The Disposable Read online

  Scream…

  …as the last echoes of the vivid scream curled and shattered against the rock around them, seeming to reach out with desperate fingers to plead for their aid, the companions crested the rise to behold a scene of horror. An ornately decorated carriage lay crippled at the narrowest part of the draw, cast in moonlight and shadow beneath the towering cliffs, its horses fled, one wheel efficiently snapped. The coachman had been pinned against his seat by the length of a spear through his body, his eyes wide with gaping terror as he lay spread-eagled in the moonlight. Around him, guards dressed in the familiar, bright livery of the Kingdom of Nyolesse lay in bloody, slaughtered heaps upon the rocky earth. Soldiers swarmed everywhere, their livery an unknown pattern of blood red and midnight blue, battering at the carriage as they charged, bellowing at the last Nyolesse guard still standing—a tall, solid figure desperately outnumbered as he battled to fend off the attackers surging at the carriage door. Even as Erik stared, his eyes wide at the sight of the unexpected carnage, the final bold guardsman was hacked down with a vicious blow and his body cast aside. The way to the carriage was clear.

  “My lady! My princess! Stand away, you dogs of Sleiss!” Sir Roderick’s sword whistled from its sheath, a steely song of death as he drove his heels into the sides of his horse and charged ruthlessly forwards, Halheid, Slynder, Zahora, and Gort hot upon his hoofbeats. Erik started forwards too, eager to dive into battle, but Elder’s harsh hand upon his arm stayed his charge.

  “No!” the old man ordered harshly. “Stay back!”

  Alerted to these unexpected foes by Sir Roderick’s bellow, the majority of the soldiers had fanned out into the road to meet their charge, leaving only two of their companions to continue their assault upon the carriage door. Even as Erik watched in helpless horror, the door cracked, broke open, and was yanked aside to reveal two pale, female faces washed with moonlight. One of the soldiers’ hands lashed out, catching hold of a mousey little figure and dragging her out into the road, her wide, terrified eyes evoking no sympathy from her attackers. A sword lashed out, arcing viciously towards her, but to Erik’s astonishment, not to mention the girl’s, the blow fell inexplicably wide. Erik was certain the blow would come again, that no such luck could befall the poor creature a second time, but the soldier did not raise his weapon to strike that mortal blow—instead, with a heartless shove, he hurled the bewildered girl aside. His companion stared for a moment as she staggered to her feet, clearly torn as to whether he should finish the job his associate had failed to complete, but it was already too late; with a flash that Erik could almost have taken for gratitude, the girl turned and fled safely into the night.

  The fight was going much as Erik had come to expect—Sir Roderick and Halheid were cutting wide swaths through their opponents with their swinging blows as Slynder hung back behind them, picking off any who escaped their wrath with the pinpoint accuracy of his dagger throws. Zahora had abandoned her bow and drawn her slender swords, sweeping men aside with graceful swipes that sent arcs of bright blood curling through the night air. Gort’s hammer blows lacked her finesse, but equalled her efficiency, splattering brains and skull fragments wherever it happened to land. But three fighters, hard faced and vicious looking, were putting up a valiant resistance and their delay was keeping Sir Roderick from reaching his prize.

  No such problems assailed the two soldiers at the carriage.

  That same vivid scream that seemed to call to Erik’s blood rang once more throughout the mountains—one of the soldiers staggered back as a foot lashed out at him from the carriage, his companion recoiling as fingernails scraped viciously across his face. Erik caught a tantalising glimpse of a pale face and a flash of blonde hair that glinted with a hint of moonlight-ignited fire as the girl, presumably the princess of Nyolesse, fought back frantically against her would-be kidnappers, screaming at the top of her voice. One of the soldiers winced and staggered back from a second and then a third fervent kick and his eyes seemed to flash with sudden, irrational rage.

  “Shut up!” Erik heard him screech. “Shut up and stop kicking me!”

  But the princess paid no heed to this demand, continuing her resistance with bright spirit as the first soldier surged forwards past his companion, grasping her pale, white arm and hauling her sharply into the entrance of the carriage.

  “Get your hands off me!” she screamed desperately. “Unhand me at once, you foul, stinking, worthless wretch! You have no right to touch me! How dare you think yourselves worthy to lay a single finger…”

  But the soldier laid more than a finger. His hand lashed out almost of its own volition, smacking against her mouth and shoving her head back against the wooden frame of the carriage. The princess’s eyes widened in sudden shock at the impact for an instant, but then her eyes rolled and fluttered closed, her slender body collapsing against the soldier and his companion helplessly.

  To Erik’s surprise, the second soldier’s expression at this turn of events was one of mild horror.

  “We weren’t supposed to knock her out!” Erik heard his hiss even over the slash and roar of battle. “That wasn’t in the plan!”

  The first soldier was staring at the princess’s slumped body almost blankly, his expression strange and unreadable. He seemed to stare down at his own hands for a moment as though shocked to find them there. He stared at his companion, who had hoisted the unconscious princess onto one shoulder instinctively but apparently lacked any further impetus to act, instead gaping at his colleague in bewilderment. And then the first soldier turned and stared for a moment into the darkness where, just a minute before, he had allowed the servant girl to flee.

  The fingers around his sword flexed. Slowly, his head rose. His eyes seemed faraway and almost mad. It was as though he were staring at a different world.

  But his distraction looked likely to prove fatal. With a roar of fury, Halheid had broken free of his battle, leaping from his horse as he hefted his axe and charged towards the motionless soldier with an epic cry for blood.

  The soldier’s eyes snapped up at the sudden assault, his features suddenly hardening. But it was too late. Halheid brought his axe around in an arcing, deadly curve, inevitable, unstoppable, towards the soldier’s exposed neck, its blade slicing painfully through the air as it was deflected by the soldier’s upswinging sword. With one simple, ruthless thrust, the Sleiss soldier lunged forwards and ran him through.

  And the very world seemed to shudder in pain.

  For a frozen instant, Halheid gaped, his mouth wide as he stared down at the blade that had just pierced his heart. His eyes drifted painfully upwards towards the soldier’s face, as the man stared at him, his expression one of dawning astonishment, of disbelief, of release, as though his own audacity in such a blow had astounded even him. Slowly, almost gently, the soldier stepped back, pulling his sword carefully free of the barbarian’s body. For an eternal moment, it seemed as though Halheid wouldn’t, couldn’t fall, but then bright blood erupted from his bearded lips as he staggered, stumbled, slumped to his knees.

  “You…” he whispered harshly. “You…”

  But he could manage no more. Slowly, like the toppling of a mighty oak tree, Halheid slammed to the earth and lay still.

  The battle, raging around them moments before, had staggered to a bizarre halt as even the soldiers of Sleiss stopped and stared in disbelief at the body of this fallen giant. Even Sir Roderick, who had charged forwards, sword raised, to smite the head of the impudent wretch who had laid hands on the princess, stopped dead in mid-swing. Only Halheid’s slayer seemed able to retain some skill at motion; turning sharply on his heel, he wheeled back on his companion and grabbed him by the arm, hauling both him and the unconscious princess sharply away from Sir Roderick’s frozen blade, ducking behind the carriage and vanishing from sight in the scattering of rocks that…

  …fades

  The old escape tunnel that Pounce had told Fodder about one night in the pub gaped before them; grabbing t
he wide-eyed and bewildered Shoulders by the arm, Fodder shoved both him and his Royal burden hurriedly under the ground. Beneath the vivid darkness of Narrative behind them, Fodder could hear the Merry Band stuttering and stammering their way through disbelieving mourning as they struggled to improvise around the gaping hole that he, a simple Disposable, had torn in their nice neat plot.

  I did it.

  I can’t believe it.

  I changed The Narrative.

  He had barely realised he was doing it until it had happened. The frustration and rage that had bubbled within him after his conversation with Pleasance had failed to disperse when the smooth, honey-like warmth of The Narrative had wrapped around him, taking over his body and guiding his actions. He had felt it driving him forwards, ushering him to the door of the carriage, just as he was supposed to; but when he had reached inside himself to find that touch of character he always called on, he had found only the whirling thoughts and rampant feelings that had consumed him ever since he’d left the pub. He’d stared at the young Maid’s face, her terror unfeigned as she braced for a death no one had ever prepared her for, and he’d felt himself twist his wrist, deflect the blow that The Narrative had prompted, and cast her free.

  He’d barely realised what he’d done, as the warmth of The Narrative engulfed him more strongly, dragging him back down to obedience. Perhaps that single moment of defiance would have been the end of it.

  Until Pleasance had kicked him in the face.

  And the anger he had felt as she’d belittled him and scolded him and commanded him like a worthless servant had exploded right back to the surface.

  He’d felt himself yell at her as she’d battered them, her stupid little instructions leaping into his brain and enraging him all the more. He didn’t deserve to have some spoiled brat kicking him and screaming in his ear! She didn’t deserve the Narrative attention she was about to receive! He just wanted her to bloody well shut up!

  Whacking her one really had been phenomenally satisfying.

  He’d felt The Narrative surge again, curling around him, battling desperately to draw him back into the fold of the plot. He’d heard Shoulders’s cry of disbelief at his sudden, unscripted action. But it had been too late. He’d felt the hold of Narrative, once warm and all-consuming, thin suddenly around him. He’d moved his hands and stared down at them as The Narrative’s resistance shuddered, fought, and utterly failed to contain him. Realisation had swamped him as he’d stared at Shoulders, at the unconscious princess, and off into the darkness where Menial the Maid had fled. And then, with glorious terror, he’d known:

  He could do anything. Anything he wanted.

  But by now the Taskmaster, the faraway guide of The Narrative, had, it seemed, registered the rogue element lurking in its midst and stealing the limelight. Fodder had felt the sudden vivid concentration of Narrative energy that surrounded Thud, capturing him, driving him forwards to wipe out this interference before any more harm could be done.

  And Fodder had known right then, right there, that he didn’t have to let it.

  He’d killed Thud. In Narrative. In the Quest. He’d killed a character that every instruction they had received had stated quite clearly was due to survive heroically and live happily ever after. And then he’d grabbed Shoulders, preventing his ritual beheading by Clank in the process, and hauled both him and the not-supposed-to-actually-get-kidnapped princess out of The Narrative and away before the Merry Band had had time to blink.

  He’d broken with Narrative. And to top it off, he’d quite severely buggered up the entire plotline of this Quest.

  And it was glorious.

  He had never felt so alive.

  I did that. I did it!

  I made a difference!

  It should have been all about the battle and the princess. Instead, it had been all about him. An unnamed soldier of Sleiss.

  Why do we have to obey the Taskmaster? Flirt had asked.

  The answer was that they didn’t.

  A part of him was screaming, asking what he’d done. He’d broken everything, disobeyed that which must be obeyed, done the impossible, shattered every natural law of their world. He should go back, let them capture and kill him, return the princess and help them get back on Narrative track, and then maybe he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life as a nameless dung shoveller or a torture chamber victim.

  But the rest of him knew that he couldn’t.

  He couldn’t go back.

  He didn’t know exactly what he’d done, what he’d started. But whatever it was, he was damned well going to finish it.

  The far end of the tunnel loomed. Side by side, he and Shoulders stumbled out onto the winding road that led from Humble Village up to the pass, breathing hard, staggering slightly as they stared back up the road in disbelief. Fodder had feared a Narrative pursuit, but his actions had apparently thrown the Merry Band into too much confusion, and the vividness of Narrative stayed firmly fixed in the pass high above them.

  I did that. Me! Fodder of Humble Village!

  I bet I get a few more than seven words now!

  And he could keep going. He had to keep going.

  Going with what, he wasn’t sure. But he was certain he’d figure it out.

  By the pale moonlight, Fodder sought out the face of his friend, his fellow Disposable, the man he’d saved from the Clank-inflicted neck severance. He found him, still shouldering his burden, his eyes wide.

  Shoulders stared at Fodder.

  Fodder grinned.

  Shoulders did not.

  “We won.” Shoulders’s voice was quiet, shocked, as though the truth were suddenly dawning, trickling into his brain and making itself known. “We kidnapped the princess. We won.”

  Fodder’s grin broadened. “I know.”

  Two hands lashed out, slapping down on Fodder’s shoulders as his friend stared at him with wild eyes and began to shake him madly.

  “But we weren’t supposed to win, Fodder! We won! We weren’t supposed to win! What have you done? What have you dragged me into?”

  Shoulders looked scared. Actually scared. But it would come, he would learn, once he felt the exhilaration of defying The Narrative for himself.

  “I’m not sure,” Fodder admitted softly. “But I like it.”

  Shoulders’s jaw gaped. “What the hell are you—”

  “What have you done? What have you done?”

  For the second time, a sweeping, heeled foot caught Fodder hard in the face. Even as he staggered back, he saw Shoulders writhing as his velvet-cloaked burden, now free from the Narrative-forced obligation to reflect any damage caused there, woke sharply and made her feelings very plain indeed. Fingernails raked, feet flailed, and ruby lips parted to release what Fodder was certain would have been an almighty scream had Shoulders not acted faster, flinging the furious Pleasance to the ground and slapping his hand quite firmly over her face.

  “No more screaming!” he screamed.

  Pleasance’s regal and ever-so-sophisticated response was to bite him.

  Shoulders gave an unmanly screech and staggered back, wringing his fingers in pain at the unexpected onset of non-Narrative damage. Pleasance scrambled to her feet, her skirts tangling around her legs, her pale face unflatteringly flushed as she stared at the two Disposables with unrestrained horror.

  “You hit me!” she shrieked, jabbing one manicured finger viciously into the air before her. “You hit me!”

  Fodder couldn’t help but feel that the matter of his blow was the least of the issues at hand. “It was In Narrative!” he retorted incredulously. “It’s not like it hurt you!”

  Pleasance drew herself up, mustering what dignity she could manage on a dark road when faced with two men whom she quite clearly regarded as dangerous lunatics. “That is not the point!” she proclaimed furiously, one slender hand punctuating her proclamation for dramatic effect as she swirled her cloak around her body. “Nobody, absolutely nobody, ever hits a princess! How dare you! I am a
member of the Royal Family! You can’t treat me this way!” She took two stumbling steps back onto the road, the sharp heel of her shoe spearing the velvet hem of her cloak with pinpoint accuracy. “You filthy, degenerate fiends! You’ve ruined my moment! This is my Quest, my romance, my glory! I will not have my story ruined by a pair of pointless nothing Disposables who don’t even have character names!”

  She staggered again, heel lodged in and tearing her cloak.

  Irritated though her speech was making him, Fodder felt obliged to point this matter out. “Erm…your foot, it’s—”

  “Shut up!” The words were a violent screech. “Just you wait! Just you wait until I get back up that hill! When I tell Strut what you’ve done, you’ll be locked away as dungeon victims for every Quest from now until you wither into nothing! You’ve dragged me away from my moment, you’ve touched my skin, you’ve messed up my dress and my hair! How dare you!”

  “No, really, your foot—”

  “Just you wait!”

  “Only it’s really rather caught up down there…”

  “I’ll make you pay!”

  “And if you do that heel turny thing you did earlier—”

  “You’ll wish you’d never been born!”

  “You’re really going to—”

  “And I’m going to get the others right now!”

  And with that, the Princess Pleasance whisked furiously around on her heel.

  The resulting fall was suitably spectacular.

  As her heel swivelled, the snagged velvet cloak twisted like a serpent up the princess’s leg, snaring her skirts and clamping her legs together into a sudden, cloth-bound vice. With a shriek that probably shattered the snowcaps of the distant Savage Mountains, Pleasance went tumbling wildly downwards, arms flailing uselessly. Her head collided with a nearby roadside rock, jolting her into silence.

  “…go flying,” Fodder concluded over the resulting quietude. He shrugged. “Well, I did try to warn her. And at least she’s quiet.”

  “Yeah, but for how long? How long, huh?” The manic note that shivered through Shoulders’s voice caught Fodder’s attention. His scruffy friend had yanked off his helmet and was grasping it fiercely in his right hand as he paced across the road and then sharply back again, staccato steps punctuated by abrupt and violent turning. His left hand scrubbed so frantically at the exposed skin of his neck that Fodder was surprised he wasn’t drawing blood. “Non-Narrative damage like that’ll be healed clean in a couple of hours and what then? She wakes up and what do we do? What do we do then?”