The Disposable Read online

  The Disposable

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE DISPOSABLE

  Copyright © 2020 by Katherine Vick.

  Cover design by Nada Orlic.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Thinklings Books

  1400 Lloyd Rd. #279

  Wickliffe, OH 44092

  thinklingsbooks.com

  The Plot Bandits, Book 1

  The Disposable

  by

  Katherine Vick

  Thinklings Books, LLC

  Wickliffe, OH

  Part One

  No, hang on, that’s already done with.

  Part Two

  Nope, that one’s over too.

  Ah, here we are.…

  Part Three

  A piece of paper.

  That’s what it was, when all was said and done. A simple, straightforward piece of paper, the words upon it written in the familiar, authoritative, unnaturally regular lettering that signified instructions from the Taskmaster. It spelled out a sequence of events that had to be ruthlessly prepared for by every living thing in the Realm, and it was to be obeyed without thought and without question. That was merely the way it was, and to disobey would be unthinkable.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Because there were days, sometimes, when he couldn’t help but wonder if the world would really come to an end if he just chucked the paper away and went back to bed.

  Probably not. After all, he was only a Disposable. Who would notice? Who would care? For if there was one word that could be used to describe Fodder of Humble Village, it was ordinary.

  His nose was neither hooked nor pointed, neither snub nor aquiline, neither especially big nor noticeably small. His hair was brown—no fiery reds or midnight blacks for him—and his eyes, also brown, did not glow or flash or compellingly catch the gaze in any way whatsoever. He was neither fat nor particularly thin, no weakling but hardly of godlike physique, no towering giant but not notably on the short side. He was an ordinary man on an ordinary day, dressed in ordinary, rusty, badly fitting armour and waiting on a lonely road.

  For what felt like the hundredth time since Preen had thrust the paper into his hand and frogmarched the four Disposables of Humble Village over to the barn to get changed that morning, Fodder lifted his now rather dog-eared instructions and skimmed through them.

  Official Taskmaster Summary:

  The Ring of Anthiphion:

  Part Three

  Elder and the band agree to follow the trail of the stolen Ring and Erik finds that for some reason, he can intuit which way it went. As they follow the trail, local guards attempt to apprehend them but are tossed aside.

  While crossing a mountain pass late at night, the companions hear screams and ride up to find men in the livery of Sleiss attempting to abduct Princess Islaine, who is riding to Mond for her wedding. With the princess rescued but her guard dead, Sir Roderick feels he must see her back to the palace. Since the Ring trail goes in a similar direction and they need to speak to the king about shoring up the borders against the possible return of Craxis, Elder agrees to the detour. The princess and Erik argue incessantly as she tries to push him around, and by the time they reach the palace, they hate each other.

  Local guards attempt to apprehend them but are tossed aside.… Fodder sighed.

  “Well, isn’t that just the story of my life?” he muttered.

  “What was that, mate?”

  Fodder glanced up to find Shoulders standing just to his right, shifting his shoulders awkwardly as he adjusted something in front of his neck. Something that looked like it had started life as half a beer tankard. Shoulders’s left hand, as always in this matter detached from the reasoning centres of his brain, rubbed reflexively against the skin beneath his badly cut, scraggly dark blond hair and scruffy attempt at a beard. There was something a tiny bit maniacal about his smile.

  Fodder just succeeded in turning his grimace into a grin in time. He was starting to worry about Shoulders.

  “Nothing,” he managed, rather proud of the cheery unconcern he managed to instil into that single word. Don’t ask about the tankard. You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know. It will only hurt your brain. “I was talking to myself. Well, thinking about the fight and talking and…oh, it’s no bloody good. Shoulders, what is half a tankard doing tucked under your chin?”

  Shoulders’s smile spread as he rapped his knuckles against it with a hollow clunk. “Good, isn’t it?” he exclaimed with, in Fodder’s opinion, inexplicable enthusiasm. “I nipped into the pub before we left and got it off Flirt. She even cut it in two for me and knocked the bottom out, bless her.”

  “That’s nice.” Maintaining the smile was starting to hurt. “Why?”

  Shoulders grinned. “Clank-proofing.”

  And there it is. I told you that you didn’t want to know.

  Fodder’s smile slipped into pity. “You do know it won’t work, don’t you? He’ll get you, mate. He always does.”

  But Shoulders was shaking his head, his eyes bright with the fervour of desperate hope. “Not this time. Not again. This’ll thwart the bastard, I know it! Bloody Clank and his bloody broadsword, poncing about in his bloody armour on his bloody horse and thinking he can make sport of people’s necks! Well, let’s see what Mr All-Steel-And-No-Brain-Cells makes of this!”

  Pieces, Fodder thought to himself, battling a near-overwhelming urge to drop his head into his hands. That’s what.

  “It’s not in the Local Guard uniform code, you know,” he offered wearily. “The Narrative might notice. If Preen spots it, you’ll have to take it off.”

  Shoulders glanced back down the muddy road to where officious little Preen, in his gold-trimmed purple doublet and prissy, curly-toed shoes, was haranguing the burly Thump and stick-thin Clunny about some aspect or other of their artfully badly arranged armour.

  “Preen.” Shoulders snorted. “He’s a little oik. How much time does he spend out there on the front lines, hmm? What does he ever do apart from strut about in the background, pushing people around and giving out bits of paper? One of these days I’m going to tell him where to stick his—”

  “Places, everybody! The Narrative is on its way!”

  Fodder winced. There was something about the way that Preen clapped his hands. The fingertips tapping delicately against the palm, elbows raised so that his connecting hands were framed by an entirely insincere smile—a smile that told the observant watcher that there were blasted heaths and barren wastelands that would be more appealing to him than this place. It also whispered of the universe’s profound need for someone to give the man a damn good kicking. It would be for the good of humanity; Fodder just knew it.…

  But now was not the time for such thoughts. Through the screen of trees marking out the Rambling Woods, he could see the glow of the strange, brilliant, impossibly vivid light that signified the approach of The Narrative, and the dust rising from the track to show the galloping horses of the Merry Band as they wound their way towards another episodic encounter. Adjusting his neck tankard with an odd mixture of determination and resignation and palming his rusty short sw
ord, Shoulders dropped into place beside Fodder. To their left, Thump fingered the pet cudgel that, for reasons no one had ever mustered the courage to ask about, he’d named Ronald; and beyond him, Clunny, with his perennial fidget and inexplicable odour of beans, wrapped his fingers around his crossbow and clicked a bolt into place. Behind them, Dunny and Midlin from Fertile Fields and Donk and Tumble of Provincial Town, who’d arrived that morning to Bulk Up their numbers, exchanged glances.

  None of them spoke. Since this was Fodder’s territory—and since Preen had dismissively labelled Fodder Lead Guard for this particular encounter—the spare Disposables would stay silent and follow his lead.

  Poor blighters. Work was work, but Bulking Up was just plain drudgery. You didn’t even get a description.

  “Now, remember!” Preen’s voice, it had to be said, perfectly suited the impression given by the way he clapped. “Follow the lead of the Merry Band and don’t draw it out too much. This is only a time-filling skirmish, gentlemen, so let’s make it quick and easy for them! I’ve got to be going; important things to do and all!”

  Preen’s voice was already fading into the distance as Fodder’s lip twisted sardonically. Important things indeed. Every man and his dog in the Realm knew that Preen hated the sight of blood and guts and severed limbs and always found important things to do whenever the men he was supposed to be supervising went into battle.

  Although he’d never yet let it stop him from doing his job, Fodder wasn’t that fond of blood and guts and severed limbs himself.

  Especially since they were always his own.

  Just part of the job. And somebody had to do it. The instructions said so.

  Though there was one tiny part of Fodder’s brain that wondered what would happen if the instructions declared and nobody showed up.

  The light approached the corner of the trail ahead, spreading rapidly towards them like a flood of glimmering water.

  Grasping his spear, Fodder sighed. “Well, lads,” he said with a simple shrug. “Here we go again.”

  Light…

  “…following the instincts of a mere boy! This is folly! Surely—”

  Zahora’s irritable tirade cut off without warning as they rounded the corner of the quagmire-like wooded trail, and for a moment Erik was nonplussed at her sudden silence. But as he glanced at Elder, he saw the old man rein in his horse, his eyes narrowed. Following his steely-eyed gaze, Erik felt his eyes widen. Eight soldiers dressed in the tattered, ill-cared-for armour of local guardsmen had spread out to block their trail.

  “Why, those impudent—!” Halheid reared, bear-like, in his saddle, his huge beard bristling as he reached over his shoulder for his fearsome axe. “What do they mean by this?”

  “Hold, my impulsive friend.” Sir Roderick had raised his visor, and though he fingered his broadsword thoughtfully, he did not draw it. “Leap not to violence so rapidly. Perchance they mean nothing by it, and this may yet be resolved without the spilling of blood.”

  “That seems unlikely,” Gort retorted. The dwarf scratched his beard thoughtfully. “They look like money-grubbers to me; and I, for one, have no intention of paying up.”

  “Perhaps they know of our mission.” Zahora’s sharply drawn features were fierce. “Perhaps they seek to thwart our quest for the Ring.”

  “Them?” Slynder’s voice was rich with silent laughter as he leaned back in his saddle, surreptitiously loosening his throwing knives. “Our enemy has already proven he has better troops to throw in our path than this motley gang. I’ll bet half the money I won off Friend Halheid last night that all they want is enough coinage to fund an oblivious night in an alehouse.”

  “Whatever they want, we will not learn it sitting here.” Elder’s rich voice commanded instant silence. “Come, but be wary. Sir Roderick, stay with young Erik. The boy is not much used to combat, but his instincts are valuable. Keep him safe.”

  Erik felt a surge of resentment. He was sixteen, not some child to be brushed aside! But the armoured bulk of Sir Roderick had already pulled alongside him, his eyes stern as he lowered his visor; and reluctantly, Erik was forced to drop safely into his shadow.

  “Eldrigon commands it, my young friend,” the knight said firmly. “You are not yet skilled enough to mount your own defence.”

  “My good fellows!” Elder’s voice hailed the guardsmen as they reined their horses to a halt before the eight dishevelled men. “Why do you block our trail?”

  The lead guard tipped his head in a show of mocking respect as he sauntered forwards, holding his spear loosely but with intent. Three of his friends grouped behind him, leaving the other four to fan out across the road.

  “This is our trail, my rich friends,” the first man said with a sneer. “My Lord Khactas, baron of this fief, demands payment of all who use the roads that he so carefully maintains. For but a simple payment, you can be about your business and shall be troubled here no more.”

  “And if we do not pay?” Slynder retorted. “If we refuse to pay for passage through this mud bath of a track he reputedly maintains with such care?”

  “Then we shall have no choice but to escort you good people to tell my lord of your reasons for shirking your debt in person.” The guard leered. “You have already travelled a good league on his road and owe us for every hoofbeat. And my lord is not…kind to debtors.”

  Elder sighed wearily. “Fellows, we have no quarrel with you. But we are on a matter of some urgency and cannot afford to be delayed.”

  “Then just pay, why don’t you, and stop with your jabbering!” One of the other guards—a scruffy, unshaven wretch dressed in armour that fitted strangely around his shoulders and neck—darted forwards, waving his sword. “This is our road!”

  Sir Roderick drew himself up. “This is the kingdom of my noble King Cyrus, and I know without question or doubt that he would not permit the accosting of innocent citizens, were it known to him. We are on important business, you wretches, and you will stand aside!”

  “No, you will pay!” the smallest of the guards, a weasel-faced little man hefting a crossbow, said threateningly. His companion, a burly thug, hulked menacingly. “Or you will face our lord!”

  Slynder laughed. “I think you’ll find we shall do neither!”

  The unshaven man gave an indignant screech. “You will pay or you will die!”

  “Or both.” The lead guard’s face was avaricious. “For your impertinence, we shall have every piece of coin and jewellery from you, my friends. And we shall take them from your corpses! Get them!”

  The weasel-faced guard had already hefted his crossbow but staggered backwards screaming and clawing at his throat as one of Slynder’s knives buried into it up to the hilt. Halheid had palmed his axe and spurred his horse forwards, slicing away the right arm of the burly guard in one clean motion before wheeling around and felling two of his fellows with the same awesome swing. Gort’s hammer crashed down upon the skull of the flailing one-armed guard, felling him for good, even as Zahora’s bow sang out, her arrows striking one guard through the eye and another in the shoulder. The latter, a giant of a man, still stumbled forwards with sword raised, but Sir Roderick’s broadsword cut him quickly and cleanly in half.

  “You swine!” The lead guard was roaring in impotent rage as he leaned back and flung his spear with deadly force at Elder, but the old wizard raised his hand and, with a violent flash, the spear spun back and, with cruel irony, buried itself through the chest of its owner. The guard stared down at it, goggle-eyed and shocked, before slowly keeling over backwards.

  Now only one guard remained: the unshaven soldier, who stared about in sudden fear at the bodies of his colleagues before turning on his heels to flee.

  “Stop him!” Elder commanded. “He’ll bring others!”

  Instantly obedient, Sir Roderick turned and spurred his horse after the unfortunate man, broadsword raised and ready. His first blow sliced his belly open, hurling purple entrails high into the air. The second, with a scre
ech of yielding metal, sliced through his strange makeshift armour and sent his head flying from his shoulders.

  Elder shook his head in despair as he stared down at the wreckage of human remains that lay strewn across the road around them.

  “Poor fools,” he said in soft regret. “Too foolish and greedy for their own good. Come, let us leave this awful place. Erik, does the trail continue down this road?”

  Erik closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind. He felt for the strange, tingling sensation that told him that the Ring had passed this way.

  “Yes, Elder,” he replied. “Straight ahead.”

  “Then let us make good time.”

  Spurring his horse, Elder led them forward, mud splattering beneath their hooves as they…

  …passes

  For a moment, there was only silence, greyness, and that gentle sensation of settling that fell across the land when The Narrative had passed: colours dulling, light fading as everything slipped quietly back to simple, straightforward normality. Leaves rustled in the gentle wind; birds previously unheeded began to sing again; and in the mud of the forest trail, the various components of eight bodies lay scattered and broken and—

  “Sod it. Right through me bleeding liver.”

  “Could be worse. I think my liver’s somewhere over there.”

  “Gagh! Gugai! Gurgh!”

  “Clunny, if you want to say something, you’ll have to take the dagger out of your windpipe.”

  “Can anyone else hear something gurgling?”

  Fodder opened his eyes. A long wooden spear shaft cut a line through his vision towards the grey sky overhead. His chest tingled uncomfortably as he carefully worked his shoulders and arms, the eight inches of steel spear blade imbedded in his heart shifting with a nasty squelch as he moved his muscles. Elbows sliding slightly in the inch-deep mud, he struggled to right himself, pushing first onto his lower arms and then up onto his hands, trying to ignore the unpleasant way that the vibrating spear shaft threw his balance off and sent shudders all through his body. Freeing one hand from the mud, he stilled its shivers quickly and fought back an urge to moan. Bloody spears, bloody pikes, bloody halberds. At least with swords and axes they take the weapons away with them! And even arrows are so light that you can just leave them be and get on with things. But bloody spears, especially ones driven in by magic…