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?”