Those Brave, Foolish Souls From the City of Swords by Benedict Patrick

Author:Benedict Patrick [Patrick, Benedict]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 197757615X
Amazon: B076FL37PY
Published: 2017-10-16T13:00:00+00:00

Calvario was tiny, smaller even than Arturo’s father’s walled estate. It was a collection of just slightly more than a dozen basic buildings, probably painted limestone white at one point, but now stained a dirty yellow by the winds of the Wilds. The buildings were topped with old, wooden shingles, mostly covered in dry moss. At the centre of the village, a church stood taller than the rest, its bell clearly visible at the top of its small tower. Calvario was set within a crease in the cliff of a great chasm that ran for about a day’s march along the Wildlands.

“Didn’t think it was going to be much to look at. I was right,” Crazy Raccoon said, walking in front of the others, leaving Yizel and Arturo to pull Tomas’ stretcher across the dirt. The older Bravador seemed relieved that their travelling was at an end. Probably looking forward to the action the bandits promised.

Behind, Tomas moaned, and Arturo’s heart sank. He was dreading meeting the Wildman’s wife, and would have rather had another night sleeping with the noises of the Wild beasts than admitting his failure to her. This was not how a Bravador’s legend was supposed to begin, by letting down the people he was supposed to protect.

Useless. He heard the statement in Javier’s voice, his brother jeering at him when they were younger. His father had overheard, looking on disapprovingly, but doing nothing.

Another sign that putting this mask on was a huge mistake. How many more signs does the Queen need to send me before I take the hint?

He glimpsed at Yizel, carrying the other end of Tomas’ stretcher. Arturo should have felt a lot closer to her after attacking the Cadejo together, but Tomas’ affliction had drained the excitement of that success. Instead, despite days of hauling poor Tomas across the Wilds, they had spoken little to each other. As always, the Shaven’s face was determined, but otherwise blank.

In Arturo’s grandfather’s time, when the Muridae forces had marched across the Wildlands, visiting all the villages and ensuring everyone was converting to the worship of the Queen, they had brought many improvements with them, gifts to the natives. Most of the construction of the buildings in this village had probably happened in those times, but no visits would have been made for upkeep. Like most Wildfolk villages, Calvario had no protective wall, but there was, oddly, an entrance gateway, standing solitary just outside of the village limits, through which many dirt paths converged. As they passed through, Arturo noticed the half-dozen chicken bodies tied to the gateposts. In true Wildfolk fashion, some of them still twitched, not yet quite killed by the heat of the sun, wards against the evils of the Wilds. Arturo tried not to let the dying birds, their death throes stealing control of their movement, remind him of the broken body he was helping to carry.

They walked through the small ring of houses, towards the prominent well in the middle of the village.

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