The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  Unable to stop himself, he stumbled over the edge of the building, giving a final push at the edge of the roof, but nowhere near enough to reach the other side. He screamed, but found himself suspended over the crowds of hungry fingers waiting below. He looked up to see that Camila, his sole surviving militia member, had grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hauling him to safety.

  He gave her a nervous grin. “Thanks.”

  She nodded in reply, then smiled at him through her wild, sweat-matted hair. “My children will want to meet the masked man who saved my life.”

  The smile died on Camila’s face as a thin metal blade erupted from her chest.

  Arturo stared in horror as the blade withdrew. Camila was still looking at him, but Arturo could tell she was already dead, the life faded from her eyes. Her body fell over the edge of the building to the hungry hands below, but Arturo only had eyes for what was standing behind her.

  Procopio.

  It was the bandit leader, or at least the shade of what remained of him, animated now as an ash warrior at the Shepherdess’ command. Behind Procopio was the hole in the roof he had climbed through, a route that seemed to be thankfully undiscovered by any other of the ash warriors yet. The dead man stood there, grey, cracked face grinning at Arturo, his blood-covered blade ready to strike, seeming to ooze a vitality that all of the Shepherdess’ other creations did not. Death had turned the handprint scar on his face a bleached white, matched only by the glare of his teeth, his mouth fixed in an open rictus grin.

  From behind Procopio, the other two militia members remaining on the same rooftop jumped at him, machetes ready to swing. The dead man moved with a swiftness that caught Arturo’s breath, side-stepping their combined attacks, running one through and kicking the other off the roof. The bandit leader still retained his Knack, not destroyed by its owner’s death.

  Arturo glanced at Yizel, standing wide-eyed on the next rooftop with the three remaining members of Calvario’s militia, preparing to jump back to help Arturo.

  The Bravadori could do with someone like you.

  “Go!” Arturo shouted, beckoning towards the church tower, now only two rooftops away. “I’ll hold him off. We need as many as possible to make it into the church. Go protect the rest of the village.”

  Yizel hesitated, her doubt evident.

  Arturo smiled at her. “I can do this, Yizel. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She nodded, motioned to her militia, and continued to leap to the next building. If Arturo could buy her time, they would be at the church in less than a minute.

  Arturo turned back to the ashen Procopio, whose white teeth flashed in his mirthless grin. Time slowed, Arturo’s Knack letting him see that the creature was about to lunge, and stepped back to distance himself from Procopio’s sword. By the confident manner with which Procopio held his blade, Arturo could sense how strong the dead man’s Knack was.

  I can’t do this, Arturo thought, panicking. Every time I’ve gone up against another Knack, I’ve failed. If I fight here, I die.

  In the seconds remaining to him, Arturo glanced over at Yizel, now having made it to the final rooftop, readying herself and her team for their leap onto the church tower’s walls.

  Arturo turned back towards his foe, face grim, determined.

  If this is it, if I am to die here, Great Mouse Spirit, let me make my death a worthy one.

  Time sped up, Arturo let out a cry, then rushed forward.

  Yizel slammed against the bell tower wall, breath rushing out of her lungs. She gripped tight to the uneven plasterwork, fingertips already aching, finding impossible finger holds and clinging to them. Thumps close to her told Yizel the others had jumped as well. Twin cries grabbed her attention, and she darted her head around just in time to see two of the militia falling to the grasp of the ash warriors below. The final one, an older man, gripped tight to the wall below her, his eyes wide with terror.

  Queen’s tits, she thought. Going with just four was bad enough. What good will two more swords make? If we can even get to the top.

  She grunted at the man below her, then began the agonising climb upwards. Her arms ached, but she felt the climb in her fingers more, using muscles she did not know she had. From a distance, the bell tower wall had seemed almost sheer, but she thanked the Queen now for the uneven plasterwork, the only source of handholds for her to climb up. When she could find none to support her, she made her own, pounding on the masonry work with the pommel of her dagger until a hole was formed. Otherwise, she kept the blade in her teeth. Behind her, the militia man seemed to be coping well, or at least as well as could be imagined in such a situation - she could hear him puffing below, not letting himself fall behind. It was a race against time, trying to climb quicker than the exhaustion of their fingers and arms, and quicker than the Shepherdess’ looming ash cloud.

  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 i
t 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.