A Glimpse of The Taskmaster
In honour of three weeks to go until the release on Amazon of my final Plot Bandits novel, The Taskmaster, I thought I would offer up a little glimpse of what is to come by presenting an extract from the book itself! I hope it whets the appetite a bit. :)
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Her gaze quickly raked the ranks
of the men left behind. Most looked nervous. Some looked angry. Many looked
shocked. But none looked particularly inclined to be the first to step up and
lead the charge in Sentinel’s place. Flirt fought not to punch the air. It was
working! Facing a choice between their orders and the fundamental rules of
their life—they were hesitating. They were thinking! And once the thinking had
started…
“You!” Preen’s harsh exclamation
cut into her thoughts—she glanced up to find that he had wheeled dramatically
on Midlin, marching up to his bland-faced new field captain with fire in his eyes.
“You do it then! Get some men and attack them!”
But Midlin was staring at him.
Midlin the obedient, Midlin the unimaginative, Midlin who lived and breathed
orders from a higher power, was making no move to obey. His chin was trembling
slightly.
“Is it in the instructions?” he
said desperately.
Preen blinked. “What?”
Midlin’s hands were starting to
shake as well. “The instructions…” he managed, his monotone voice
suddenly wavering. “The
instructions must be obeyed.”
Preen manically rolled his eyes.
“I’m giving you instructions, you ridiculous man! Get some men and attack
them!”
“But…”
Midlin’s face contorted
painfully. “But you don’t have the book. Instructions come
from the book. And if you don’t have the book…”
His lips quivered. “How do you know what the instructions would say?”
Preen exploded. “I just do!”
“But…but the First Rule!” Midlin’s
words stammered out of blood-drained features. Sweat pooled on his brow. “The
instructions always follow the First Rule and…ack!”
Preen lunged like a cobra. Long
fingers clamped around the front of Midlin’s mail shirt and, fuelled by the
strength of frustrated rage, he hauled the Disposable up onto tiptoes and shook
him like a ragdoll.
“Will! You! Just! Do! As! I! Say!!!”
he roared into Midlin’s bland face, punctuating each word with a violent shake.
Even as the Disposable stared at him in bewildered horror, Preen flexed his
wrists and hurled his victim down into a heap on the grass, stalking forward
with fists clenched as he towered like a beanpole over the hunched, shadowed
figure before him.
“Enough of this first
rule!” he screeched. “Enough questions! Enough disobedience!”
One hand lashed out, grasping the now terrified-looking Midlin and dragging
him onto his knees. “You will get to your feet!” With another yank,
Midlin was forced to stagger upright. “You will fetch some
men!” Hauling the Disposable by the armpit, Preen strode across the grass with
Midlin stumbling in his wake. Ahead, the massed ranks of the Disposables
rippled backwards like a breath of wind in an effort to subtly retreat from his
path, but Preen was clearly in no mood to be merciful—he tore into the front
rank, snatching and shoving as one after another, bemused armoured figures were
thrust tumbling forwards. “And now!” Preen’s voice slashed through
the air like a saw-edged blade. “You will damned well attack them
or you will share their damnable fate!” His manic eyes swung from one startled
face to the next, his jaw clenched and his face twisted as his voice rocketed
up several octaves. “Now!”
The small, befuddled clutch of a
dozen or so men exchanged wary looks with each other. Flirt could see them
rolling the choices over in their minds—did they attack a band that they
outnumbered, though not by much, and risk the wrath of the First Rule? Or did
they disobey the incandescently furious form of Preen, who looked about ready
to rip them into tiny pieces with his fingernails?
Tough choice, lads…
And it was time to make it
tougher. “Stay back, boys,” Flirt called to her Disposable companions, drawing her
beautiful and significantly heroic-looking sword from its sheath. “If they
come, I’ll take them alone.”
Ouch. The stricken looks on
those poor lads’ faces were actually painful to behold. But Donk was right. One
man—or woman—holding a lone defence with a very shiny sword meant nobody wanted to go first.
But behind them, there was
Preen, panting like a rabid dog and looking fully prepared to rip out their
livers and eat them. Slowly, and with undisguised reluctance, Midlin and his
unfortunate troop began to edge their way forwards.
Flirt didn’t edge. Flirt
strutted. Flirt sauntered. Flirt worked her wrist so that her sword arched in
casual circles in front of her as she closed towards them, playing every inch
the Narrative threat.
Fight or flight, boys, fight or flight…
She knew she should want them to
flee. Running would mean a snap of Preen’s control, a break from his
ever-tenuous command and her chance to step in. But at the same time…she hadn’t had a decent scrap in a little
while, and with her shocking lapse and head wound from last night, she wanted
to be sure she was back up to speed.
But which way would they jump?
Which way would it…
“Will you get on with it?”
And as though the screech of
Preen’s voice had galvanised his very blood, one of the reluctant Disposables
hefted his short sword above his head and, with a desperate, high-pitched,
almost plaintive screech, he charged.
With a simple flourish, Flirt
deflected his down-swinging blade, ducking aside as she pushed the blow aside.
She caught a glimpse of his pale, wretched face, sweat-stained and miserable as
he brought his sword back up for a fresh assault, but Flirt had already
anticipated the move, slashing the blade away as her foot rose with a
well-aimed, upwards knee strike. As her opponent whimpered, she shoved him into
a heap on the ground and turned.
And her next attacker was there.
Spurred on by the brave stupidity of his comrade, the bulky figure of a
Garrison soldier had lowered his halberd and stormed at her like a charging bull.
Flirt sidestepped the move, knocking the blade down as she extended her foot
and sent the soldier tumbling head over heels. Ignoring the jarring pain in her
knee that resulted, she brought up her sword quickly to catch the descending
axe of a tatty City Watchman, a sweaty, unshaven figure who pressed down hard
as he fought to use his strength to buckle her. A frantic, half-toothed,
halitosis-riddled grin flashed across his face.
“You know!” he gasped out
loudly. “I like a girl with—”
Flirt’s teeth gritted. “You even
think about saying spirit, arse-wipe, and I’ll rip off your ears and
make you swallow them!”
She thrust upwards, slamming
both axe and sword blade into the Watchman’s chin. He staggered, reeling
backwards, and slumped to the ground. Several more of his teeth lay scattered
in the grass beside him.
Sword clenched in her fist and
trying to ignore the painful throb of her healing head, Flirt turned as a
mail-clad Buccaneer stumbled forwards uncomfortably, his moustached face
riddled with disconcertion as he struggled to work with a sword so unlike his
familiar cutlass. He started to charge and…
“Wait, wait! Stop! Stop it!”
The Buccaneer staggered to a
halt. And Flirt stared.
What the…?
For Preen it was who had shouted—Preen,
who had harangued and bullied them into making this attack, who had suddenly
screamed it to a halt. He was staring at the cluster of eight or nine remaining
Disposables with an incredulous look on his face.
“What are you doing?” he exclaimed,
his voice rich in disbelief.
Midlin and his remaining men
exchanged a series of uncertain glances.
“Ummm…”
one of the remaining Garrison soldiers ventured. “Attacking her? Like you told us to?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Preen waved
away this statement of the obvious with one dismissive hand. “But I meant you
should rush her together and butcher her as one! Why, why, for pity’s
sake, do you insist on running in to get slaughtered one at a time?”
“Well.” The Garrison man glanced
around at his companions for support but all of them, including Midlin, had
suddenly discovered an intense fascination with their shoes. “Because of the Second
Rule?”
Preen’s expression, such as it
was possible to interpret the range of twisting emotions that arched across his
features, could best be described as dangerous.
“Second Rule?” he drawled darkly.
“Yeah.” The unfortunate Garrison
man swallowed hard at the black menace in the Courtier’s eyes. “You know? When
a superior force attacks a lesser band, they…” His voice faltered under the onslaught
of Preen’s glare but bravely,
or perhaps foolishly, he ploughed on through his sentence. “They…they
must…always attack…one…one at…one
at a time?”
Preen stared at him. His eyes
flicked around the range of nodding heads and thoughtful expressions and
slowly, but very noticeably, they bulged in their sockets.
“What…” he said, his voice a very distinct and very desperate whisper, “…is the matter with you people?”
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