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

by Benedict Patrick

  Crazy Raccoon bounded down the steps to the house, rushing to Starving Pup’s side just as the wave of bandits surrounded them.

  We can still do this, Crazy Raccoon thought, eyeing the multitude of bandits that circled them now, weapons drawn. Two Bravadori can still take on all of this, especially if one of them is me.

  He glanced to Starving Pup. The boy was standing with his back to Crazy Raccoon, doing his best to convince each bandit not to be the first to make a move.

  Ten each. Not sure if the boy is up to it. Some of these bandits are Knacked, too, which isn’t going to be pretty.

  The leader, Procopio, walked towards them, behind him a plume of smoke rising from the mess the Shaven had made of the front gate.

  Of course she ran off. Can’t expect anything less from one of them.

  Procopio’s face was thunder, the bandit leader’s rapier was drawn, and the man held a smaller parrying dagger in his offhand. His face was indeed dead, as the villagers had warned. It was grey and cracked, and as the leader ran for him, Crazy Raccoon could swear the disfigurement had the vague shape of a hand print. Of more immediate concern, Crazy Raccoon could tell by the way the man held the weapon, he had a Knack for it.

  That’s all I fucking need.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Procopio spat at them. “You’ll have to take their place, you know. So stupid.”

  “You sadistic son of a bitch,” Starving Pup shouted back, annoying Crazy Raccoon.

  Shut up, you fool. We need to be careful here, lead this man where we want him to go.

  “Sadistic,” Crazy Raccoon echoed, trying to take over the conversation, “and a coward.”

  That got a reaction from the assembled bandits. Some of them chuckled, all looked to Procopio to see how he handled the insult.

  He did not handle it well.

  Procopio stepped into the circle, blade pointing towards Crazy Raccoon’s belly. “You dare? I’ll gut you where you stand.”

  Crazy Raccoon nodded his head. “You know, you probably will. But not because you’re any good. You’ll win because not even a Bravador can take on twenty men at once. Like I said: coward.”

  Procopio bristled, and the other bandits fidgeted nervously.

  Good, Crazy Raccoon thought, give him something to chew on, then reel him in. He had spent enough time in Bravador stables to know that leaders like Procopio could not afford to lose face in front of their men.

  “Don’t like to hear the truth? Then prove me wrong. You and me, one on one - best swordsman gets to walk away, his companions safe.”

  “How stupid do you think I am? I’m already guaranteed to win - why would I give you a chance for freedom?”

  Crazy Raccoon smiled. “Just what a true coward would say.”

  One of the women in the circle laughed out loud, but was silenced by a glance from her leader.

  “Also,” Crazy Raccoon continued, “you will win if you take the coward’s way out, but at what cost? Two Bravadori can cause a lot of damage before they go down. Are you asking these fine people to pay for your yellow belly?”

  Crazy Raccoon saw the bandits turn to Procopio expectantly, and he knew he had already won. Even if the bandit leader did not accept the challenge now, his men would be so disgruntled, they would be easier to read and deal with in a pitched fight.

  Procopio sighed, stepping close to Crazy Raccoon.

  “Very well,” the leader said, darkly, “but I have one further stipulation. I fight you for your life, but also for your honour.”

  Crazy Raccoon paused, confused by the man’s words. Procopio saw the effect he had, and smiled.

  “Your mask,” the bandit leader explained. “If I win, you surrender your mask.”

  Starving Pup gasped, and Crazy Raccoon froze.

  “Ridiculous,” he finally said, waving his hands. “You can’t… Ridiculous.”

  “Just what a true coward would say,” Procopio replied, with a grin, drawing the loudest laugh yet from the crowd.

  Clever bastard. Perfect way to win them back.

  Crazy Raccoon’s face reddened. He raised his chin, looking the bandit in the eyes. “You don’t understand. You can’t make that challenge. Only Bravadori duel for masks.”

  “Oh, well then,” Procopio replied, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, “it’s been a while, but I always carry this with me…”

  The item he drew from his pocket was small, black and unadorned, but when he fitted it to his face, there was no doubt what it was. A Bravador mask.

  Crazy Raccoon glanced to Starving Pup, who stared expectantly back.

  Plough my mother. I’m dead if I lose anyway.

  At that moment, Crazy Raccoon spotted a familiar feather-masked face in the crowd of bandits gathering around them. Restless Hawk, stone-faced, was watching him again.

  “You’re on, bandit,” Crazy Raccoon shouted, puffing out his chest. “Prepare to die.”

  The bandits cheered, and stepped backwards to give the men room. Crazy Raccoon was aware Starving Pup’s sword had been taken from him as the young man was pulled roughly to the side.

  Right. Right, let’s make this quick.

  Procopio grinned, raising his blade, pointing it at Crazy Raccoon’s chest.

  In return, Crazy Raccoon raised his own rapier, and beneath his mask his eyes narrowed. He realised now how long it had been since he had taken part in a proper duel. Not that fiasco with Galloping Turtle, that had just been unfair. The old man had cheated, and Crazy Raccoon had been hungover. But this, this was the real thing, and it had been a long while.

  It’s Galloping Turtle’s fault, of course. How long did he made me live by the ridiculous rule of never drawing my sword? He was getting me ready for when he took me on, but he’s made this more difficult for me as well.

  Procopio took a step forward and lunged. Crazy Raccoon knew there was no way the lunge would really would have a chance of coming into contact with him, but he could not help but react, jumping back frantically, earning a chuckle from his opponent.

  Focus, focus. Can’t let this bandit show me up, not in front of the boy.

  He seemed to remember, it all started with footwork. Give yourself plenty of time to react to what your enemy is doing. Don’t overextend, don’t over commit too early. Take your time to figure out what your opponent is doing.

  Procopio took a few steps forward. Heart thudding like a drum, Crazy Raccoon gave a small sidestep in response, looking to see the bandit’s reactions. The bandit leader stood his ground, making contact with Crazy Raccoon’s blade with his parrying dagger, pushing it wide and forcing Crazy Raccoon to back away, not letting Procopio take advantage of the gap he opened in his defences.

  Strong Knack, Crazy Raccoon thought, breathing heavily now. This isn’t going to be easy at all.

  Distracted by his thoughts, Crazy Raccoon was not ready for Procopio’s next thrust, which caught the Bravador’s sleeve, and drew blood.

  Arturo gasped as Crazy Raccoon staggered backwards, drops of blood spraying from his arm. The surrounding bandits cheered, urging their leader on, but all Arturo could think about was Crazy Raccoon. Why did he not seem to be giving this combat his full attention?

  Focussing his Knack, slowing down the combat to study the duellists, Arturo could almost see Procopio’s own Knack in action. Much like when he had watched the Bravadori duel back in the Queen’s Plaza, Arturo could feel Procopio’s Knack guiding the bandit leader’s actions. From the way the man was standing, he could see all the possibilities of how he would move next, countering with snake-like strikes against Crazy Raccoon’s next attack. However, from Crazy Raccoon, Arturo sensed nothing.

  Why aren’t you using your Knack? If you let him win, we’re dead.

  Procopio thrust forward again, this time batting aside Crazy Raccoon’s rapier with his own sword, slashing with his parrying dagger across the Bravador’s face. Crazy Raccoon gave a cry, his free hand clutching where his ear had once been.

&nb
sp; At that moment Arturo realised what was going wrong. The acid in his stomach bubbled.

  Alfrond’s balls. He has no Knack. Crazy Raccoon has no Knack.

  As if sensing what Arturo just realised, Procopio stepped forward again, relaxing his stance and easily grabbing onto Crazy Raccoon’s sword arm as the Bravador ineffectually attempted to cut his opponent. Now within Crazy Raccoon’s guard, Procopio pulled his opponent close, guiding his parrying dagger to Crazy Raccoon’s throat. The Bravador froze, eyes wide, realising any movement would prompt the dagger to thrust into his brain.

  “Pathetic. Is this what the City of Swords is spitting out now? Pathetic.”

  Instead of stabbing the Bravador, Procopio cracked his forehead down onto Crazy Raccoon’s nose. The Bravador gurgled, dropping his rapier, staggering to the ground.

  “I believe this belongs to me,” the bandit leader said, ripping Crazy Raccoon’s mask from his face. A shower of blood flowed from Crazy Raccoon’s newly broken nose, and Arturo was shocked to see how normal the Bravador looked without his mask.

  How normal and, as the bandit leader had so rightly judged, how pathetic.

  As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan

  Anyone spending any time in the City of Swords will have seen the Honey Badger Family, sauntering down the streets of Espadapan, proud of their backward ways. It was not always like this. The original Bravadori, those first blessed by the Queen, had no Wildfolk among them.

  But things changed.

  There are not many roads across the Wildlands, but they are there, linking the cities of the Muridae together, lonely lines through the dead grass and dirt. At a few points in the Wildlands, these roads intersect. It was at one of those crossroads that the inn was built.

  The inn had not been built by Wildfolk, but the man’s family had inherited it. The original owners had been old, and had no children this side of the ocean. They happily passed the deeds on to the Wildfolk who had helped them maintain it, and those Wildfolk passed it on to their own children when they came of age.

  The first of the Badgers was the eldest of these children. We have no record of the man’s name, as all who knew him before he took the mask had been killed.

  They were governor’s men, from nearby Oaxaca. They were just passing through, and took a fancy to the man’s wife. He, of course, resisted. As a result, his younger brother was hanged from the tree outside the inn, and his wife’s throat was slit once they were finished with her. The man himself was nailed to the door of his own establishment, and was horsewhipped until even the dogs that lingered around the crossroads vomited at the sight and smell of him.

  But he did not die.

  His first thought was not to respond with violence, but instead to make his way to Oaxaca, to seek out the governor who employed the men that had ruined his life, and to plead for retribution. It was then the man discovered that justice for the Muridae and justice for the Wildfolk were two different things.

  Sitting at the gates of Oaxaca, distraught at the thought of returning to his inn and continuing as if nothing else could be done, the man spotted a trio of Bravadori travelling out of the city, laughing with each other about their heroic deeds. Like all in the Wildlands, the man had heard stories of the Bravadori before, but had not believed that such people could really exist. He shadowed them, listening further to their tales, a hunger growing inside him.

  He followed them all the way back to the distant city of Espadapan, home of the Bravadori.

  They did not accept him, at first. Those were different times, when Wild and Mouse blood had not mixed as readily as it does now. His brown skin was viewed with suspicion on the streets of the city, and all Bravador stables that he approached laughed at him, with his black hair and his Knack for brewing.

  They did not laugh, however, when they pushed him to fight them.

  All reports of the man before the murder of his family suggest he was peaceful, jovial even. Those qualities had been burned away by the harshness of the Wildland sun, as he hung there on the door waiting for help to arrive. They had been drained from him when the officials of Oaxaca yawned as he told them of what had been done to his wife and brother. What remained now was a shell of a man, a shell filled by the only thing left to him. Hate. Revenge.

  He could not have had the Knack for it, but somehow, he began to best swordsmen. It did not come easily at first, and he would often pull himself bleeding through the streets, not having enough coin to pay for a physician to stitch him together again. Over time, however, he gained a few wins. Eventually, he could not be beaten. All of the stables approached him, and one by one he refused them. He began to wear his mask, taking the name Vengeful Badger, and - for a time - he disappeared.

  It was a winter morning when the five men approached the gates of Oaxaca. The guards there were surprised to see that the men were all Bravadori. What was more unusual was that all of the men shared the same mask - the black and white stripes of a badger - and that all of them were Wildfolk.

  The Bravadori were met with curiosity, but no resistance, as they entered the city.

  They made their way to the noble quarter, and it was no coincidence that they came to the home of the very official who had years ago dismissed a young man’s claims that men under his employ had butchered a Wildfolk family. The Bravadori politely knocked on the door, and were eventually granted admission into the household.

  In the courtyard of the governor’s home, the captain of the house guard confronted the five Bravadori. Vengeful Badger - for it was indeed him that led this troupe - recognised the man as one of those who had taken his wife from him, and without warning he drew his blade and took his enemy’s life.

  The five Badgers made their way through the household, sparing those who did not fight back, but making short work of any who opposed them. They came upon the governor at his breakfast table, his family gathered around him, a dozen serving staff all required to bring the man his food.

  All of these people were spared, and all bore witness to what happened next.

  Vengeful Badger leapt onto the banquet table, staring grimly at the man who had done nothing to reprimand his people for what they had done.

  “You have no authority here,” the governor said, his chins wobbling in fear. “You can dress like a Bravador, you can fight like them, but you’re nothing more than a common bandit, killing a helpless man in his own home.”

  They say that at that moment, Vengeful Badger raised his blade and it began to glow with the light of a distant star. On seeing this, the governor’s eyes widened, and tears fell freely down his face.

  “A Queen’s Blade…” the accused man stammered. “You’re a Queen’s Blade.”

  Vengeful Badger showed no emotion, but replied, “She grants me the power to protect the weak. And to avenge them.”

  He flicked his blade across the governor’s throat, ending him.

  Despite the witnesses, despite Vengeful Badger’s status as a Queen’s Blade, he and his men were hunted down for their crime. Nobody, not even a Bravador, and certainly not a Wildman, could kill a Muridae noble without punishment. Despite their skills, each of the five Badgers were caught, one by one, and put to death. Vengeful Badger was the last, and his head was preserved in a glass jar, paraded around the Wildland towns and cities as a warning to the other Wildfolk.

  However, not long after Vengeful Badger’s death, a new stable emerged in Espadapan. We are not certain who began the Honey Badger Family, and if any of the current members know, they are not sharing that information. Local legend says that it was another group of Bravadori Vengeful Badger had been training, in case his first assault had failed. Others claim it was simply other Wildfolk, inspired by a legend whose heritage mirrored their own. More fanciful rumours suggest that Vengeful Badger was never really caught, that he faked his execution and went on to found one of Espadapan’s most notorious Bravador stables.

  But that cannot be true. Things like that only happen in stories.

>   Arturo looked incredulously at Crazy Raccoon as two of the bandits dragged the old man to the ground, throwing him beside Arturo.

  Crazy Raccoon glanced at Arturo briefly. The man’s face was a mess, one ear lost, his nose bent to one side, blood dripping down his chin. Without his mask, the man looked nothing like the legend Arturo had thought he was travelling with.

  “What?” Crazy Raccoon said, spitting out the blood that was dribbling down his lip.

  “You don’t have a Knack. How can you not have a Knack?”

  Crazy Raccoon glared at Arturo. “What in the name of Alfrond’s cock are you talking about?” The older man’s rage shifted momentarily, allowing Arturo to spot the uncertainty hiding behind it.

  You know exactly what I’m talking about.

  “When you were fighting Procopio, I could see it. He has a Knack for sword fighting. There was nothing from you.”

  Crazy Raccoon lowered his eyes, still angry. “Don’t be fucking ridiculous.”

  Procopio stepped forward, ignoring the Bravadori now.

  “Replace the wards. Nail these two to the fence. That should keep us safe until we get some new villagers.”

  Arturo knew this was coming. Yizel had taken away the dying villagers, so Crazy Raccoon and himself were going to replace them.

  Rough hands grabbed him under his shoulders. Arturo was so tired and disappointed he did not even resist. His rapier lay on the dirt in the courtyard. A Bravador never dropped his blade.

  The rest of the bandits dispersed behind them. Arturo paid them no attention. His eyes remained locked on Crazy Raccoon, who was being dragged beside him.

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  It was as if the removal of the man’s mask let Arturo see Crazy Raccoon properly for the first time. He had never cared about the Wildfolk, Yizel had been right. When the Cadejo had attacked, Crazy Raccoon had not ignored it because of his experience, not because he knew it was a trap. All he had been thinking about was saving his own life. Arturo had been used. Yizel had been treated like shit. All this for a man who was less than both of them.