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

by Benedict Patrick

  Two futures available to him. Down only one path would Arturo become the hero he always wanted to be, only one path offered him the chance to become the legend he dreamt of becoming.

  But down only one path did Arturo see any survivors. The road El Elephante and the others wanted to lead him down did not show him what the outcome would be, did not show the Shepherdess dying and did not show the villagers walking free.

  Arturo did not hesitate to make his choice.

  Reuben approached the Shepherdess, his fear in her presence finally cutting through the rage that had fuelled him since entering the village.

  Drink my own piss. Just… drink my own piss. How the fuck is anyone supposed to fight something like that?

  But the strange thing was, Reuben and the Shaven, they were fighting against the Shepherdess. They might not be winning, but they were definitely not as dead as Reuben thought they would have been.

  The Shepherdess was moving towards Yizel, the demonic figure still sobbing constantly, scuttling along the church floor on the blade-like tips of her cloak like a spider. Reuben saw his opportunity, just as Yizel had when the Shepherdess’ back had been turned on her earlier. He ran towards the black demon and kicked at one of her blade legs, sending her toppling to the floor.

  The howl the Shepherdess emitted made Reuben regret his assault instantly. She rounded on him, her blades poised above her again, her sunken eye sockets infected with her anger. She crawled hungrily towards him, the four points of her cloak stabbing forward whenever Reuben was in range.

  Knowing his fists would do him no good, Reuben ran back from her, dancing around three of her strikes, batting aside the fourth with his duelling glove just moments before it pierced his skull.

  She was fast.

  But so am I. Queen’s drained tits, I may not have a Bravador’s Knack, but I’m fucking fast, aren’t I?

  The Shepherdess stabbed at him again, and once more Reuben was able to defect the attack with his hand. For all of her horror and speed, there was no skill behind her strikes. She was lancing out like an animal, but Reuben’s actions were informed by a lifetime standing alongside skilled swordfighters, and he had a Knack and natural fighter’s instinct born from a childhood of struggling for survival.

  The thrill of battle pumping through his veins, Reuben gave a true smile.

  Aren’t going to get me that easy, are you? Thought my lack of mask meant I was an easy target? There’s no easy target here, bitch.

  He moved back another couple of steps, and behind the vicious blackness of the Shepherdess he could see Yizel readying herself, preparing to gain the monster’s attention to give Reuben a breather.

  “Crazy Raccoon!” Starving Pup shouted, from the other end of the church. “Keep going. Keep hitting her. Jump forward now, go for her face. Give her one for Calvario, and for Espadapan!” Reuben shot the boy a puzzled look.

  Half-masked idiot. Hit her in the face? You trying to get me killed?

  Perhaps he is. Why would he need me alive, now he knows I don’t have a Bravador’s Knack? Reuben reduced, somehow, his confidence draining.

  The only thing that made me worth a damn was that mask.

  The Shepherdess moved at him again, lunging with two of her blades, which Reuben jumped away from, slamming his back against the wall in the process.

  Behind the Shepherdess, Reuben could see the Shaven standing ready, but unmoving. The only reason she had survived earlier was because Reuben had distracted the Shepherdess before the Shaven ran out of room to manoeuvre. It was clear the Shaven was not willing to return the favour.

  Bitch. Pair of cunts, her and the boy. Bet this was their plan the whole time, get me killed while saving their own skin. Reuben shot another glance at the boy, this one meant to sum up all of his hate and rage for the young Bravador in a final glare. Instead, Reuben was surprised to see Starving Pup looking back in anxious expectation. The boy was crouched, ready, eyes on Reuben, eyes filled with hope. Reuben looked again at Yizel. She was waiting, too. Waiting for him.

  A warm realisation exploded inside Reuben.

  They’re waiting for me to hit her.

  They think I’m good enough to hit her. After everything, after losing to the bandits, after finding out about my Knack, they’re still expecting me to do something nobody in the history of the Wildlands has ever done before.

  The Shepherdess thrust at Reuben again, and once again he batted her blade away from his chest, but this time, instead of retreating to safety, he attacked. He grabbed onto the Shepherdess’ extended weapon, holding tight to the black blade that was meant to end him.

  The Shepherdess locked eyes with him. Her formless face did not often betray her emotions, but Reuben could feel the confusion in her actions. He grinned wickedly at the Black Shepherdess.

  “Bet you never thought anyone would do something like this before. But then, you’ve never fought anyone like me.”

  Instinctively, the Shepherdess withdrew her blade, trying to yank it away from her prey. At the same time, Reuben pushed with both feet at the church wall behind him, using his force and the momentum of the Shepherdess’ movement to propel himself through the air, a ball of madness aimed directly at the centre of his enemy. Reuben’s fist hit the Shepherdess’ face like a thunderclap. Her head twisted to the side, and her sobbing stopped.

  For a brief second, all of the combatants were still, except for Reuben, falling prone to the ground in front of the Shepherdess.

  He was the first to make any noise.

  He began to laugh. Reuben’s laughing continued even as the Shepherdess cracked her neck back around, her sobbing beginning anew. She hung over him, her prey now lying on his back, with no chance to escape her blades.

  Still, Reuben laughed at her.

  “You didn’t expect that, did you, bitch? You should have though. You should have, picking a fight against me. Want to know why? Because, even without my mask, even without my name, even without my Knack, you know what? I’m still the best.”

  The Shepherdess sobbed, raising two of her blades above the laughing man.

  “Yeah, I’m still the fucking best.”

  She should have been confused by what was happening, on so many levels. In the last few minutes, Yizel had found herself fighting side by side with two Bravadori, not as a servant, but as an equal. The boy, Starving Pup, seemed to have taken command, issuing orders to her and Crazy Raccoon. It did not seem presumptuous of him, however. It seemed right somehow, right that someone with his abilities could be trusted to point her in the best direction. What was most strange, however, was Crazy Raccoon. This bastard of an individual, this man who represented what Yizel most hated in the world of the Bravadori, was suddenly her ally.

  Yizel had known what Starving Pup’s command to Crazy Raccoon had meant, just as Crazy Raccoon must have known as well. The older Bravador was now vulnerable, having drawn the Shepherdess’ entire focus, opening Yizel up for the kill. But Crazy Raccoon had done it, trusting that Yizel would finish the job, save his life.

  Yizel prepared to move, ready to finally play the part of the hero, though she would never truly be one. Just like with the Cadejo, just like with the bandits, she would not get the credit for this kill. The villagers would crown the Bravadori as champions of the day. More than likely, Crazy Raccoon would be the one to return to Espadapan and claim victory for himself, casting Yizel back into the gutter as he had done so twice before.

  Time slowed as Yizel paused to contemplate her position, two of the Shepherdess’ black blades raised high above Crazy Raccoon, the mad Bravador lying laughing in the face of his enemy.

  Wouldn’t it be better, she thought, if Crazy Raccoon never made it back to the city? Then there’d be nobody to spread lies about her. Starving Pup would probably back up her claim to victory, and the villagers would follow his lead and call her a hero. After hearing about a Shaven who had rid them all of the Black Shepherdess… well, how could Yizel not be reinstated as a Bravador then? And
Dielena… well, then Dielena and she could have that conversation that has been due ever since her friend stabbed her in the stomach.

  “Now, Yizel,” Starving Pup shouted, bringing her mind back to the task at hand.

  Crazy Raccoon’s laughing continued, mocking Yizel’s weakness, warning her already of the future that he would shape if she let him live.

  One second’s pause, and Yizel could be free of the shackles that had held her down for the past decade of her life.

  Except, Yizel realised suddenly, as she leapt into the air, muscles propelled by the spark of her Knack as it ignited, those shackles were already broken. Those idiots back in the city want to call her Shaven, want to spit at her, want to take her hair and her dignity? Let them. Let them try. Because, unlike them, she will have killed a demon, killed a god. Saved a village. No pox-faced Bravador will be able take that from her, will be able to steal the dignity she was about to earn.

  No man, not even Crazy Raccoon, even after all he had done to her, needed to die so she could be free.

  Her rapier did not glow golden. It did not shine with the light of the Queen’s blessing. But it did pierce the shrivelled heart of the Black Shepherdess.

  The creature screamed as it died.

  There was a brief silence in the church, empty of the sound of combat, the weeping of the dead finally ended.

  The first to make a noise were the village men, somehow having survived the horrors, cheering and rushing to the two fighters who took on the demon.

  A key unlocked. A cellar door opened. More innocents flooded the room, mourning their loved ones and celebrating the heroes.

  Another man looked on, forgotten as his companions were praised, his unused sword still in his hand. He saw the children clutching their mothers’ skirts, and he gave a small smile. For him, that was enough.

  A breeze came from the open doorway, pulling at the heap of ash decorating the floorboards, trailing it out to the Wildlands, dissipating in the sunlight that broke through the clouds.

  The sky remained grey, but nobody paid it much mind. In the Wilds, the sky never got much better than that.

  Some distance from the village of Calvario, a pocket of ash formed on the ground, caught in a small hole between some rocks, where the wind could not properly reach. Any passersby would swear that the collection of ash almost had the form of a human face, although none from Calvario were abroad on this day, and few others visited this part of the Wildlands in the heat of the summer.

  By coincidence, perhaps, an old lady stopped by the face in the ash. The woman was naked in the sunlight, the many folds of her flesh giving the impression of a half-melted candle. She did not appear ashamed by her nakedness, and looked upon the face in the ash with disappointment.

  “Please,” the face in the ash croaked, a wet sob breaking the silence of the plains.

  The old lady, her wrinkled skin covered in the brown dust of the plains, said nothing, but raised a grey eyebrow at the face’s request.

  “Please,” the face continued. “One more chance. Give me one more chance to prove myself.”

  The old lady tutted before stamping once on the face of ash, causing the grey dust to puff up from its shelter, catching the breeze and spreading across the flats of the Wildlands, never to form a face again.

  Then the old lady turned to observe the distant village, her eyes narrowing.

  “I had thought the Bravadori of Espadapan to be a fading menace,” she mused aloud. Two folds of flesh under her distended belly parted, revealing a toad-like tongue that tasted the afternoon air. She reached down to this new mouth and put a long fingernail inside to loosen some meat stuck between the sharp teeth. “It appears I was wrong.”

  The old lady smiled, using the mouth below her belly and the mouth on her face, and a gust of wind struck up, blowing the dust from her body. As the dust began to disappear, as if carried away to some secret place, so too did the old hag.

  “Perhaps it is time to turn my attention again to the City of Swords, to rid myself of their threat once and for all.”

  Arturo sat outside the village, watching as the Wildfolk inspected the ruins, some already rebuilding their homes. Somehow, he felt it was wrong to be among them, when so many in Calvario were in mourning. The only thing Arturo had lost was a boyhood daydream of the future.

  The edges of his eyes itched where the new mask rubbed at them. It had felt wrong putting it back on, but the villagers seemed to have expected it, when they emerged from the church cellar, blinking in the sun that streamed through the breaking clouds, asking for the Bravadori. They had seemed lost and fearful when a small man with a sword approached them through the dust of their enemies, but when he had put his mask back on their confidence in their protectors had been renewed.

  Gavrilla’s cheeky smile returned to him. The Bravadori could do with someone like you.

  Arturo sighed. He had no doubt that charging blindly towards the Shepherdess would have put his name in the history books, but he also suspected that most people here would have paid dearly for that prize, himself included. Perhaps the Queen would have gifted him with her power at the last moment. She certainly had not aided Crazy Raccoon or Yizel, but Crazy Raccoon had no blade, and Yizel was no Bravador.

  He shrugged, smiled, and shook his head.

  It did not matter. He could not have hoped to have achieved better than this.

  “Coin for your thoughts, Hungry Wolf?”

  Arturo snapped his head around, confused by the sound of his original Bravador name, so alien to him now.

  It was Yizel, walking back from the healer who had been tending to her face. With the uniqueness of the attackers they had faced, there were very few wounded in the village. Most who had been touched by the ash creatures had been killed instantly. The Shepherdess had left no survivors herself. Only a few sported the same kind of wounds that Yizel had on her face - grey, cracked skin, still falling off in flakes.

  Most of the right side of Yizel’s face was ruined.

  “Sorry?”

  “Hungry Wolf,” Yizel said, lowering herself to sit in the dust beside him, passing him a jug of some kind of ale. “I heard you use the name when you first visited the Whispering Mice. Reckon you’ve earned the right to use it now.”

  The Whispering Mice. They seemed so far removed from all of this, and so long ago.

  Arturo shook his head. “Hungry Wolf sounds more suited to Espadapan, doesn’t it? Swordfighters trying to make themselves more important than they are with colourful masks and scary names. I never got anything good from my time there, except maybe my new name. I’ll stick with Starving Pup. Gives me less to live up to.”

  She chuckled. It was such an unusual sound coming from the Shaven, and Arturo looked at her in surprise. Yizel misunderstood his gaze, and self-consciously raised a hand to the ugly greyness of her wound.

  “They think it’ll pretty much stay like this,” she explained, in a voice that told Arturo she did not want to admit how much it bothered her. “Said it might get some colour back, but not to get my hopes up.”

  “Oh right,” Arturo answered back, rummaging around in his jacket pocket. “Well, listen, you can’t go walking around looking like that.”

  The look of shock and anger she flashed him made Arturo suddenly afraid for his life, so he quickly withdrew his hand from his pocket, holding up the item he had been looking for.

  “Yeah, you need to cover yourself up with something.”

  In front of Yizel, Arturo held a simple black domino mask.

  The anger in Yizel’s face was instantly replaced with shock. She sat, frozen, staring at the mask as if it was the Shepherdess herself.

  Arturo moved the mask towards her, gesturing for her to take it. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my short time as a Bravador, but what I’ve learnt is… well, the Bravadori seem to have a lot of stupid fucking rules about how to act that have nothing to do with what the Bravadori are supposed to actually do. Protect the innocent. Honou
r. Selflessness. That’s what the stories are all about. I don’t even care if they’re true or not, what matters is that they give people hope. Those idiots back in the city - can you think of a single one of them that could achieve what you did today? Can you think of a single one of them who saves lives without the promise of coin or glory in return? If they get to wear a mask then, fuck it, half this village should be allowed to. And there is no doubt in my mind that this belongs to you.”

  Finally giving Arturo a grateful smile, Yizel accepted the mask from him. She looked at it fondly for a moment.

  “This will have to do for now,” she said, grinning playfully as she fitted the mask over her eyes, “but we’ll have to make some changes soon. It’s the wrong colour, for one thing.”

  It was Arturo’s turn to laugh. “I just realised I’ve never asked - what’s your name? Your Bravador name?”

  Yizel pursed her lips, savouring the moment. “Red Magpie. They called me Red Magpie.”

  Arturo nodded in approval. “And they will do again.”

  “Drink my own piss, what a pair.”

  Arturo sat up nervously as Crazy Raccoon approached. The man was still maskless, as he had been when he had returned to the village during the attack. The older Bravador had said very little since the Shepherdess’ death, and had been helping dig new graves just outside of Calvario’s boundaries.

  “Crazy Raccoon,” Arturo greeted him.

  The older man looked uneasy at the mention of the name. “Yeah, well, I don’t think that suits me anymore, you know?” He looked back towards the graveyard.

  Earlier, Arturo had spotted Crazy Raccoon hanging his old black and white mask from a plank in the graveyard, but decided against bringing this up.

  “Yeah, a lot has changed,” the man once known as Crazy Raccoon said, distantly.

  “Is that it, then?” Arturo asked. “You’re giving up being a Bravador?”