“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 his 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, bu
t 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.
It had been years since Yizel had last thought of them, and the return of those memories was like a knife to the gut.
“Who will join me?” Starving Pup said. “Who will come to save Calvario?”
Yizel almost stood up. Dazed at the thoughts of her childhood heroes, she wanted to relive those days of glory. However, she caught herself when she finally noticed the silence. In the darkness of the drinking house, shadows shifted. There was no sound to betray it, she could see nothing, but Yizel knew blades were being slowly drawn.
Get out, she urged, looking wide-eyed at Starving Pup. Get the hell out of here.
Shifting nervously, the boy seemed to sense that his audience had turned. Saying nothing else, he grabbed the Wildman by the tunic and exited quickly.
There was a seconds-long pause, then the mariachi began to play again, and the Storks began to lift their cups to check their dice. Out of the corner of her eye, Yizel noted some Paws gathering themselves. Three of them, led by a man whose mask had red ribbons descending from his face to his chin line, stood up, marched across the common room floor, and exited, grins on their faces.
Poor bastard, Yizel thought. He’s about to get murdered in a back alley for being so half-masked stupid.
Yizel continued to drink.
Stupid. So stupid.
“Why’re we leaving?” Tomas asked. “We didn’t give them a chance to think about it. They might’ve decided to come and help.”
“Oh, believe me, they were thinking about it,” Arturo said, eyes darting to each snickleway they passed, looking both for a possible means of escape, and keeping an eye out for hidden attackers. “We got out before they could get to the end of those thoughts and draw their swords on us.”
They hurried along the streets of Barrio Bravadori, doing their best to walk quickly without breaking into a full-on run. That would attract too much attention.
“I don’t understand,” Tomas said, anxiously. “You said the Bravadori would help me.”
Yes, that’s what I said, Arturo thought. And they would have, if those men and women in there had anything to do with the heroes of legend. Instead, what we’ve done is shaken a hornet’s nest and run away from it.
Idiot. How many times does Espadapan need to teach me this lesson?
There were shouts from behind. Arturo did not need to look back to know they belonged to Bravadori. Grabbing Tomas by his tunic, he forced them both to duck into the closest snickleway, an opening in the wall that led to an unlit alley between two townhouses. The snickleway turned as they felt their way down it, Arturo’s heart in his throat at the thought that it might end with a wall. He gave a sigh of relief to see lantern-light at the end of the tight passageway, coming from the street it connected to.
Arturo and Tomas never made it to that street.
A fist from the darkness connected with Arturo’s face, his head rebounding off the hard pavement as he hit the ground. A cry from behind told Arturo that Tomas had been similarly attacked. He was down fo
r only a few moments, but that was all the time his pursuers needed to catch up with him.
“Well, Starving Pup, fancy meeting you here,” a voice snarled in the darkness. Torches flared up in the black of the snickleway, illuminating Arturo’s foes. He had been hit by a Bravador, a Paw, hiding in the shadows of the alley. She was laughing as she drew her blade, positioning herself between Arturo and the safety of the street. From the other direction came the Bravadori from the Proving Grounds, led by one with red ribbons dancing in front of his face. The white of his teeth glared in the firelight. Behind him, at least two more swordfighters advanced in single file.
Knowing there was no alternative, Arturo drew his blade, holding his breath as he did so. This was the first time he had gone up against another fighting Knack. With these odds, survival was out of the question - he tried to push that thought deep down, to avoid the sickness it brought with it - so Arturo instead forced his brain to be clinical about the situation. He was finally going to test himself against another Knack. Now he would know - they all would know - just how good he actually was.
Aware that these men and women did not possess the legendary honour of the Bravadori, Arturo was concerned they would attack him all at once, giving him no chance to succeed. Thankfully, the one with the red ribbons - Red Curtain, Arturo silently christened him - ushered the others back, walking into duelling distance with Arturo.
“What’s going on?” Tomas shouted, still on the ground, cowering off to the side. “Why’re you fighting? Why’re you fighting?”
Arturo’s eyes didn’t leave Red Curtain. “Don’t worry, Tomas. This’ll be over soon.” All duels were much quicker than people realised. It only took one good thrust to kill.
Red Curtain laughed. “Fancy your chances, do you?” He drew a second blade, a small dagger, from behind his back. Arturo knew the second weapon would most likely be used for parrying purposes - it was the man’s rapier that would do the dirty work.
Arturo had tried rapier and short sword himself, but he found the second weapon too distracting. Instead, Arturo stood side on to the Bravador, raising his blade and his off-hand, readying it to deflect any attacks on his body. He would rather receive a small cut on his palm than take a large gash to his neck.
Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords: A standalone Yarnsworld novel Page 8
