Pup cutting at them with his rapier.

  The mocking faces on the edges of his vision had moved, and Reuben found them now on the enemies that assailed him. Reuben was vaguely aware that there was no way the Bravadori of Espadapan could be the ashen faces before him, but all Reuben could see were the jeering faces of Gallopin
g Turtle, Battered Bear, Sinister Crow, Preening Owl, and many others, all laughing at him and his unskilled Knack, his talent of little renown. He ended their existence, exploding them into clouds of dust, but still they kept coming, laughing at him. Towards the end, an ash warrior with the face of Restless Hawk herself stepped forward. She did not seem surprised as Reuben snarled, and drew back his hand to lash out at her. Her mocking smile disappeared as her head exploded when he punched it, but removing that smile did nothing to dispel Reuben’s anger.

  Then, through the haze of breaking faces, Reuben spotted something real. Advancing through the horde around him, Reuben could see a face he recognised, one that summoned fear from deep inside him. A phantom from his recent memory, a white hand-print where skin had been ruined. It was Procopio, the man who had beaten him, who had ended the legend of Crazy Raccoon. The bandit was dead, and was pushing his way towards Reuben. Like all the other Bravadori attacking Reuben, Procopio was grinning.

  Reuben began to shake, and stepped back from the monster, pushing up against Starving Pup.

  Starving Pup turned to look at the advancing Procopio.

  “Okay, Yizel, we need you now,” the boy said to the Shaven, still curled up at her feet, moaning lowly. “Procopio is here, and you’re the only one of us good enough to stop him.”

  Reuben looked on in grudging admiration as the Shaven, Yizel, picked herself up upon hearing Starving Pup’s words. As she lowered her hand, ash fell from her face, leaving an ugly dead mark along its right hand side.

  However, the Shaven’s sword was in her hand, and her face was set.

  Reuben would recognise her expression anywhere. It was the emotion he himself had felt so recently.

  The Shaven was angry, and hungry to prove herself.

  Her face burned where the creatures had touched her, but inside she was steady. Close by, Crazy Raccoon, returned to them, was bellowing with rage, a mindless creature beating away at the ash warriors that threatened to overwhelm them. With Crazy Raccoon and Starving Pup dealing with the warriors, a gap opened to allow Yizel to deal with her new foe - the shade that had once been Procopio.