The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  With coin low, no hope of being accepted into a stable, and no sign of Gavrilla, Arturo found himself doing the unthinkable. He was considering going back home.

  Father would expect it, of course. They both would, him and mother. And I know they’d be happy to see me. By Alfrond, though, what would I do after that? This Knack of mine - the Knack I forced on myself - what else can it be used for, except to be a Bravador? They’d take me back, and my brother would too, but I’d be useless to them.

  I’d be coming home with my tail between my legs. Like a Starving Pup.

  The sting of his newly christened Bravador name angered him. As a young boy, he had always marvelled at the magnificence of the names of the famous Bravadori. Roaming Iguana. Silent Sparrow. Crazy Raccoon. Never did Arturo believe his own Bravador name would shame him.

  He had strongly considered throwing the mask away. Most of the other Bravadori knew him by sight, now, and his appearance in a new barrio tended to bring forth chuckles from those who had heard his story. More than once he had walked past groups of Bravadori who were having the story told to them, spreading the word through the city as he plodded alongside his tale. More worrying than that, Arturo remained aware of the target he presented with his mask and sword at his belt, especially because his arm lacked the band of a prominent stable. Without Gavrilla’s status as a Bride to protect him, Arturo knew it was only a matter of time before another Bravador challenged him. More than once he had jumped into a nest of snickleways, some sense screaming at him, telling him that aggressive eyes were on him. Each time, he emerged from the maze of back streets shamefaced, aware that running from combat was not the sign of a true Bravador. However, his only other way of avoiding conflict was to remove his mask in public, and Arturo had vowed not to do that. If he removed his mask, he would be giving up on his dream of being a Bravador.

  Of course, I could simply do what every other Bravador does, and actually fight my attackers. I do have a Knack for swordplay, and this is what Bravadori do. Winning a few fights might work in my favour.

  However, a sickness in the pit of Arturo’s stomach warned him from taking this course of action. He had never fought another Knacked swordfighter before, and wanted to practise in private before displaying his duelling talents in public.

  And the only way he could practise with another Knack was by getting accepted to a stable.

  The city was enjoying a siesta, sheltering from the heat of the midday sun. Back on his father’s estate, this would mean that nobody worked, ranch hands would find shade and regain their strength. In Espadapan, life slowed but did not stop. Small cloisters of Brides - none containing Gavrilla - made their way through the convent gates, traders eyed passersby lazily from their shelter behind their stalls, pedestrian movement thinned but did not fade. Arturo sat underneath a juniper tree planted outside the convent, picking his teeth with a sharp goat bone he had been storing tucked behind his belt as something to play with to stave off the boredom of city life.

  The tranquillity of the moment was broken by shouting. A Wildman, wearing the traditional cotton clothing of the natives, came pounding up the street, hounded by a trio of beggar children. Arturo smiled at the joy on the boys’ faces as they took it in turns to swipe at the Wildman’s purse, uninterrupted by any onlookers. A few passersby laughed, enjoying the comedy of the scene.

  Arturo’s own mirth stopped when he saw the Wildman’s face. He was openly weeping.

  Shame flooded Arturo, and he rose from the ground.

  “Clear off, you lot,” he shouted at the boys.

  The trio stopped and stared at him, watching to see what he would do next.

  Grimacing at the heat, Arturo stepped out from under the tree, his discomfort instantly rising as the sun hit the top of his head. At the sight of his movement, and his mask, the beggars vanished.

  Arturo moved towards the Wildman, doing his best to ignore the man’s frustrated sobs.

  For his own part, the Wildman did not look Arturo in the eye. The man stood still in the street, head lowered, seeming to be composing himself.

  “You all right?” Arturo asked when he reached him.

  “Yes, oh yes. Funny sight, isn’t it?” the Wildman said through ragged breaths. The boys must have been at him a while, to work him into such a state. The man was older than Arturo, but not by much. He had a machete at his belt, as most Wildfolk did, but Arturo was not surprised he had not used it against the children - those dull blades were a way of getting through the overgrown Wildlands, they were not used as weapons. Also, the Wildman probably knew the reaction that drawing a blade on a child would have had in the city.

  Which would have added to the frustration that nobody had lifted a finger to help him.

  “What’s funny?” Arturo asked, concern in his voice.

  “Funny Wildman, can’t even defend himself from children. Have a good laugh, see me on my way.” The man continued to look at the ground. He took a deep breath, then tightened his belt.

  “It isn’t easy dealing with the young ones in the street,” Arturo said. “Best to stick in a group. From what I can tell, they hone in on people travelling alone. Maybe… maybe if you kept to Wild Town?”

  The man finally looked at Arturo, and flinched noticeably at the sight of Arturo’s mask. Then, to Arturo’s surprise, anger bloomed on the man’s face.

  “You’d rather that, wouldn’t you? Want me to go back to my own people.” The man turned and began to leave.

  Arturo shouted after him, “No, I didn’t mean that.” In his days in Espadapan, Arturo had spotted many Wildfolk walking the streets. The Muridae and the Wildfolk had intermingled so much, only those in high society paid any attention to ancient family ties. However, these rules only applied to Wildfolk who had acclimatised to Muridae rule, who had adopted their beliefs and customs. There was still a large stigma against those who chose to remain native, and this would have been the reason the Wildman found no protection from the young thieves.

  “I didn’t mean that, I just mean… it would be safer for you.”

  The Wildman pulled up short, turned around, and almost looked Arturo in the eye, flinching at the last second.

  “You threatening me?” The Wildman shook his head again.

  “No,” Arturo replied, stepping forward. Arturo indicated his mask and his blade. “I’m a Bravador. I wouldn’t threaten you. I protect people.”

  “Protect?” The man looked away for a moment. When his face returned to Arturo, it was covered in a mad grin, the pinch of his lips dispelling any mirth from the expression. “You protect me?” The man laughed, making Arturo feel uneasy. “Yes, yes, I used to believe that too. But my time here has proven me wrong.”

  The man’s remarks stung at Arturo, more because they so mirrored how his own preconceptions about the Bravadori were changing. The Wildman turned away again, but Arturo grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him back.

  “No, you’re wrong,” Arturo said, voice laced with conviction. “Bravadori protect, we are the Queen’s last line of defence. It’s why we exist. It’s what we do.”

  The anger returned to the Wildman’s face. “Then why,” he spat, daring to look Arturo in the eyes this time, “have I spent so long looking for help? Why’ve I been here for weeks, but no Bravadori have heard my tale? Why’ve I been laughed out of inns, kicked and punched, spat upon, but never helped?”

  It isn’t just me. I wasn’t the only fool coming here to find the heroes of the stories. And by Alfrond’s balls, this man is going to find what he was looking for.

  “Perhaps you haven’t met the right Bravador,” Arturo replied, then gave the Wildman one of his winning smiles. “Until now.”

  The Wildman stared at him for a few moments, seemingly unsure of how sincere Arturo was.

  “You said you need help?” Arturo suggested.

  The man nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do. We all do, my village.”

  “You aren’t from Espadapan?”

  The man shook hi
s head. “No. Far from here, a village called Calvario.” Arturo had not heard of it, but this was not much of a surprise. The Muridae only had a few settlements in the Wilds, although their Queen claimed to hold all the land between them. Many of the Wildfolk villages remained out there, swearing fealty to the Mouse Queen, but not really having much to do with her other than existing in her domain.

  “What’s wrong with your village?”

  “Bandits,” the man replied.

  Arturo nodded. Growing up away from the city, he knew bandits were the biggest threat to his father’s estate, which was why his father hired so many men - and sometimes Bravadori - to protect him.

  “They’ve been attacking us for the best part of a year,” the Wildman continued, his tongue running freer as his confidence in Arturo’s sincerity grew. “Their leader, a man called Procopio, is making our lives a misery. They call him ‘the man with the dead face’, and he is as horrible as the scars that inspired his title. He has stolen our belongings, our gold, and many people from the village. I’ve come here to find help, to hire somebody to save us. I was looking for Bravadori. We have heard so much of your kind…” The man’s voice trailed off. From the worry lines that creased the Wildman’s face, Arturo could see the weeks of disappointment etched clearly there, disappointment that mirrored Arturo’s own experience in Espadapan so far.

  However, Arturo’s excitement was beginning to grow. He had come to the city to be a Bravador, to become a hero. That was exactly what this man, what his entire village, needed. And if Arturo could become a hero in their eyes, could do what Bravadori were supposed to do, surely that would impress the stable masters.

  Arturo held out his hand to the Wildman. “I’ll help you. They call me… they call me Starving Pup.”

  Starving Pup against the man with the dead face. Not a bad title for a heroic tale.

  A smile graced the Wildman’s face at Arturo’s Bravador name. The man’s mirth was irritating, but Arturo was most shocked by the fact that the Wildman was missing both of his front teeth. It was such a comical look, so unexpected, that Arturo could not help but grin upon seeing the bare gums.

  The Wildman blushed, but his smile increased. “They all do that, everyone at home, smiles when I smile. My wife, she says all she has to do is look at my happy face, and her day is made brighter.”

  He took Arturo’s hand in his own, clasping it firmly. “Tomas Arroyo. Mister Pup, I am very pleased to meet you.” Tomas’ smile faded, slightly. “Please, I do not doubt you, but Procopio has many men. He is a legend among their kind, the bandits. They call him the man with the dead face, and they flock to him. I’ve heard much about the Bravadori, I know even one of you are worth a handful of normal men, but are you really going to be able to solve our problems all by yourself?”

  Arturo’s own smile faded away. Tomas was right, Arturo needed more swords. But surely, now he had discovered someone in need, other Bravadori would aid him. The Bravadori of the city so far had been a disappointment to Arturo - they were selfish, held too high an opinion of themselves, and they were slovenly. But to keep their reputation, they must also be protectors, and here was a man who was in dire need of protection.

  “No, we need more bodies. And I know where to find them.”

  A single mariachi played her guitar in the corner. Yizel watched her, unimpressed. The woman had a clear Knack for the instrument, so much so that she inspired tears in her own eyes as she played some song about a lost love. Yizel could understand feeling the need to cry, but it was more because of where she was than the content of the mariachi’s song.

  She looked around, uneasy, taking in the sights of the many Bravadori. She was in the Proving Grounds, the infamous Bravador tavern. Although the Proving Grounds were well inside of Lion’s Paws territory, it had always been considered a neutral place, somewhere Bravadori from all stables could meet and share news of their adventures and misfortune.

  Shaven like Yizel were not welcome here, normally. She had not dared show her face in the Proving Grounds since she had lost her mask, but Sinister Crow had sent a clear message to meet her here, and so Yizel had come. The message had promised more coin, but more importantly, it had been written in a way that suggested ignoring it would be unwise.

  Yizel eyed the clientele - overwhelmingly consisting of Lion’s Paws, only a few Storks playing Liar’s Dice at a shadowed table - and tried to not let her nerves show. She was well aware she had killed a Paw recently, and did not want that fact to let slip here. She hoped Sinister Crow had not lured her here just to make the murder public, and have the ensuing violence be Yizel’s lesson for such a colossal fuck up.

  The barman had not been happy to see her, his eyes drawn to her bald head straight away. His mood had improved little when Yizel presented him with her note, but he had allowed her to stay and purchase some ale. It was a foolish use of the little coin she had, but Yizel was damned if she was going to sit here and watch others drink without joining in. Also, she needed to calm her own nerves.

  Trying not to draw attention to herself, as if her bald head did not do that enough, Yizel scanned the room. There were multiple groups of Paws littering the establishment, having pulled tables together into large groups. The Paws had been spending most of the last few days celebrating their victory over the Mice, and Yizel was not surprised to see there were no Mice present in the Proving Grounds today. There was one table each of Crickets and Storks. They were just a small collection of brave men and women, rolling dice, drinking and talking quietly, probably regretting coming here in the first place. The smaller stables weren’t present today, but they weren’t excluded from enjoying the Proving Grounds, although the Squirrels never did - the other stables hated them so much, the trip home tended to be a dangerous one.

  The doors to the Proving Grounds opened and two new figures strode in. Yizel recognised the first person straight away. It was the lone Bravador she had seen being ridiculed outside of the Mice’s nest last week. Her eyes narrowed when he entered. A person either had to be a strong fighting Knack to survive for so long in Espadapan without a stable, or you had to possess an unlikely combination of luck and stupidity. From the nervous look in the young man’s eyes as he scanned the room, she voted for the latter.

  You’re too young and pretty to survive here, boy, she thought. Get out of Espadapan while you still can.

  Behind him walked a Wildman, clearly from outside of the city. The noise in the Proving Grounds dropped considerably, eyes drawn to the newcomers.

  Hopefully they’ll realise their mistake, and then leave before things get ugly.

  The young Bravador coughed loudly. He was trying to get their attention.

  Queen’s tits, what’re you doing?

  Yizel took another sip and continued to watch.

  “Hello? Excuse me, everyone. Over here.” The lone Bravador shouted above the low noise of the other patrons. The poor bastard even put his hands up to wave. Yizel heard a few Bravadori mutter the phrase ‘Starving Pup’. Clearly news of the incident with the Mice had spread.

  “I’ve come to issue you a challenge. A challenge all Bravadori should feel the need to rise to.”

  Oh, fuck.

  “This man,” Starving Pup said, indicating the Wildman behind him, “is Tomas, from the village of Calvario. Calvario has been set upon by bandits, and Tomas has travelled far to ask us, the Bravadori, for our help.”

  Yizel’s eyes narrowed. She recognised the Wildman now as the one she had found in the barrel when she had been searching the plaza. She could see where this was going, and Starving Pup was in for a rude surprise.

  “He came to Espadapan weeks ago. He is leaving today, with only one Bravador who has bothered to listen to him.”

  “What, you?” came a shout from across the bar. Yizel saw a drunken Paw trying to stand, his mask depicting a snake, a cruel grin on his face. “Starving Pup? You even a real Bravador?”

  Yizel saw the boy’s face redden. That’s it, she thought,
time to give up. Run back to mother with your tail between your legs.

  Starving Pup seemed to think for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m the one they call Starving Pup. And if you find that funny, if you think I’m somehow less than the rest of you, then you should really be ashamed, because I’m the only one here who has listened to this man. I’m the only one who is living up to the promise I made when I first put this mask on. I promised to be a Bravador, to be a Queen’s Blade, dedicating myself to protecting her people. Who have you protected today?”

  The room went quiet. If her mind had been clearer, Yizel would have realised this was not the quietness of contemplation, not the quietness of people who were ashamed of their own actions. This was the quiet of anger, the building of tension before the earth cracks. The lack of sound that often precedes deliberate violence.

  Yizel, however, found herself staring at the young Bravador. His words echoed in her head.

  Who have you protected today?

  Those words took her back to a time when she had been as green as Starving Pup. Despite the haze of ale and time, the memory of first putting on her mask was suddenly vivid before her. She had been so proud, and those words - the promise Starving Pup was speaking about - had meant so much to her.

  Protect others.

  That pureness of intent had disappeared so quickly. When was the last time she had contemplated doing something for others, without personal gain attached? Even when she had been a Bravador, she struggled to remember any acts like those Starving Pup had just described. Yet, when Yizel was a young girl, growing up in the slums outside of Espadapan’s walls, being a protector was all she had dreamed of. She had stayed up late, creeping out to the tavern windows to hear stories of Silent Sparrow or El Elephante. The greats, the heroes.