The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Everything I say. You were lucky last night, but you could have fucked everything up as well. Follow my lead, follow the lead of your betters, instead of running off half-cocked, and you'll never have to do the pants-wetting, second-rate guard duty again."

  She did not answer, but slowly opened the purse and started to count out its contents, checking to see how much she had, calculated how long it would last her.

  Crazy Raccoon turned away, satisfied. She's mine, now, too.

  Plough my mother, but I didn't think a fucking Shaven would be the most reliable companion on this trip.

  Certain that none of the others were looking his way, Crazy Raccoon took his flask of spirits out for another swig, congratulating himself on another disaster averted. A short distance away, Tomas moaned quietly, the Wildman finally settling into an exhausted sleep.

  As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan

  Espadapan was the heart of the new Muridae empire, but Bajapena was the shining pearl. The Queen and her governors relied on Espadapan for the empire to continue, to keep commerce flowing and for the costly process of settling to continue, but it was most proud of Bajapena.

  Ah, Bajapena! With its bright spires, strong walls, and gold-paved streets. Artists and architects from the Grasslands begged to travel overseas to visit her, the city which the Queen had bade her men spend their time and talent to create to truly glorify her name, to cover up and bury any memory of the former site of worship for the old gods of the Wildlands, to create a city which all foreigners would look on and then agree that the Muridae people were indeed the best and the brightest of the world.

  An uneasy alliance existed between the four governors of Espadapan and the Duke of Bajapena, not least because of the elevated title the Queen had gifted to the ruler of that fair city. All communication from the Grasslands bled through the port and streets of Espadapan first, and her governors would do what they could to keep the best for themselves, to sell the rarest goods in her stalls, to attract the noble men and women to build homes in Espadapan instead of Bajapena. However, few took up that offer. Why settle for mediocre, when the best was just a short mule cart journey away?

  The only gift that was unique to Espadapan was the Bravadori. After receiving the Queen’s blessing, the Bravadori offered their services throughout the Muridae settlements of the Wildlands, and to all Wildfolk who joined them in worshipping the Queen. All took them up on this offer, seeking their magical protection from the dangers of the Wilds.

  All, that is, except for the Duke of Bajapena.

  Then came the day that everything changed.

  A rider sped towards Bajapena’s gates in the early morning. Her horse collapsed as she entered the city, dead as soon as it hit the ground. She had whipped it through the night, to deliver her news on time.

  “She is coming,” the messenger told the guards, before she herself collapsed from exhaustion. “The Black Shepherdess is coming for Bajapena.”

  The Duke summoned his closest advisers. Once the messenger had recovered, she was able to give more details. She came from the town of Malcocinado, three days ride from the city. The town no longer existed. The Black Shepherdess and her ashen warriors had swept through it, turning all living things into her slaves, adding to the ranks of her forces.

  “She is looking for someone,” the messenger said, eyes wide and roaming. “She is looking for the grandchild of Alejandro, the man who betrayed her when the Muridae first travelled across the seas.”

  One of the Duke’s advisers paled, grasped at a copper locket around his neck, but said nothing, for it was he who was Alejandro’s grandchild. Long had his family known that the Shepherdess searched for them, but they kept their existence secret, and had lived without fear of retribution, until now.

  “We must flee the city,” the Duke’s advisers warned him. “When the Shepherdess sets her sights on a prize, nothing that stands between her and what she is after will survive.”

  The Duke, nervous as he was, scoffed at the notion of giving ground to a thing from the Wilds. “Nonsense. Our walls are strong, they cannot be breached, they cannot be overrun. We will hold firm, and fight back the evil in the Queen’s name.”

  “Then let us send a message to Espadapan, to ask them for their Bravadori. Let us use their skill and magic against our foe.”

  The Duke was unwilling to agree to such a request, but so many of his advisers supported it that he sent an envoy to the leader of the Bravadori, and the following day they came, leading a merry procession of barrels and pleasure-people across the Wilds, filing into Bajapena to the sound of much applause.

  The Duke was not happy with such unchecked frivolity in his great city, but weathered it, knowing that this was the price that must be paid for such protection. All of that changed, however, when the complaints began.

  The first to approach him were the wine merchants. These men and women were red-faced with anger, storming into the Duke’s halls as soon as they were announced.

  “We have been raided,” they said. “Our cellars have been raided. Those filthy banditos from Espadapan have stolen all of our wares, claiming they need them to help fortify our great city. We are ruined, and demand that those scoundrels are evicted from Bajapena at once.”

  The Duke had dreaded such a thing happening, and happily agreed - at dawn’s first light Espadapan’s Bravadori were removed from the city at spear-point, the Duke’s own personal guard seeing to the task. Luckily, the Bravadori did not choose to take offence - they were still drunk from the previous night’s wine, and jeered at the guards as they performed their task.

  However, the Duke’s advisor’s, influenced by Alejandro’s descendant, rallied to the Duke’s home, begging him to retract his demand.

  “Better that we suffer a little now, but are still standing after the Shepherdess comes. Ask the Bravadori to return, offer them all the wine we have. We need them to weather the coming storm.”

  Despite his pride, the Duke relented, and rode forth himself to speak with the leader of the Bravadori, even before the procession of swordsmen had reached Espadapan’s gates. Laughing at the Duke’s expense, the Bravadori returned with him, and continued to take the supplies from the wine merchants.

  Alejandro’s descendant breathed a sigh of relief.

  The following day, however, the Duke was approached by the city treasurer.

  “My lord,” the elderly woman began, “we are ruined. During the night, the Bravadori entered the palace, and emptied your vaults. They have taken all of worth from your home, leaving you and Bajapena penniless, claiming that they only took what was needed to keep our city safe.”

  The Duke of Bajapena flew into a rage, drew his sword, and marched out of his palace, seeking the leader of the Bravadori once more. However, Alejandro’s heir had caught wind of the night’s events, and intercepted his lord before he had reached the Bravadori.

  “Do not be foolish,” Alejandro’s heir advised, doing what he could to quell the panic in his own breast. “You would not survive the fight you are looking to start. It was a wicked thing the Bravadori did to us, but today we need them, to protect our people. Hold off your revenge until tomorrow. Once we are safe from the Shepherdess, then we can think about revenge upon the Bravadori.”

  The Duke found wisdom in his advisor’s words, and returned to his palace to brood.

  The following morning, his wife ran into his bedchamber, sobbing.

  “Oh husband, our daughter, our beautiful young woman. Last night, she sneaked out of our home, and allowed herself to be bewitched by the leader of those vile banditos. She is his creature now, and laughed at me this morning when I ordered her to come home and to hide her shame. She is lost to us forever!”

  The Duke’s anger was uncontrollable, and even his closest advisers - even Alejandro’s heir, whose panic was again beginning to rise - were unable to dissuade him from assembling his personal guard and running the Bravadori out of
Bajapena forever. The Bravadori laughed at him as they fought their way free from the city gates, and his daughter laughed too, hanging from her lover’s arm all the time.

  The Duke spat as he stood on the city wall, watching the procession fade into the distance, hate wiping his smile forever from his face.

  “We do not need them,” he said. “We can defend Bajapena without outside help.”

  The Duke turned to his advisers to hear them echo his claim, but noticed that one was missing. Indeed, Alejandro’s descendant, forever clutching the copper locket that contained the Black Shepherdess’ hair, was already beyond the sight of the city walls, riding the Duke’s best horse to death in an effort to escape the doomed city.

  By nightfall, Bajapena was no more. The Black Shepherdess and her forces had swept across the land, seeking Alejandro’s blood, but finding only a nest of Muridae to raze to the ground.

  It is said that the Mistress of the Wilds was not pleased with her servant, that the Shepherdess had ignored the offerings that many of her worshippers had left in exchange for Bajapena’s protection.

  But the Black Shepherdess cares not. She is true to her Mistress, but is truer still to her lust for revenge. Even today, those who are suspected to be of Alejandro’s line hide in fear of the day that the Shepherdess learns who they are, and where they can be found.

  Calvario was tiny, smaller even than Arturo’s father’s walled estate. It was a collection of just slightly more than a dozen basic buildings, probably painted limestone white at one point, but now stained a dirty yellow by the winds of the Wilds. The buildings were topped with old, wooden shingles, mostly covered in dry moss. At the centre of the village, a church stood taller than the rest, its bell clearly visible at the top of its small tower. Calvario was set within a crease in the cliff of a great chasm that ran for about a day’s march along the Wildlands.

  “Didn’t think it was going to be much to look at. I was right,” Crazy Raccoon said, walking in front of the others, leaving Yizel and Arturo to pull Tomas’ stretcher across the dirt. The older Bravador seemed relieved that their travelling was at an end. Probably looking forward to the action the bandits promised.

  Behind, Tomas moaned, and Arturo’s heart sank. He was dreading meeting the Wildman’s wife, and would have rather had another night sleeping with the noises of the Wild beasts than admitting his failure to her. This was not how a Bravador’s legend was supposed to begin, by letting down the people he was supposed to protect.

  Useless. He heard the statement in Javier’s voice, his brother jeering at him when they were younger. His father had overheard, looking on disapprovingly, but doing nothing.

  Another sign that putting this mask on was a huge mistake. How many more signs does the Queen need to send me before I take the hint?

  He glimpsed at Yizel, carrying the other end of Tomas’ stretcher. Arturo should have felt a lot closer to her after attacking the Cadejo together, but Tomas’ affliction had drained the excitement of that success. Instead, despite days of hauling poor Tomas across the Wilds, they had spoken little to each other. As always, the Shaven’s face was determined, but otherwise blank.

  In Arturo’s grandfather’s time, when the Muridae forces had marched across the Wildlands, visiting all the villages and ensuring everyone was converting to the worship of the Queen, they had brought many improvements with them, gifts to the natives. Most of the construction of the buildings in this village had probably happened in those times, but no visits would have been made for upkeep. Like most Wildfolk villages, Calvario had no protective wall, but there was, oddly, an entrance gateway, standing solitary just outside of the village limits, through which many dirt paths converged. As they passed through, Arturo noticed the half-dozen chicken bodies tied to the gateposts. In true Wildfolk fashion, some of them still twitched, not yet quite killed by the heat of the sun, wards against the evils of the Wilds. Arturo tried not to let the dying birds, their death throes stealing control of their movement, remind him of the broken body he was helping to carry.

  They walked through the small ring of houses, towards the prominent well in the middle of the village. The children noticed them first, barefoot and dressed in traditional brown cotton, and they ran off silently to their families. By the time their small group reached the well, doors and windows from all over were beginning to open, eyes looking curiously at the new arrivals.

  Arturo was surprised to see that Crazy Raccoon was grinning.

  The older Bravador caught his look. “I always love this bit,” he explained, nodding his head towards a large, older Wildman - a priest - who was walking towards them, red faced. “Watch.”

  “You came. I can’t believe you came.” The priest hugged Crazy Raccoon tightly. Arturo saw Crazy Raccoon grin, patting the old man softly on his back. Arturo was reminded of catching prairie dogs when he was a boy, cooing at the small animals, lulling them into a false sense of security before grabbing them. Behind Arturo, Tomas groaned again. The heat from the midday sun beat down on Arturo, drying up his mouth. Tomas’ family would come, soon.

  The crowds were gathering, children, women and a few men pushing closer to see the strangers in the village. Arturo could tell most of them shared the old priest’s enthusiasm - they were excited to see the strangers, the masked men who had arrived. Clearly, they had already been told that Bravadori would be coming to rescue them from the bandits, so most were excited to finally have these legendary figures in their presence.

  Not all were as thrilled.

  A scream pierced the village, ending all the chatter and causing heads to turn in the direction the noise had come from. The Wildfolk parted as a woman pushed through, face tear stained, a small child clasped to her chest.

  Arturo wanted to be sick.

  “Tomas! What have you done to my Tomas?”

  Arturo stood slack-jawed in front of the Wildfolk. He wanted so much to say the right thing here, to take the woman aside from the crowds, to explain her husband’s bravery, to do whatever he could to make her feel better. To do whatever he could to stop himself from feeling so guilty. However, it was Crazy Raccoon who spoke first.

  The older Bravador stepped forward, putting his arm around the distraught woman. His face was an exaggerated expression of pity, and Arturo could see the man was already preparing himself to play the crowd. Tomas’ wife realised this too, realised what it meant, and began to emit a howl of anguish.

  Crazy Raccoon nodded, as if agreeing with the fact that the woman should be mourning her husband. “Yes, yes we are here, but at great cost.” The man looked at the gathered crowds, face serious, his mouth a tightly drawn line.

  “Brave Tomas walked the Wilds by himself to find us, and find us he did. He gathered us together in the City of Swords, the finest band of fighters this village has ever seen. He led us back through the Wilds, further than some of us have ever been from those city walls. But he has paid the price for his bravery.”

  Crazy Raccoon motioned for Arturo and Yizel to turn the stretcher around so the crowds got a full view of Tomas, hands clasped uselessly to his chest, head lolling to one side, eyes not fixed on anything in particular, nonsense on his lips.

  His wife screamed again, and pulled away from Crazy Raccoon to embrace her husband.

  After only a second of fear, Arturo knelt down beside her. The woman was clutching at her husband, sobbing, the child in a sling against her chest oblivious to the situation. Arturo put his hand gently on her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, aware of how pitiful he sounded.

  The look of hatred she shot him cut him to his core. She said nothing, but turned to stroke her husband’s cheek. Tomas did not look at her, instead staring at the cloudless sky above him.

  “Rosa,” the priest said, “you should take him home.”

  She nodded, and tried to lift her husband up. It reminded Arturo of trying to lift a sleeping cat. Tomas gave no indication he knew she was there, made no effort to help with the lifting. />
  “Let me help,” Arturo said, grabbing under one of Tomas’ armpits.

  “I don’t need you,” Rosa spat at him, tugging at her husband.

  Shame flooded Arturo’s face, but he did not relinquish. There was no way he would leave her to carry Tomas as well as her child. Also, he needed to do something to get rid of this sick sensation in his chest.

  “I’ve been carrying him for days now,” Arturo said, wanting to fill the hateful silence with words as he picked Tomas up. “I know how difficult it can be.”

  She did not speak to him, but led him through the crowd towards one of the small dwellings to the north of the village.

  Inside, Arturo was surprised at how clean the place was. Tomas’ house was quaint, clean, not unlike the workers’ homes back on Arturo’s father’s estate. The ceiling was low and the windows were small which meant there was not a lot of natural light coming in, but Rosa quickly lit a candle, and pointed at the chair beside the fireplace. Arturo sat Tomas on the chair, doing his best prop the witless man up.

  He can’t stay here, Arturo thought. He’s perched on the chair now, but will fall eventually. This man needs a bed.

  Arturo raised his eyes to look at Rosa. She was pouring water from a pitcher into a cup. In that moment, watching her in her early stages of grief, coping by performing basic tasks like pouring water, Arturo thought she was lovely. He was surprised to think this, because she was a Wildwoman, but chided himself quickly for that thought.

  Arturo must have been smiling, because Rosa’s eyes darted his way, and her face soured.

  “Get out of my home,” she said, as she made her way to her husband’s side. She tried to offer Tomas the cup, pressing it to his lips. He did not respond, instead muttering something incomprehensible.

  “That won’t work,” Arturo told her. “He doesn’t seem to know there’s water in it. I find the water needs to be in his mouth before he knows he has to drink it.”