The Disposable

by Katherine Vick

  The look on the horrific face was almost pleading. Flirt’s eyebrows remained knitted together in a furious line, but she nonetheless gave a grudging but distinct nod. Gently, the AFC withdrew his hand and, when the reluctant silence held, he nodded with a toothy smile and stepped back again.

  “Ta,” he thanked her softly.

  Fodder took note of the quiet looks the scaly creatures were exchanging as they glanced back towards where their Officious Courtier and the Barbarian continued to wrangle. As Flirt’s intervener had stated, it could not have been any plainer that they had no desire to be here. The AFCs were an elite force of monstrous predators In Narrative, and it was as such, Fodder suspected, that Thud had recruited them. But what the Barbarian had failed to account for was the fact that out of Narrative, they were simply a bunch of folks doing their jobs.

  Fortunately, perhaps, Flirt’s rant had not distracted Thud from his own raving.

  “…need to be killed and seen to be killed! I want Narrative justice! I want them taken down and you, you stupid idiot, you’re getting in my way! Why wouldn’t you want them to pay after kidnapping the princess…”

  “But they don’t have her now!” As his voice rose in angry retort, it was apparent Primp’s reservoir of patience was rapidly draining away. Clearly, he lacked his nephew’s stamina for enduring abuse. “And the princess is what matters here! Weren’t you paying attention when I showed you what my instructions said?” He shook a little green-grey book in Thud’s direction. “As far as The Narrative is concerned, they no longer have the princess! They no longer matter! They can be sent off to the dungeons without The Narrative being involved!” He took a short gulp of breath, his face wavering slightly but remaining set. “It’s Prince Tretaptus they’re after now. He’s the only kidnapper they care about, and he is still at large.”

  Fodder’s head darted up quickly—too quickly, as it turned out; it lulled forwards onto his chest with irritating looseness. It took several sharp jerks of his body to fling it back into place.

  But the distraction did not deflect from what he had just heard.

  Dullard! Dullard is free!

  He’d clearly had a run-in with The Narrative, since they’d identified him by his character. But the fact that he was free afterwards was a bloody good hint that he had defied it successfully and gotten away with the princess to boot. And as long as he remained at large, there was still hope for all of them. Even if they locked them away, as long as Dullard could keep fighting for them, there was a chance of being heard, a chance of release.…

  But as he settled his head back into place, Fodder realised he had not been the only one to take note of Dullard’s Narrative name. The ears of every single AFC had pricked up.

  Of course! Fodder had almost forgotten the rest of that conversation back in the Magnificent City what felt like forever ago. Dullard had said he’d been an AFC prisoner once, that he’d enjoyed his time in their captivity, which implied that they’d gotten along. Yes, he’d even mentioned that one of them had taught him the harpsichord.…

  The sudden interest of the AFCs certainly seemed to imply that they’d been friends. Maybe they could use that to persuade them to let them go.…

  “We can’t just let them get away with this!” The one person who didn’t seem interested in the Rejected Suitor’s involvement was Thud. “I want every man in this kingdom to see me give them what’s coming to them! I want to speak to Strut about this! Go get him!”

  Primp drew himself up. “He is in the middle of co-ordinating a vital pursuit!” he retorted, the slight tremble to his prim voice the only hint that the person being pursued was his nephew. “The prince is lost in the forest, wandering without direction—they think he may be looking for your prisoners. Strut has to organise the efforts to corner him and get the princess back. He’s not going to come running because you’re in a mood.”

  “Fine!” Thud snapped back. “Then you take me to him! Go on! Lead the way!”

  Primp shot a glance at his freakish charges and the prisoners they encircled. “But…”

  “You watch the prisoners!” Thud’s voice was harsh as he glared at the suddenly less indolent AFCs. “Take these but don’t get too close to them in case they try anything, and don’t leave this clearing either! And if you see anything suspicious, you come and get me. Right?”

  The nearest winged figure—Fodder thought it might have been the one who’d silenced Flirt, although the AFCs all looked so alike, it was hard to be sure—stepped forward and nodded as he caught the keys that Thud had thrown. He fixed them carefully to the rough leather belt straps he wore looped around his scaled body. “You’ve got it. If we see anything, we’ll come right to you.”

  “You’d better!” Snarling, Thud took a firm hold on Primp’s narrow arm and hauled him, protesting, off into the trees. “Right! Where is he? I’m going to let him know exactly what I…”

  The angry, echoing voice was swallowed a moment later by the trees. Both captors and prisoners gave visible sags of relief.

  “Bloody great oaf,” Fodder heard one toothy figure mutter. “Who does he think he is?”

  “Power’s gone to his head,” the first AFC replied as he turned back from the trees. “He’s Merry Band, isn’t he? Answers to the Hero. He’s not used to being in charge of things.”

  “He’s treating us like we’re still In Narrative.” The nail-filer had abandoned his task to join in. “There’s no call for it.”

  “Nor for pushing Primp ’round either,” one of the tooth-fiddlers added. “Ain’t his place.”

  Fodder knew an encouraging start to his kind of conversation when he heard it. “Thud shouldn’t have the right to push you around just because he’s a Principal, you know. As a matter of fact, that’s why we…”

  But the first AFC had already raised one clawed hand. “Mate, I wouldn’t waste your breath,” he advised in a firm but friendly manner. “We know what you and your friends are about. We’ve got damned good ears in this shape, and we’ve been listening to Thud, Primp, and Strut hissing on about you lot for a couple of days now. And whilst we have plenty of respect for your nerve and sympathy for the spot you’re in, your crusade ain’t for the likes of us.” He grinned widely. “’Cos we like what we do. We got no problems with our life apart from Thud, and he’s only around ’cos of you lot anyway. We hate to be self-centred, like, but there’s nothing but trouble in all this for us. So sorry but no thanks, okay?”

  Fodder opened his mouth, his brain forming half a dozen fresh retorts, but there was something about the set of the leathery winged shoulders around him that told him that this was a battle he was very unlikely to win.

  “You’ve made your minds up already, haven’t you?” he said softly.

  The lead AFC nodded. “Yep. Sorry.”

  “And there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

  “’Fraid not, Fodder.”

  The use of his name startled him slightly, although he wasn’t sure why it should. He took a gamble. “Gibber?”

  The AFC grinned again, almost wryly. “Nah, it’s Fang, mate. That’s Gibber.” He gestured to the nail-filer stood beside him, who waved with a clack of his teeth. “Good on you for taking a pot, though. Most folk don’t even try.”

  Fodder joined in the round of wry smiles although his remained deeply unimpressive compared to his captors’. “I’m sorry. You all change so much, it’s so hard to tell…”

  “No problem, mate.” Fang gave a hissing chuckle. “Most humans can’t.” Out of nowhere, his crooked smile turned oddly nostalgic. “Only ever met one who could, and even I’m damned if I know how.” His expression was fond. “How was it he said he did it, Frenzy?”

  “Something about our bone structure, he reckoned.” The AFC who had called Thud an oaf was the one who answered. “Whatever fiddling they did on the outside, the shape underneath was the same, he said. You just had to know what to look for.” He laughed out loud, an odd, whooping noise that bounced harsh
ly off the trees. “Said he wanted to do a study on it! Bless him! He wanted to do a study on everything!”

  “Bloody good singer too,” Gibber added, to the thoughtful nods of his companions. “Best Ophelion we ever had. That rendition of ‘The Maid of Mercy’ he did—well, I’m not ashamed to admit he damned near made me cry.”

  “That last line,” Frenzy agreed. “The final note—that was a thing of beauty. Our Dramatic Society was never the same after we had to give him back.” He shook his head. “Poor bugger. He’s wasted at that Palace.”

  Only an idiot would have failed to twig whom they were talking about or miss the opportunity implicit in their words. Fodder opened his mouth, anxious to explain that they knew Dullard too, that he was helping them, and that they agreed that he was wasted and surely, if he was their friend, they’d want to help him help them…

  “Mind you.” There was something so very pointed about Fang’s interruption that Fodder’s mouth snapped shut almost of its own accord. “He did used to have some funny old ideas. And though he’d never dream of complaining, you could tell he never did much like that he couldn’t use his talents In Narrative. Don’t you reckon, Chomp?”

  “Yeah,” one of the tooth-fiddlers, apparently Chomp, agreed with highly deliberate thoughtfulness as he tapped one clawed finger with faux casualness against his chin. “Even though we came along on this gig ’cos we got told by Primp he was in trouble, like, and they’d kidnapped him along with the princess, I can’t help but think, you know, if he wouldn’t be more inclined to help them out.”

  “I mean, maybe these ears of mine are playing me up, but it did sound awful like Primp said they was out chasing him.” Frenzy waded in firmly, emphasizing every word before he expelled it into the air. “And I can’t see why he’d be on the run if he was a prisoner. You’d think he’d just give that princess right back, wouldn’t you?” He shook his head, his lips pursued with highly suspect sincerity. “Mind you, knowing him, it could just be one of those funny ideas. He does get them and he never means any harm. I can’t imagine he’d cause real trouble, not our mate Dullard. Can you, boys?”

  There was a very deliberate chorus of agreement.

  “Good thing this is all speculation, though.” Yet again it was Fang’s pointed enunciation that overrode Fodder’s attempt to speak. “I mean, ’cos if it weren’t speculation and some stupid bugger opened up his fat gob and told us it were true, we’d be obliged to turn our mate in, being as how we definitely ain’t on their side at all. But we know nothing. Ain’t our business if no one’s actually told us.”

  Fodder closed his mouth again, but it was an effort to keep himself from smiling as sudden hope welled up inside him.

  Aha…so that’s how it’s going to go.…

  “And though we wouldn’t dream of helping our prisoners escape in any way,” Gibber enjoined speculatively, “if they were out chasing good old Dullard in the woods, for whatever reason, and he happened to stumble across us here and, well, we happened to get distracted or something by…I don’t know, a pretty bird, say?”

  “Maybe an interesting tree?” Fang added with a nod.

  “Yes, interesting trees are very distracting,” Gibber agreed. “And, well, for some reason, if he took it on himself to nick the keys off Fang’s leather belt and free them to run off while our backs were turned, well, I don’t see how it could possibly be our fault.”

  “’Course, it is just speculation,” Chomp exclaimed with a sigh. “’Cos maybe if I’d been listening, I’d have heard someone say he’s lost out there and doesn’t know where these people he might take it on himself to free are.”

  “I know,” Fang agreed with a slow, carefully formed grimace. “And, I mean, if—not that we ever would do it, of course—we felt inclined to draw him here, it’s not like we can go off and find him or call out for him seeing as we don’t know what he’s doing out there and can’t possibly dream of leaving our prisoners anyway. So, as I said, if—not that we would ever do it, of course—we were going to try and draw him here, I wonder how we’d do it.”

  “Speculatively?” Frenzy asked.

  “Oh, completely.”

  “I think this is a bit of a dodgy subject, you know.” It was Gibber who intervened, tapping his clawed fingers carefully against one scaled leg. “But all this talk of the old days when Dullard was in the Barren Wastelands Dramatic Society with us and him performing ‘The Maid of Mercy’ has got me all nostalgic.” He glanced around with a smile that was both beatific and utterly crammed with teeth. “So, what do you reckon, lads? Is anyone else up for a nice loud singsong?”

  * * *

  There was no doubt about it. He had definitely passed that particular gnarled oak once already.

  Breathing hard and bathed in sweat, Dullard stumbled to a weary halt. The weight of the princess over his shoulders was not overwhelming, but it was hardly a boon either. He could only be thankful that, to judge by the lack of kicking he had received, she had not fully woken. Behind him, through the trees, he could see the vivid glow of The Narrative raking its way along beneath the leafy canopy, could hear the strident voices of the Merry Band as they plunged through the undergrowth aided by weapons and magic alike. Mysterious powers had been hauled emphatically out of the bag. They really wanted the princess back this time.

  And he alone could stop them. Everything Fodder and the others had fought for depended on his ability to keep Pleasance from their grasp.

  And what was he doing? Running in lost and hopeless circles in the woods.

  He gave serious consideration to muttering a curse word. How had things all gone so quickly wrong?

  The worst of it was that he felt so silly. He’d been amazed when he’d stepped into Narrative and found how easily he had kept hold of his personality and purpose. The confidence that had filled him had been glorious. He’d seen the opportunity to end the Quest by ending Bumpkin, and he’d stepped in quickly to take it in spite of his personal misgivings. But he knew now that it hadn’t been his confidence at all, that The Narrative had shown far greater cunning than he had given it credit for. For it was that confidence that had got him into place and kept him talking, compelled him to apologise instead of simply striking off Bumpkin’s head and having done with it. Such violence was against his nature, and The Narrative had known he’d hesitate. It had let him be too much himself. It had used his own personality against him!

  But he would be ready for it next time. He would be stronger. If he got the chance.

  He hoped.

  The Narrative was getting cleverer, it was true. But they also had it worried. Why else would it have been forced to resort so much to its emergency standby, manifesting Bumpkin’s mysterious powers? They’d left it no option but to start cheating in order to stop them. And that, it had to be said, was a very hopeful sign.

  But all the hope in the world would prove no use if he were to be captured.…

  He glanced around at the surrounding wall of trees once more. He could hear voices, closing in from all directions. To his right, The Narrative light was growing brighter.

  If only he knew which way the others had gone. If he could just find some direction, some purpose, some sign…

  And then, he heard it.

  “…as the wind blows through her corn-silk hair!”

  “Oh the maid!”

  “Oh the maid!”

  “Oh the fair, fair maid!”

  Dullard blinked. For a moment, he wondered if his brain had somehow imploded and was spitting out random pieces of his past into his ears…

  But no. It was real. He could hear it. He could hear voices. And they were singing…

  His song.

  “As she dances with a grace so pure and rare!”

  “Oh the maid!”

  “Oh the maid!”

  “Oh the fair, fair maid!”

  His mind flashed back to his time in the Barren Wastelands, to the cheerful, friendly souls that had lain beneath a range of deliberately g
rotesque exteriors—not to mention a surprisingly fine range of singing voices. He’d been so flattered when they’d allowed him, a rank amateur, to join in with the latest project Doom the Dark Lord had come up with for their little Dramatic Society, a charming musical romance called ‘The Maid of Mercy’, although performing this touching story of forlorn love opposite a female AFC called Mania, whose blonde wig had fitted most snugly over her tall, sharp antennae, had added an interesting new dimension to his acting. And there had been one song in particular that he had loved to perform, and that several of the most hard-bitten AFCs had insisted that his performance of the last line in particular always made them melt to hear. He had known they were simply being polite to a guest, of course, but it had been a nice thing to be told all the same.…

  And he was in no doubt who the singers were. Nobody else could harmonise quite like the chorus of the Barren Wastelands Dramatic Society.

  But why would they be here? Why would they be singing it now unless…

  Unless they knew he was out here. Unless they were trying to find him.

  “Over rock, over hill, down the meadow and the dale!”

  “She will dance, she will dance, through the forest and the vale!”

  A more suspicious mind than Dullard’s might have suspected a trap. He was very much aware of that. But he was also aware that the singing voices belonged to his friends, and he was going to trust them.

  He glanced at The Narrative light, its gleam growing ever closer. He didn’t have much choice.

  Balancing the still silent princess carefully over his shoulders, Dullard steeled himself and moved quickly in the direction of the song.

  * * *

  Over the course of his career as a Disposable, Fodder had been witness from the sidelines to many an awe-inspiring sight. He had seen volcanoes explode and castles crumble. He had seen dragons roar and magic burn. He had seen epic battles and heroic last stands. But he had never in all of his days seen a sight to match a dozen grey-scaled, leathery winged beasties clustered together in a variety of heroic poses with their clawed hands clasped as they raised their tooth-filled maws in beautifully harmonised song.