The Disposable Page 17

  His armoured shoulders hunched and tense, Sir Roderick drove his horse hurriedly to the fore of their party. “Where is the High Lord of Sleiss?” he roared, fury dripping from his every word. “I would speak with the master, not his yapping dog.”

  “You’ll speak with whomever we decide you speak with.” There was a cool air of defiance, almost of triumph, to this simple guardsman as he lingered atop the safety of his tower. Erik could see Zahora edging for her bow, longing to take a shot, but Elder’s quiet gesture forestalled her. The old sorcerer clearly had some other plan in mind.

  “But first,” declared the insolent guard on the parapet, “perhaps you would care to see the High Lady of Sleiss? I know she’s very keen to see you.”

  Sir Roderick actually snarled. “Give us the princess, you foul canker! Stop with these absurd games!”

  “You want the princess?” came the offhand retort. “Fine. Here she is.”

  And then she was there.

  The beautiful, perfect face that Erik remembered so vividly was thrust abruptly into view, her golden, fire-tinted hair scraped back into an undignified mess, her ruby lips lost behind a viciously tied gag. Her body had been bound cruelly from top to toe in chains.

  Her eyes were desperate.

  With scant regard for his poor victim, the guardsman thrust the princess helplessly facedown against the parapet. With the same cold smile, he rested his axe harshly but carefully against her delicate, snow-white neck.

  Erik could feel the rage coursing through his body like white fire even as Sir Roderick bellowed with anger.

  “And now, my lords and ladies,” the guardsman declared. “You shall get your wish. I give you the High Lord of Sleiss.”

  * * *

  “Aha!” There was a low, musical tinkling like distant bells, followed by a pale glow and the ruffling of pages. Shoulders was frowning, his expression thoughtful. It seemed he at least had heard that sound before.

  “Confirmation of the final instructions from the Taskmaster.” Hauteur’s voice sounded sickeningly smug. “The players have entered The Narrative and banter has begun. The High Lord of Sleiss is declaring his marriage and his intention to kill the bride as those rogue Disposables planned, but after drawing his agonies out, he will find himself unable to bear to kill his love and will fall upon the executioner instead. In the confusion, the Merry Band will invade the castle and the transgressors will be felled, ready to be removed to the dungeons. The High Lord will escape, and the princess will be much distressed by the fact she is married to him as she falls for Erik. But she will slay Sleiss in the Final Battle, and all will be well.”

  “What if the transgressors escape?” There was an odd note to Cringe’s tone as he ventured the question.

  Flirt could almost smell Hauteur’s haughty shrug. “They can’t. The windows are too narrow to climb through, and the doors below are already being guarded ahead of the Merry Band’s arrival. They will be locked up as soon as you and I depart. There is no way out for them.”

  Flirt knew that the utter horror on Shoulders’s face was mirrored in her own. They were trapped!

  “Why don’t you let me deal with them?” The casual way Cringe posed the question set Flirt’s teeth on edge. “They still trust me. I could nip up, knock them both out, and lock them in a cupboard so they can’t interfere when The Narrative arrives.”

  Hauteur gave a thoughtful little huff. “A sensible plan. I approve it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I intend to get out of the way.”

  Suddenly Shoulders was hustling Flirt back up the stairs as the door below flung further open. The pair of them barely managed to fling themselves out of view before distinctively prissy footsteps emerged and faded away down the stairs below them.

  Flirt heard a sigh. “Oh bloody hell,” Cringe’s voice muttered with feeling. “There goes my reputation.”

  And then, with startling abruptness, Shoulders was gone.

  * * *

  As Erik stared at the swaggering, armour-clad figure that had just emerged from the secluded doorway at the rear of the turret, he knew that in all of his short life so far, he had never felt such hatred for any man.

  But was he even a man? Vast, imposing armour coated the High Lord of Sleiss from head to foot, his face concealed beneath the visored helmet upon which engraved flames and raging battles seemed almost to writhe in the dim light. The sword that dangled from his waist was cruelly hook-pointed, its blade serrated in such a manner that implied it was intended to do far greater damage upon removal than on entry. The dark fur cape that hung loosely from his shoulders proved, upon a second glance, to be made from the skin of a whole wolf.

  And this was the beast who had stolen the innocent princess away. What horrors had he inflicted upon the poor girl in the time she had been his prisoner? Of one thing Erik was absolutely certain: He would be made to pay for every one.

  The princess’s eyes gazed down towards him. He could sense their mute appeal.

  I have to help her, he thought frantically. There must be something I can do!

  “Sir Roderick.” The dark, cold baritone rolled out of the metallic face that towered above them like an echoing peal of thunder. “Welcome to my humble home.”

  “You rancid mongrel!” Sir Roderick, it seemed, was in no mood to mince his words. “How dare you lay a hand upon the maid of Nyolesse!”

  The laughter echoed down, dancing through the hills around them in a mocking, spiteful spiral. “I have laid no hands upon the maid of Nyolesse, my noble knight. Only upon the Lady of Sleiss! Your precious princess is now my wife!”

  “No!” Sir Roderick’s jaws crashed together in fury. “You cannot!”

  “Too late!” was the sharp retort. “The deed is done, signed and witnessed by three priests. It is a matter of record. The Princess Islaine of Nyolesse is mine!”

  “It is forbidden!” Erik had never before heard such a frantic note to Sir Roderick’s voice. “It is invalid! She may not marry without her father’s consent!”

  The laughter snaked around them once more, a venomous serpent’s sting. “In Nyolesse, perhaps. But we are in Sleiss, and here my word is law! I may marry whomever I see fit, and I have seen fit to marry Islaine! And in that marriage…” Cruelty dripped from every syllable. “By the laws of Sleiss, all that was hers is mine. Including her claim to your precious king’s throne.”

  Sir Roderick’s sword whistled from its sheath. “Nyolesse will never accept you!”

  “It does not need to.” The High Lord slowly, deliberately drew his own blade out. There were dark brownish stains along the length of its pitted steel that sent icy chills through Erik’s stomach. “I have my claim to the Nyolesse throne. The only claim left but hers. And given that…” Coldness seemed to flow in waves from the armoured figure high above. “I hardly need my bride anymore.”

  * * *

  Flirt was so shocked by the speed with which Shoulders vanished down the stairs that she barely managed to rouse herself to follow him before she heard a horrified gasp and the sound of something fleshy being slammed very hard against stone.

  “You lying, filthy, deceitful little weasel!” Shoulders’s voice hissed viciously. “I knew it! I knew this was too good to be true!”

  The scene as she turned the corner was much as she’d expected. A furious and red-faced Shoulders had apparently caught Cringe completely unawares, pinning him against the wall of the steps with both hands wrapped around his throat. His left knee was already positioned for a highly indelicate strike.

  “No, wait, no!” The words were rasped and badly garbled but the look of desperate alarm on Cringe’s face was most emphatically not feigned. “I was playing him, I swear! I lied to him so I wouldn’t get into trouble for helping you!”

  His eyes turned to Flirt in mute appeal, but if he was looking for an ally, he failed to find one.

  “Really? Excuses? Just be honest!” Flirt thrust her face in next to Shoulders, her sword singularly failing to whistle from its s
heath as she yanked it awkwardly free. Damn, that’s harder than it looks. “You sold us out!”

  “Grim sold you out!” Cringe was rapidly turning purple as Shoulders’s grip tightened, his fingers scrabbling at the hands that gripped his throat. “I never said a word!”

  Shoulders snorted wildly. “But you suggested it to him, didn’t you? All that time you were being friendly with us, all here’s an idea, and follow me to the place where the dungeons are, you and your clanking mate were setting us up!”

  “He wasn’t biting!” Cringe’s voice was a squeal as his pipe tumbled with a violent clatter to the stone floor. “He wanted to tell Hauteur, get some glory through reward—he couldn’t see what was in it for him! I wanted to give him the reassurance of an out! I didn’t think he’d take it!”

  “You expect us to believe that?” The fury was dancing wildly with the fear swamping Flirt’s thoughts. She could barely focus herself, shocked that she had been right, that everything was crashing down so quickly, that they were trapped, that Fodder was in danger. The one thing she did know was that it was all Cringe’s fault.

  “I don’t care if you believe it!” was the frank, if strangled, retort. “But while you’re wasting time throttling me, you’re not stopping them setting up Fodder! He’s already In Narrative! How much time do you think we have?”

  It was as though he’d slapped them both across the face. Shoulders’s death grip loosened as Flirt took a step back, breathing hard, fighting against the sudden swamp of desperate despair that threatened to drag her down.

  “But we’re trapped,” she gasped out. “What can we do?”

  “You’re not trapped.” Cringe slumped like a rag doll against the wall as Shoulders’s hands finally released their furious grasp upon him. “Narrative or not, there’s still the top of the turret. Get up there, get Fodder and the princess, and jump. Even if they’ve killed him already, you can take the corpse and beat the Merry Band out of here! It’s the only chance you’ve got!”

  The long, high plunge through empty air down to vicious, swirling water flashed across Flirt’s mind. Her stomach lurched. At her side, Shoulders’s face had drained from red to white in seconds.

  But Cringe was right, lying bastard though it seemed he was. It was the only way out.

  * * *

  “If you so much as lay a finger upon her…” Sir Roderick’s face was utterly incandescent with rage, and similar fury was flashing across the faces of Erik’s companions. Elder was already muttering under his breath, and with a start, Erik recognised the incantation he was forming, the action he soon planned to take.

  But would it be too late?

  The guardsman—or executioner as Erik could now see he truly was—was poised over the princess, his axe lingering lovingly over her neck. The man himself, the monster, seemed twitchy, anxious, impatient to spill the princess’s blood. It seemed that the High Lord of Sleiss turned to men as cruel and vicious as he was in such matters. How could any man be so keen to murder such beauty? How could he not be assailed by fear, regret, or doubt?

  And then to Erik’s astonishment, the axeman caught his gaze. And with a tiny, curving hint of a smile, he shrugged.

  Erik could feel fury fill him. Why, that vile…

  “It pains me to do so.” To Erik’s surprise, he did indeed detect the first note of genuine regret behind the High Lord’s words. “She is a thing of great beauty, great spirit, and I admire—nay, adore—that. It would make me the happiest man alive to keep her at my side.” But with icy abruptness, the coldness returned. “But I know she will not stay here with me. She will never be my willing bride. And I cannot risk any other claimant arising at her side. She is my wife. And she will die as such.”

  Moving slowly forwards, his blade gripped harshly in one hand, he came to stand just yards from his executioner.

  “My loyal servant,” he commanded, his voice suddenly shaky. “Prepare your blow.”

  * * *

  Flirt stared at the Dark Henchman, his still rather purple face breathing hard as his deep-sunk eyes raked them over. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “Cringe,” she said softly. “Whose side are you on?”

  The tiniest hint of a smirk sprang to the corners of his lips. “Mine,” he replied sardonically. “Obviously.” He gave a quiet laugh. “But, heaven help me, my side does have a lot of respect for what your side is up to.” He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed before reaching down to rummage in his belt pouch. “In fact…I’m probably going to regret this, but…here.” Sharply, he thrust a small velvety purse into Flirt’s hands. “Take this, hide it away, and don’t let them have it back. Even if you lose the princess, that’ll mess things up for them just as badly.”

  Flirt stared at the heavily knotted drawstrings in bewilderment. “What…”

  “Not now!” Cringe was shaking his head frantically. “You two keep on wasting time! Now hit me over the head and go!”

  “Hit you?”

  Cringe actually rolled his eyes. “Oh for the love of… I have a reputation to salvage here! I want them to think I at least put up a fight! Now bloody hit me and bugger off!”

  It was Shoulders who obliged. His fist swung round in a raging arc that slammed Cringe’s head back against the stone with a sickening thud. The Dark Henchman slumped to the ground, leaving a bloody smear down the wall, and lay still.

  Flirt pursed her lips as she shoved Cringe’s inexplicable purse down the front of her chain mail. “Nice shot.”

  Shoulders shrugged slightly. “I liked it.”

  There was a brief, eternal pause.

  “Into Narrative?” she said softly.

  Shoulders grimaced. “Not much choice, have we? Good luck, Flirt.”

  Flirt nodded. “You too, Shoulders.”

  And then, their respective swords grasped firmly in their hands, the Barmaid and the Disposable turned and flung themselves back up the stairs.

  * * *

  It was as though the very world itself had slipped into slow motion.

  Erik heard his own voice cry out, saw Zahora grope for an arrow, saw Sir Roderick wielding his sword as he screamed at Slynder to open the hidden tunnel, to hurry, to move, to get them inside. Elder’s hand was outstretched, the incantation that would summon a raging wind already half leaving his lips, but all too ponderous, too hopeless, too late. Sleiss’s executioner had already raised his axe, blade held high, ready to strike with all the force that he could muster to send the head of the Princess Islaine flying from her body.

  Even from so far away, Erik felt the eyes of the princess meet his. Her gaze was one of utmost terror.

  Help her! He heard himself scream in the silence of his mind. Somebody, please help her!

  And then, to his utter astonishment, somebody did.

  “No!” The High Lord of Sleiss barrelled suddenly forwards, his terrible sword abruptly raised not at the princess but his own servant. “No, I cannot bear to see it done! My wife!”

  The axeman had half-turned to gape, but his eyes never lost their steely resolve. Even as the sword swung, the axe started to descend, but the High Lord of Sleiss was faster, his blade connecting with the axe and sending it tumbling over the parapet into empty air.

  “Dog!” he screamed at the hapless executioner, who’d staggered back, wringing his hand and staring at his lord with a strange mixture of resignation, irritation, and surprise. “You shall not harm her!”

  The sword was raised again, high and lethal, a deadly overhand blow that slashed and screamed through the very air as it—

  “NO!”

  The turret door slammed open. The action seemed to surprise the High Lord as much as it did Erik—he staggered, half-turned, hesitating in his violence, as two soldiers of his own guard hurled themselves clumsily out onto the flat turret roof. Both seemed for an instant bewildered, confused, half-staggering, half-drunk as though fighting against some mysterious, unseen force, but then the jaw of the smaller visibly hardened and he hurled h
imself forward with an oddly high-pitched war cry.

  “Lying bastard!” the high-voiced guardsman screamed inexplicably. “I’ll give you comely wench!”

  The High Lord of Sleiss seemed frozen in spite of himself, seemingly unable to keep up with or respond to the desperate nudging that must have been passing through his mind to defend himself, fight back, lay waste to these insane intruders. But from behind, the suddenly re-galvanised executioner dived forward and snatched the terrible sword out of the High Lord’s grasp. A moment later, the newly arrived guardsman’s sword plunged forwards and pierced the High Lord cleanly through the gap in his visor. With a horrid gasp, he staggered backwards and then slumped in a clattering heap onto the stone. He did not rise again.

  Even as Erik and his companions gaped in outright shock at this inexplicable turn of events, the second of the guardsmen flung himself forwards, stumbling, staggering over his own feet as though wading through some viscous fluid rather than clean air, his sword shaking as he waved it over his head in a strange and awkward circle.

  “Off with her head!” he bellowed frantically.

  Erik gasped with horror. The princess! Surely they wouldn’t still…

  “Evra-dal Alain!” With a slash of his fingers, Elder unleashed the spell he had been brewing—a violent, screaming wind rammed out of nothingness and hurled itself full force into the turret above. Even as the guardsman’s sword plummeted down towards the princess, the wind caught his body, jerked him sideways into the parapet with a thump, and the blow fell wide, slicing not the tender flesh of his victim, but the padlock that sealed her chains. It shattered under the force of the impact and the chain slipped, suddenly freeing her.

  “Oh no you don’t!” The executioner was clinging to the stone by his fingertips, his feet all but dragged from the ground by the force of Elder’s hurricane. Somehow, he managed to lash out one hand to grab the tattered velvet of Islaine’s dress as she shrugged the chain away and started to dive for the stairs. The material ripped in his grasp but still he refused to give in, his hand lashing out again to bury itself with ruthless efficiency into the very depths of her hair. She jerked and writhed in his grasp, the gag she still wore muting her screams into muffled gasping.