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

by Benedict Patrick

  But the Wildlands were not easy to live in, and harder still to conquer. The Muridae discovered enemies they had never seen before, monsters birthed from the land itself, and rumours of a terrible mistress who had dedicated herself to removing the Mouse folk from her land. Despite this opposition, the Muridae were successful, establishing cities like Espadapan, Bajapena, Hidalgo and distant Oaxaca, and they took much gold from the Wildfolk, and this pleased their Queen. They pleased her so much, she took it upon herself to travel across the waves and visit her city of Espadapan.

  However, the rumours of the Mistress of the Wilds were true, and when this elder power heard of the Mouse Queen coming across the water, she saw her opportunity to cut the invaders off at the head.

  When Queen Isabella arrived, the sentries on the walls of Espadapan spotted dark clouds forming on the horizon. This was not unusual, as the Wilds were wide and flat, and were prone to weather much more extreme than in the Grasslands. However, as the day continued, it was clear that the storm clouds were moving towards Espadapan. Day melted into evening, and the good citizens of Espadapan battened down their windows, preparing for strong winds and rain.

  However, it was not bad weather that was heading towards them.

  Using their seeing instruments, the wise men of Espadapan realised they were not looking at natural storm clouds, but clouds of pestilence and anger that accompanied an army, an army the likes of which the Muridae had never seen before.

  Reports began to filter in from the farmlands, from riders on horses that were exhausted by the speed at which they had to travel to outrun the attacking force. There were no people coming for them, no organised attackers planning to assault and siege the city. The oncoming enemy were more like insects, a swarm of monsters that bounded across the plains, leaping upon man, woman and goat, draining them of blood within seconds.

  Queen Isabella wanted to see the enemy for herself, and climbed the uneven steps to the tallest tower in Espadapan, accompanied by her personal wizard. The old man presented her with an eyeglass, and directed her to the creatures moving towards Espadapan. They were a dark, spinach green, with large spikes that protruded from each joint of their spines. The monsters stood upon two legs, like humans, but they did not walk - they bounded across the plains, like fleas swarming over a filthy blanket.

  There were thousands of them.

  Her advisers urged her to flee, but Queen Isabella did not listen.

  “Send out my personal guard. There are many of the creatures, but I would wager that each of my men and women are worth ten of them, at least.”

  The Mouse Guard assembled at Espadapan’s gates, clad in grey armour and grim expressions. They rode out on horseback to greet the attackers. One hundred brave warriors, battle-hardened and ready to die to defend their Queen.

  The horses ran into the approaching swarm, and were swallowed up by the black buzzing mass of monsters. The attackers did not slow, did not seem fazed by the assault. The Mouse Guard were never seen again.

  Surprised, but resolute in staying to defend her city, Queen Isabella addressed her people. “We will send out the city guard to face these beasts, the constabulary that has defended you all so well since you made land here.”

  The thousand-strong force of city constables assembled at the sound of the bells and whistles that rang through Espadapan’s streets. Nervous, unsure of how they were to succeed where the elite Mouse Guard had stumbled, the constables marched gingerly across the plain, swords and shields raised to protect themselves from the oncoming horde.

  The monsters stopped mere meters away from the line of constables, who were braced for impact. The swarm of Wild beasts seemed to inhale, drawing itself back and then plunging towards the men and women of the city watch.

  This time, Queen Isabella was close enough to hear the screams of the dying, as the city guard were wiped out, drained to warped husks.

  The attackers continued to bound forward, now minutes from the unguarded walls. Paling, shaking with rage, the Mouse Queen prepared to abandon the city.

  Then, she was approached by a group of unlikely saviours.

  Espadapan had prospered in the last decade. She now had established traders, bakers, butchers, collections of some of the greatest artisans in the Muridae empire, travelling across to the new world to find inspiration in her alien sights. However, as with all cities, Espadapan had also collected its own assortment of greyer characters, individuals with less well-defined purposes, or people whose existence in Espadapan was to the clear detriment of most other good citizens. Thieves, whores, swordsmen. When the Muridae had first come to the Wildlands, there had been need for fighters, and the call had gone out among the Muridae for their best and brightest warriors. However, now, a decade after the Wildfolk had been conquered, those with fighting Knacks were no longer in demand. Most of those hired hands had gone home, searching for employ in the fight against the Serpent people, or defending from the dangers of the Magpie’s forest. However, some had remained in Espadapan, not wanting to take the long journey home, or hoping that more opportunities would arise. These Bravadori had not acquired a good reputation - they were known to be penniless, drunk, and prone to violence.

  El Elephante was one of these fighters, an older man, the lines of whose face told stories of a thousand battles. The quiet swordfighter heard about the situation outside of the city, and sent word to his brethren. Quietly, as the Mouse Guard and constables died to the swarms outside, the Bravadori gathered.

  When Queen Isabella and her retinue boarded the vessel that would take her home, El Elephante and his fighters approached her. The black-clad man took off his sombrero, drew his sword and knelt before the Queen.

  “My lady,” he said, his gravelly voice heard and felt by all Bravadori and citizens present, “Espadapan is not lost. We are good swords. We will protect the walls of the city.”

  The Queen looked at the men and women gathered before her, less than a hundred in total, and a single tear rolled down her eye at the bravery of those lost souls. She knelt beside El Elephante, and kissed his naked blade.

  “You are a good man. You are all good citizens of Espadapan. I give to you what the Mouse Spirit gave to me. I give you a fraction of my power, the power that protects all Muridae from evil. You and your Bravadori shall be the final defence of my people in these strange lands, the light in the darkness that protects the innocent children of this great city.”

  The Mouse Queen bowed one final time in gratitude to the assembled Bravadori, then boarded the ship, ordering the captain to cast off.

  Reverently, El Elephante carried the blade that his Queen had kissed high above his head. He marched through the ranks of the Bravadori, touching each of their blades with his own, passing on the gift that the Queen had bestowed upon him. Once all blades had been touched, the Bravadori sheathed them, and moved to defend the city walls.

  The walls of Espadapan were lined with defenders when the monsters finally reached them. The Bravadori were all veterans of war in the Wilds, but they had never before seen creatures like these, more reptilian than human. The swarm broke upon Espadapan’s walls, and the Bravadori stood above them, silent and waiting. The monsters bounded upon each other, piling up the city walls, forcing their numbers higher and higher, until finally they could flow over the top, into the arms of the men and women that awaited them.

  As one, the Bravadori drew their blades. At the same time, a shaft of sunlight broke through the unnatural darkness overhead, illuminating the Bravadori blades, causing the attacking beasts to cry out in agony.

  The assault lasted for less than an hour. At the end of that time, the walls of the city were slick with the green blood of the Wild beasts, but not one citizen of Espadapan fell to those creatures.

  The Queen of the Muridae has never returned to Espadapan, or to any of her cities over the sea. However, we know we still hold a place in her heart, because of the gift she gave to the Bravadori that night, the gift that she continues to give
us. The Bravadori are the reason that Espadapan, and her sister cities, continue to exist as beacons of civilisation in these distant lands. Since that night, none of the creatures of the Wilds have dared to attack Espadapan, and the Bravadori continue to be respected as our protectors, and as the Queen’s Blades, the last line of defence against the dangers that threaten to push us back over the seas.

  The Queen’s Brides had three convents in Espadapan. Arturo had spent the last week casing all of them, moving between the different barrios, hoping to catch sight of Gavrilla again. So far, he had had no luck. The city was a big place, and he did not know how often the Brides were permitted to leave their buildings. More than that, Arturo had a suspicion that Gavrilla’s time with him would not have gone down well with the superiors of the order, and her movements could have been restricted as a result. Yes, she had taken an oath, but Arturo imagined there was a large lack of trust when it came to new initiates.

  He was lonely. Gavrilla was the only person Arturo had made any connection with since coming to the city, and so far his other prospects had failed. The encounter with the Mice had been humiliating, and now the name of Starving Pup haunted him during any interactions with Bravadori. Realising how stupid it had been to go straight to the Whispering Mice, Arturo had also tried his luck with the smaller stables. The Rabbits had laughed at him as soon as he entered their territory, and he had left in disgrace, not even daring to formally request admittance into the stable. He had also approached the Storks and the Crickets. They had been kinder, but had still made it plainly clear they were not interested in a Bravador whose only claim to fame were two dead bandits and a humorous name.

  The only stables Arturo had not tried his luck with were the Lion’s Paws, the Phantom Squirrels, as per Gavrilla’s suggestion, and the Honey Badger Family. Arturo suspected that by this point, even the Squirrels would laugh in his face.

  The rejection was bad enough, but what Arturo was finding harder to manage was his disappointment in all of the Bravadori he had encountered since arriving in the city. In the campfire tales of Silent Sparrow and Roaming Iguana, those legendary heroes had always put themselves in harm’s way to protect others, to use their gifts to make life in the Wildlands bearable. So far, Arturo had encountered none of that selflessness, none of that compassion from the Bravadori of Espadapan. He had not been surprised to find the Whispering Mice and the Lion’s Paws at war with each other - the conflicts between Bravador stables were just as legendary as their heroics, and Arturo had long ago convinced himself these scraps were to keep their fighting abilities at the top of their game - but he had been surprised at the viciousness the fighters in the park had shown towards each other. Arturo had not allowed himself to believe the story of how the Paws had humiliated the Mice after defeating them, but after his own treatment at the hands of the various stables, he was finding this easier to imagine. In fact, what Arturo was struggling with now was finding any link between the Bravadori he was experiencing on the streets of the city, and with the dream he had allowed to dictate every significant choice of his adult life.

  He had found room in a small, nameless tavern down by the wharf, deep in Prickly Stork territory. He had a small purse of coin from his father, which would keep him for a few more weeks, but Arturo had counted on finding a home with a stable much quicker, and had expected them to help provide him with supplies and a roof. Unfortunately, Arturo had also had his pockets picked twice since coming to Espadapan.

  The first time must have been on his way back from his humiliation with the Whispering Mice. He had noticed nothing, could not even pinpoint when it had been, but the collection of coins he had tucked under his belt had vanished. Thankfully, his mother and a number of the hired hands back at his father’s estate had warned him that such things were possible, and Arturo had divided his wealth, storing it in various locations about his person. Even so, the coins on his belt had been about one quarter of what he had brought to the city, and their loss had been a big blow.

  Since then, Arturo’s eyes became more accustomed to the movement of the city thieves. One of the Brides’ convents - Our Highness of Perpetual Generosity - was in Barrio Mercado, the trading district, and the barrio’s streets were rife with thievery. The pickpockets tended to work in groups, most often young children, and Arturo had started to notice the patterns involved in theft, the bait and switch through which one child would draw the victim’s attention, and then another would rifle unnoticed through their pockets. His perception of these events became so good, he had been able to figure out exactly when his second purse was being lifted, and that time had turned his head just quick enough to catch a glimpse of his thief before she disappeared into the crowds of the streets. From what Arturo could tell, she could not have been any older than four.

  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.