The Disposable Read online

  Shoulders’s eyes were wild, wilder than Fodder had ever seen. Even a Clank decapitation had never fostered such manic terror within his friend. His unshaven jaw was working madly as his hand rubbed against his neck, harder, faster, more intensely, his footsteps doubling in speed, his breath coming in short, violent gasps that attacked the very air into which they were expelled. As he spoke again, his helmet-clasping hand gesticulating madly, Fodder realised that his fellow Disposable’s voice had risen by at least an octave.

  “She’ll wake up and she’ll go running back to Strut and then we’ll be finished, you hear me, we’ll be finished! What am I talking about? We’re already finished; Preen knows who we are! We’ll never see daylight again! Oh sod it, oh sod, what have you done, Fodder? What the bloody hell have you done?”

  Fodder hesitated. The euphoria that had been driving him along like a runaway cart fizzled and drained slightly at the sight of his friend’s pale, frozen, terrified features. Oh, Shoulders had piped up for him in theory down at the pub, when offered the prospect of no more undignified beheadings at the hands of an iron-clad moron, but here, now, facing the absolute reality of a broken Quest, a kidnapped princess, and an actual In Narrative rebellion, his fears seemed to have consumed him.

  Fodder felt a sudden wash of guilt. Shoulders hadn’t asked for this—Fodder had taken advantage of his friend’s shock and dragged him along for the ride. He’d never actually asked him if he wanted to be a rebel.

  The look on Shoulders’s face strongly suggested the answer would have been no.

  In all honesty, Fodder had never asked himself if he wanted to be a rebel. But, now he was one, he didn’t plan on going back. He wasn’t quite sure where forward was, but back was not an option.

  But what was he supposed to do next? What could he do that didn’t involve a lifetime of punishment for breaking the fundamental purpose of their lives?

  And then, he heard the hoofbeats.

  He didn’t stop to think. Diving forwards, Fodder scooped up the unconscious princess and hurtled back into the hidden mouth of the escape tunnel. Dumping his burden unceremoniously out of sight, he hurled himself back out, grabbed his friend’s arm, and hauled him hurriedly into the shadows of the entrance.

  “But what about my plot?”

  Thud. The Barbarian of the Merry Band was mounted on a fairly miserable-looking pony as he rounded the corner of the mountain road, riding as rapidly as was safe on a winding trail by darkness. His bearskin tunic was a tangle of blood and earth and his beard was black with dirt—strong indicators that The Narrative had given him an impromptu and rapid burial up on the mountainside. Squick hovered beside him, dabbing at the stab wound in his chest with his purplish pixie dust, although the big man’s gesticulations and the jolting of his pony weren’t making the job any easier. The pixie’s potato-like face was scrunched and irritable as he struggled to complete the fix-up.

  “For the moment, I’m afraid you have no plot.”

  Fodder shrank back even more deeply into the shadows as Strut, the Taskmaster’s taskmaster, rounded the bend on his elegant stallion. Preen, his head bowed, his face a cocktail of humiliation, mortification, and fury, rode at his side, deferentially carrying a lantern. “Halheid is dead.”

  “But I can’t be dead!” Thud burst out, slamming one meaty fist against his own thigh and sending Squick reeling through the air like a drunken seadog in an effort to avoid having to repair himself. “What about my heroic battle feats? I save the day! I marry Zahora and become regent of one of the Six Kingdoms! That’s what the schedule says! I can’t be dead!”

  Squick stowed his needle and thread neatly away, and wiped off his hands with a purple glitter as he rose back into the air on frantically pumping wings. “You were stabbed through the chest In Narrative, laddie. I assure you, you are.”

  Thud shot Squick a venomous look, but Strut’s pointed intervention put pay to any prospect of a pixie-Barbarian showdown.

  “The actions of that pair of rogue Disposables have severely disrupted the plot.” Preen sank down more painfully in his saddle as his cousin fixed him with a steely glare. “Their attention-seeking has damaged everything. I have received word from the Taskmaster that new schedules are being prepared in an attempt to mitigate the damage that has been done so as to get this Quest back on course as neatly as is possible. Halheid’s burial was conducted magically, and the rest of the Merry Band have settled into a paragraph of searching for the princess’s trail whilst we wait for further instructions.”

  “Burial!” Thud gave a vile snort. “Two rushed paragraphs of dumping me in the earth with magic so they could bugger off after the precious love interest! I was supposed to be a lynchpin of this plot! Where’s the mourning, the rending of garments, my companions manfully sobbing, Zahora throwing herself on my grave? It’s not fair!”

  Not fair? Fodder ground his teeth as the three horses passed the concealed entrance to their tunnel. You got a funeral, mate. I never have done! I always end up rotting in a ditch!

  “Stop complaining.” Strut’s stark declaration proved who was really running the Quests at ground level. “We need to…ah!”

  It was like a tinkle of distant bells. A golden glow rose like pixie dust from both the tapestry pouch perched on Strut’s waist and the more familiar pink satin pouch belonging to Preen. Both Officious Courtiers reined in their horses a dozen yards down the road from Fodder’s concealment and rooted in their bags, Preen rather more awkwardly by virtue of still holding the lantern in one hand. Each drew out a small, elegantly bound book that glowed a gentle gold around the edges. Strut’s was silver, overlaid with a vivid gold binding that twinkled in the unsteadily held lantern light. Preen’s was a more prosaic muddy brown.

  From his concealment in the shadows, Fodder saw Strut smile with something approaching relief as he fanned through the pages of his book. “A new schedule,” he declared. “I knew the Taskmaster could fix this mess.”

  “That was quick,” Squick observed, one knobbly eyebrow raised. “Even for up yonder.”

  “What does it say?” Thud leaned half out of the saddle, peering over Strut’s shoulder in a manner that the latter clearly found to be highly uncouth. “Will I be resurrected? What about my romantic subplot? My battle glories?”

  In spite of his clear irritation with Thud’s invasion of his personal space, Strut was smiling at his book with a hint of respect. “Both salvaged. You are to return some chapters from now as Halheid’s twin brother, Torsheid, out to avenge his brother’s death by taking up his charge. You will pick up your plot strands from there.”

  “Yes!” Fodder’s heart plummeted as Thud emphatically punched the air. “Take that, you stinking little Disposable!”

  Well, that was it. Fodder’s head drooped as Strut’s words sank in. He’d failed. He’d thought he’d impacted on the plot, made a difference, made himself stand out, made people take notice. But in less than a quarter of an hour, the Taskmaster had fixed the precious plot and worked around him.

  Had he been a fool in thinking he could defy the Taskmaster and The Narrative? Had he thrown away a sufficient if not satisfying career for the sake of a few paragraphs in a fight that would soon be forgotten?

  The stinking little Disposable had taken it. And defeat tasted very sour indeed.

  Powerless and nothing. That’s all he was. That’s all he would ever…

  “Pardon me.” Preen was squinting down at his book with one manicured eyebrow raised. “But if I’m reading this right, all of this plot salvage depends upon us finding the princess quickly.”

  Fodder’s ears pricked up, as sudden hope leapt in his heart. Leaning forwards, he peered over into the ball of lantern light to get a closer look at Strut’s expression.

  And there it was, just for an instant. Concern.

  The euphoria was back, bubbling in his brain. Oh, this isn’t over yet. And I see now. I see what it is I have to do.

  “I don’t see why that should be a problem.”
The steel in Strut’s voice denied the hint of worry that lingered in his eyes. “They are only Disposables, and they will soon realise how foolish they’ve been. I’m sure they shall be found before the night is out and the princess reinserted into The Narrative nice and smoothly. In fact…” Strut twisted in his saddle to face Thud. “Since you have a few chapters’ grace before you are due to return, why don’t you take my cousin and his remaining Disposables and comb the area? When the malfeasants are found, summon me immediately and I will see to it that The Narrative and the Merry Band arrive promptly to slaughter them and retrieve the princess. And then I will make certain that the pair of them spend the rest of their days as resident prisoners in the Dark General’s dungeons. They can howl in the background until their throats are raw as far as I’m concerned.”

  Preen was staring at Strut with sudden horror. For a brief, impossible instant, Fodder wondered if their Officious Courtier was actually planning to stand up for them. But of course, their punishment was not what was bothering Preen’s mind.

  “Wait a minute,” he stammered. “The Disposables are my responsibility. And you’re sending Thud to—”

  Strut fixed his cousin with the most utterly superior gaze that Fodder had ever seen. It could have stripped the bark off the mightiest of trees and sent the noblest of kings and knights into a cringing huddle in a corner. “You’ve done a less-than-magnificent job up until now,” Strut drawled coolly. “I thought perhaps a fresh pair of hands at the helm might actually see the job gets done.”

  Preen shuddered, torn desperately between cringing and fury. “But he knows nothing of doing such work!” he protested, more fiercely. “You need those with knowledge, Strut! What if this is the start of another incident like Quickening and—”

  One look. One look of utter, silent fury from Strut was all it took to clamp Preen’s jaws closed. A moment later, the Taskmaster’s taskmaster turned to face the road once more as though nothing had happened, tucking his book neatly away and gathering his reins. “Off you go, the pair of you, and start the search. I need to spread the word of what has happened here. We must make certain these Disposables have no place to hide.”

  With a whip of his reins, Strut vanished down the road, leaving Preen and Thud to stare at each other with wary resentment. After several moments more of eyeballing, the duo turned their horses and set off back up the road to Bandit Pass.

  And that left only Squick, hovering quietly in the darkness.

  The pixie gave a gusty sigh as he swivelled in midair. And then his beady eyes fixed straight on Fodder’s.

  Fodder jumped a good foot at the unexpected stare, but the pixie made no move to raise the alarm. His brow knotted as he regarded the Disposable he had fixed up on countless lonely roads with something akin to concern.

  “I don’t know what you’re playing at, laddie,” he said softly. “But it’s a dangerous game, and you’d best watch your back. Because the way things are rolling out, they ain’t likely to let me fix it.”

  “Squick…” Fodder started to rise, but the pixie had already banked sharply in the air, surging away into the night.

  And then there was silence.

  In the darkness of the tunnel, Fodder could hear the shrill whistle of Shoulders’s frantic breathing, could see the still, slumped form of the unconscious princess propped up against the wall. But none of that mattered, not with the conversation he had eavesdropped on echoing vividly through his mind.

  Because it held the answer.

  He knew. He knew now exactly what to do.

  His mind worked madly, fizzling with a euphoric hysteria fuelled by realisation. He’d broken The Narrative, yes, but it was fixable. If the others got the princess back quickly, the story could be guided back on course. Thud’s death had been worked around already, his romantic subplot and his battle glories passed on to his soon-to-be-introduced twin brother. Fodder of Humble Village would be caught, killed In Narrative, and then banished to scream in the background in the Dark General’s Grim Fortress for every Quest until he shrivelled up and died. Nothing had really changed. The whole world would go on as it always had before.

  He couldn’t let that happen. Not now.

  He’d come too far.

  He’d broken the Quest. Now he had to see that it stayed broken.

  He had to keep going—keep sabotaging, ruining subplots, making what remained of the Taskmaster’s instructions unsalvageable. He had to show that he could change the world, that he had that power, that he deserved to be listened to. He had to prove that it wasn’t just the members of the Merry Band who were important anymore.

  If he was caught while things could still be made the way the original plan dictated, nothing would change. He had to make The Ring of Anthiphion unfixable.

  Then they’d see. They’d listen. They’d have to.

  They had to stop the Taskmaster’s precious Narrative cold. It was the only way.

  But he was also honest enough to admit he didn’t want to do it alone.

  There was Shoulders. But he was hardly the most willing of allies.

  Fodder found his eyes drifting down the hillside, towards the distant twinkle of Humble Village and the Archetypal Inn.

  Flirt. He needed Flirt. She’d understood all this, that forever-ago over supper. She’d grasped what had to be done before it’d even crossed his mind. If she’d been allowed to play, she would have been clobbering princesses right alongside him.

  And perhaps she still could be.…

  The pub. They needed to get to the pub.

  “We need to get to the pub.”

  Fodder hadn’t even realised he’d said the words out loud until Shoulders grabbed him by the arms and swung him round.

  “The pub?” he half-screeched, his voice more than a little on the hysterical side. “The pub?! I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but this is no time for ale!”

  Fodder tried to grasp his friend’s arms, only to find that they were shaking too badly to be stilled. “Shoulders, listen…”

  “No!” It was a high-pitched shriek. “No, no, no! You did hear that conversation, didn’t you? You did hear Strut say that we are going to be banished to the bloody dungeons! I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t want to do this! But do you think they’ll believe that? Oh no, of course they won’t! If you had to go stark staring mad, couldn’t you have dragged someone else down with you?”

  Fodder finally managed to get a grip on his friend’s arms. “But don’t you see? It can be better!”

  “The dungeons are better?”

  Fodder fought valiantly not to roll his eyes. “Forget the dungeons!”

  “Forget the dungeons? Forget the bloody dungeons?” Shoulders’s eyes were all but popping from their sockets. “How the hell am I supposed to forget the bloody dungeons when I’ll be spending the rest of my bloody life in their bloody cells?”

  The urge for wit was probably one that Fodder should have resisted. “Actually, they probably clean up the blood when the dungeons aren’t In Narrative.…”

  The thump to the shoulder, Fodder had to concede, was probably deserved. “You’ve condemned us both to life in prison! And you’re trying to be funny?”

  Fodder sighed. “Mate, please, just calm down and listen to me. If you’ll just let me explain…”

  “Explain? Explain?” Shoulders was, Fodder felt, growing somewhat repetitive. “I don’t care about you trying to explain! I care about not getting locked up!” With a rough shove, he yanked himself free of his friend’s hold and staggered towards the tunnel’s entrance. “Maybe it’s not too late!” he gasped hoarsely. “Maybe if I take the princess back up the hill and tell Preen that you dragged me along against my will, I’ll get off with a demotion to stable hand! Even dung’s got to be better than dungeons, right? Yeah, if I take her back…”

  “No!” Fodder darted between his friend and the princess’s supine form. “No, we can’t take her back.”

  Shoulders’s jaw dropped. “Okay, now I
know you’ve gone barmy. Not take her back? What else are we supposed to do with the gnashing cow?”

  Fodder found himself wishing sublimely that he could make his idea sound as good out loud as it was in his head. He rather doubted he could, though.

  “We have to keep her away from The Narrative. It’s important.”

  Shoulders stared at him incredulously. “I know I’m going to regret asking this. But never mind, here goes nothing. Why?”

  Fodder took a deep breath. “Because if we can keep her out of The Narrative, it’ll bugger up the plot.”

  Shoulders’s features settled into a kind of resigned horror. “And why in the name of anything at all would we want to do that?”

  Fodder risked a tentative quarter of a smile. “Because if we bugger up their plot beyond repair, it proves that we don’t have to follow the Taskmaster’s instructions. And if the instructions are no longer sacred…” The smile hoisted to half-mast. “No more heads in ditches. No more entrails up trees. If we don’t want to play, we don’t have to. We can demand character. We can demand to be the heroes or just to be left alone. We finally get a say.”

  Shoulders was staring at him blankly. “Not from a dungeon.”

  Fodder gently rested his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “If we can make them listen, there won’t be a dungeon. If we can spread the word, make everyone realise that The Narrative isn’t untouchable, they won’t have any choice. But that can only happen if the schedule gets mangled. If the Taskmaster can still get things back on track, they can still lock us away. But if we can sabotage The Narrative, make it run to our instructions rather than the Taskmaster’s, everyone will have to take notice. I’m sure of it.”