The Disposable

by Katherine Vick

  “Halheid?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “But you’re dead!”

  But as the bearded figure’s gaze snapped towards him in shock, Gort realised all at once that he was mistaken. For although the likeness to his poor, dead companion was striking, there was something in the set of this man’s nose and the shape of his eyes that spoke of subtle yet profound differences.

  But then, who was he?

  “What differences?” the Sleiss soldier snapped with sudden and inexplicable fervour. “He’s exactly the same!”

  A meaty knuckle slapped across the soldier’s face, driving him to the ground with a visage stained in scarlet. He started to rise, grasping at the strange bandage of ripped material that fluttered at his throat, but the so-familiar stranger’s boot slammed ruthlessly three times into the side of his head and dropped him into stillness.

  For an instant, it seemed to Gort that this bearded newcomer’s hands were shaking as though against some invisible foe. He seemed to struggle, apparently attempting to raise his axe for a killing blow; but after a moment, the strange effort was abandoned. He grimaced as he turned to Gort.

  “I am not Halheid,” he declared gruffly. “I am his brother. I am Torsheid. I came here from the mountains to take revenge upon those foul animals who slaughtered my kin.” His bearded jaw tightened truculently as he jerked his head in the direction of his unconscious captive. “And I will not be denied it!”

  “And we would not deny you.” The echoing voice caused Gort to jump but it was too accustomed to otherwise distress him. With a flurry of hooves and a glint of metal, Sir Roderick emerged from the shadows of the trees to join them. The knight came to a halt a few yards down the path from the barbarian and his prisoner, lifting his visor with a respectful nod. “It is your right, brother of my friend. His life is forfeit to you, and we would not challenge you. But first, there are things we must know of this miscreant. We must take him to our sorcerer, who has, by means of rude enchantments, the ability to extract from him what needs to be known. But afterwards…” The knight smiled grimly. “We shall watch you dispatch the fiend with pleasure.”

  The enormous, hulking man’s lips split into a cold, deliberate smile. Turning, he hoisted his axe high above the soldier’s head and, with all the force he could muster, dragged the trouble-making soldier into a vindictive headlock. And then, with Roderick leading the way, the little party moved off into the woods.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  In the shadow of the trees not far from her companions, Zahora had barely finished cursing her own ill timing over losing sight of the first Sleiss soldier when the bushes before her burst apart and spat another mailed figure in tatty Sleiss livery directly into the small clearing in her horse’s path.

  It was hard to tell who was more surprised. But the soldier’s shock seemed so profound as to almost unman him, for he was staring around with a kind of mute horror, wobbling on his feet as though drunken as he clutched at his head. His hand jerked towards his sword hilt, battling as though against some invisible bond as he struggled to grasp his weapon.

  “Oh no!” she heard him keen shrilly. “Oh no, no, no! Leave me alone!”

  Bewildered as she was by the man’s odd behaviour, Zahora had trained as a warrior from birth, and her bow swept up almost of its own volition. She sighed as she took aim directly between the man’s rolling eyes. At least one enemy would trouble them no more.…

  The blow to her stomach came as a staggering shock. Even as she wheeled, pitching in the saddle, her bow raised, the flat of a sword hurtled round a second time to smash across her helmet and hurled her into the air. Her bow tumbled from her fingers, lost, as she slammed into the ground with a bruising thud. The wind left her lungs in a rush, but nonetheless she groped desperately for her sword hilts as she tried to stagger to her feet. A smaller mailed figure, whose dark curly hair protruded in an unmanly fashion from beneath his helmet, darted round the back of her horse, a bewilderingly beautiful sword grasped in a competent if amateurish fashion. But this time Zahora was ready for the blow, rolling beneath the swing of the blade as she dragged one of her own weapons free. The soldier’s fine sword returned again with shocking speed—where had a common Sleiss soldier obtained such a magnificent piece of work? Stolen; it could only be stolen—and the warrior woman barely managed to bring up her own slender blade in response. She whipped her sword around in a complex arc, but her enemy parried the move with irritating ease, ducking under the retaliatory swing and replying with a vicious lunge that only quick reflexes saved her from being skewered on.

  She caught a glimpse of the soldier’s face. He was grinning with elation.

  And then suddenly, her sword went flying. The soldier barrelled into her and smacked her fisted hands aside as his weight descended onto her supine figure and pinned her ruthlessly in place. The hilt of the stolen sword slammed with harsh force into the side of her helmeted head. Zahora blinked, her eyes spinning with stars as she felt the strength abandon her limbs. Dazed and drifting, she looked up.

  A confusingly contrite-looking face peered back down at her, with a frown knitting eyebrows that, at such close quarters and even through her daze, looked distinctly, almost impossibly feminine. But how could that be? No woman would be permitted in the army of Sleiss. And no other woman could defeat her in combat! It was rare to even find a man who could.

  Through a haze of shifting colours, the soldier bit his/her lip. “I want you to know,” she said, and it had to be a she, for the high-pitched voice left very little doubt in the matter, “I have the utmost respect for you.” With a yank, Zahora felt her dented helmet being pulled away. “I’m really sorry to do this. But, hey…” The soldier woman’s lips quirked slightly. “At least I’m sparing you the badger beard, aren’t I?”

  Once more the hilt descended and this time, there was no beaten metal to protect her. Pain seared through Zahora’s head as everything went…

  …dark

  Breathing heavily, Flirt heaved one last non-Narrative blow onto her opponent to insure she stayed down out of the light. And then she stared down at the unconscious Harridan, barely able to believe what she’d just done. She’d defeated her heroine. She’d knocked out the Taskmaster’s official Warrior Woman. In spite of her guilt, she couldn’t help but allow the small, just slightly smug smile that crept across her face. She’d always known she was better than serving tankards of ale and now, to have bested the character she’d always wanted to be…

  She shook herself. This was no time for self-congratulation, was it? They had to get out of here!

  Besides, she respected Harridan. It was Thud she really wanted to see skewered.…

  The light of The Narrative had fled the instant her blow had fallen, driven to find new eyes by the loss of its point of view, but The Narrative would know they were here. It would not be long before backup arrived.

  She turned towards Zahora’s horse, briefly considering the option. But she was no fan of four-legged transport, and a horse was too easily lost to The Narrative’s control. She smacked her hands at it, ignoring the pain in her elbow that resulted, and with a whinny, it turned and bolted.

  And that just left the two of them.

  They should have taken more care in their frantic flight; she could see that now. They should have bothered to pause and check that Dullard and Fodder were still behind them, rather than turning too late to find that both had somehow disappeared. They should have tried harder to stick together. But what was done was done.

  Critically, she examined the gaping double wound she’d just gouged in Harridan’s head as she clambered to her feet again. It looked fatal enough but was probably fixable if a magic user happened along. Perhaps she ought to cut her head off, just to make sure. After all, this was not a death The Narrative would have wanted. And Shoulders would probably quite enjoy seeing someone else get—

  A heavy thud against the grass drew her gaze away from Harridan’s staved-in head. A moment later, wide-eyed, the Barmaid w
as running.

  For Shoulders lay in a heap on the ground, gasping and holding his ribs. As she reached him, sheathing her sword, he gritted his teeth and stared up at her with desperate horror.

  “I can’t do it, Flirt!” he stammered between rasping breaths. “I tried, I really tried, but I can’t do it! I can’t fight The Narrative!”

  “You can!” Struggling to conceal her dismay, Flirt knelt swiftly at her friend’s side, grasping his shoulders with determination. “Shoulders, you can, you just need to believe in yourself! You just need to—”

  “No! No I can’t!” There was desperation in the Disposable’s eyes. “If I go back in there, it’ll get me! You have to keep it away from me, Flirt! Keep it away or I’ll…”

  Hoofbeats tore out of the shadow of the trees just to their left. Branches snapped as a heavy figure on horseback forced his way through. Light flickered through the canopy and then erupted at its edge.

  Shoulders stared at the breaking branches with hopeless despair.

  “Oh bugg—”

  Light…

  “—er!”

  Sir Roderick reined in with sharp shock as his eyes fell upon the two figures in chain mail crouched upon the forest floor in the small clearing before him. He could feel the fearful burn of their eyes as Gort on his mule and Torsheid, still dragging his unconscious prisoner, came to an equally surprised halt just behind him.

  “Not him!” One of the figures emitted a hopeless, desperate whine. “Anyone but him!”

  But the smaller figure’s eyes had alighted on the motionless figure clamped in Torsheid’s grasp. His eyes widened with shock.

  “No!” he proclaimed, his voice a shocking high-pitch. “No!” He rocketed to his feet and, with a warrior’s instinct, his hand whipped down to haul his impossibly ornate sword from his scabbard in a swift if somewhat ungainly manner. His companion remained slumped on the ground, one hand pressed against his forehead as he gasped and moaned.

  “Let him go!” the high-voiced soldier ordered shrilly. “Let him go right now or I’ll make you sorry! Just like I made her!”

  Roderick felt himself frown. Her? What did he mean by…?

  And then, he saw her, slumped in a heap on the ground, blood pouring from a gaping wound in the side of her skull. Only the faintest rise and fall of her chest implied that she had managed to keep clinging to life.

  Zahora!

  The soldier grimaced. “I knew I should have cut her head off!” Roderick heard him mutter.

  But rage was coursing through Sir Roderick’s body, white-hot like blacksmith’s iron and vicious as the blades it forged. They had a prisoner now, the means to find the Princess Islaine safe and sound. He need show no mercy to these others who had reaped such violence upon a woman he had come to consider as his kin.

  “Black dogs!” he bellowed, his heavy broadsword yanked from its sheath with a deathly shiver. “I will make you pay for this infamy! Yah!”

  With a jab of his spurs, his heavy war horse thundered into motion. In a few brief strides, it closed the gap between them. The avenging knight rose in his stirrups, raising his blade over his head to deliver a crushing blow. With unexpected bravery, however, the smaller soldier held his ground, gritting his teeth as he raised his finely crafted sword in a pointless effort to parry…

  “No!”

  With a crash of undergrowth, a slender figure came hurtling out into the clearing just yards in front of Roderick’s epic charge. His sword grasped and his face grimly determined, Prince Tretaptus of Mond wheeled on the thundering knight, ducking beneath the swing of his blade with unexpected agility. His own sword darted out, slashing towards Roderick and his mount, but the almost delicate blow struck neither the horse nor its rider.

  Instead, it sliced neatly and cleanly through the girth strap of his saddle.

  There was no stopping the charge. It was far too late and carried far too much momentum. The soldier grasped his apparently dazed companion and dived for it, leaping aside with inches to spare as the war horse pounded past them. Roderick struggled desperately to keep his balance, but the weight of his swing was already carrying him over, over, down…

  With a massive crash of metal and a frantic, wavering screech, the pride of Nyolesse plunged heavily into the leafy mulch of the forest floor.

  “Quick, dullard!” The high-pitched soldier seemed to have hurled this remark at Prince Tretaptus, although the half-stunned knight could see no cause for him to insult the man who had just saved him. “You take clank and I’ll get thud!”

  Roderick shook his head sharply. Either he’d taken a harder whack than he’d believed or the man was talking utter nonsense.…

  As he shook his dizzy, furious head and grabbed for his broadsword, the knight heard Torsheid gasp with shock.

  “By the Lords of Sky and Earth!” he heard the man thunder. “It’s a wench!”

  Even over the clanking of his armour, Roderick felt the strange, deathly silence that seemed to fall across the narrow glade. And indeed, as he raised his head, he could see that the high-voiced soldier had lost his helmet in his dive, leaving dark, curly hair to flow out and expose the truth beneath.

  And the truth beneath was a furious-looking woman, whose fist was clenching her sword hilt so viciously that it seemed impossible not to draw blood as she stared at the barbarian with a hatred so fierce it seemed to burn holes through the air.

  “I’ll give you wench, you groping, bearded git!” she screamed fervently. “You’ve pinched my arse for the last time!”

  And then with the force of a raging bull, she raised her sword and charged.

  But Roderick had no time to watch as the angry little woman dived at the brother of his dead friend. For Prince Tretaptus was advancing on him rapidly, sword held professionally low. The silly man’s jaw, with its jutting chin, was set firmly. And though his face was tremulous, his eyes were like steel.

  “I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, his words a rapid tumble. “But I really do need to kill you now. It’s terribly important!”

  Roderick shook his head as he finally regained his feet. The stupid man was a buffoon! Surely he would not be so foolish as to try and defeat the greatest knight of Nyolesse!

  “I think not!” he hissed through his visor. “Have at you, cur!”

  Heaving his enormous broadsword, he swung at the unarmoured man with a tremendous overhand heave but the prince caught his blow upon his own, much smaller blade and, with a gasp of desperate effort, turned it aside. Roderick was quick to reverse the blade but again Tretaptus saw the blow coming, leaping over the swing with an agility unanticipated in so awkward a man and darting forward in a rapid lunge that scored along the side of Roderick’s heavy armour-plating with a screech that set his teeth on edge. Grimacing, the knight pounded in once more with a series of vast, damaging blows but Tretaptus was quicker than he appeared, catching each one with a ringing clash on his surprisingly enduring blade. It was all the knight could do to stop himself gritting his teeth in frustration. What was this sword that held so well? Any other weapon would have shattered to pieces against such an onslaught! Why did this one not?

  He heard a grunt of profound pain. Glancing up, he saw Torsheid drop to his knees, barely fending off a flurry of sword blows with his axe hilt as he grasped with his free hand the apparently now tender part of his anatomy his female attacker had just kicked. But the attack was unrelenting as chips of woods flew in a hail from the beleaguered weapon.

  “Torsheid!” The cry came from Gort. Grabbing his hammer, the bold dwarf hurled himself from his mule and rushed forwards. But he was no warrior, just an engineer, and this woman whose blade spun with such vicious, desperate speed was already turning, weapon held high and braced to strike a deadly blow.…

  And then, impossibly, at the last instant, the soldier woman twisted her blade out of Gort’s path. The dwarf stumbled past her, carried by his momentum as he tripped over her motionless companion and sprawled helplessly onto the floor. For a moment, i
t seemed as though the dwarf’s reprise had been but temporary, but with an angry stamp, the woman wheeled away and turned back on the rising Torsheid.

  “Don’t kill the dwarf!” she cried out echoingly. “It wants us to; I can feel it! So don’t kill him!”

  Torsheid was roaring as he staggered back to his feet. “Stupid wench!” he screamed out. “I’m going to—”

  But he got no further. For in that instant, the woman’s eyes flared anew. Wheeling on the barbarian, she lunged forwards with shocking speed, her elegant sword lancing smoothly forwards as it plunged straight through Torsheid’s heart.

  The barbarian gaped for a moment as bloody froth bubbled through his lips. He stared at the sudden, victorious laughter that danced from the lips of his killer.

  “I’m nobody’s wench!” she declared fiercely. “And there’ll be no battle glories for you!”

  The gasping barbarian glared at her through desperate eyes. “Not for me!” he choked out, spitting blood from his crimson-stained lips. “But I have…another brother…to avenge me!”

  And then, with a final cough, his eyes rolled and he slumped backwards off her blade and lay still.

  The woman stared down at the barbarian’s corpse with something akin to chagrin on her face.

  “Oh, you cheating bastard!” Roderick heard her hiss.

  “Ummm…excuse me?”

  At the deferent exclamation, Roderick turned sharply to find Prince Tretaptus staring up at him with his head cocked to one side and an eyebrow raised. His sword was raised but not in motion, as though frozen halfway through a thrust.

  “Hello!” he greeted with an awkward little smile. “Me again! Sorry to intrude on your point of view and all but…weren’t we having a fight?”

  “Why didn’t you just clobber him, you idiot?” The gasping shout came from the other soldier, who was still slumped in a heap on the far side of the glade. He had drawn his sword at some point and seemed to be having some manner of battle with himself about what he was supposed to do with it. “He wasn’t even looking!”