Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest (11 page)

“There's a fine line between classic and uninspired.”

Helen pointed to the door. “Do I still have to go in?”

“Hardly seems worth doing now,” said Future from a shadowy corner. “Only going through the motions at this point.”

“What about me?” asked Troy. “Do I face the trial now?”

Present shook her head. “You have no fears to exploit.”

Helen held up her hands. “I don't believe you. I know Troy's practically perfect, but he can't be fearless.”

He nodded. “Gerbils creep me out.”

Behind the door something squealed with bestial vigor.

“As much as we might enjoy watching you wrestle with a monstrous rodent,” said Past, “the point of this passage is to test your willingness to surrender yourself to the unknowable and accept your own limitations. You've already done this, Troy. She hasn't.”

Helen scowled. “Wait a second. I'm on the journey. I fought the cyclops. I think I've demonstrated a willingness to venture into the unknown.”

“Have you?” asked Past. “Troy has been the leader of this journey so far. Without him, can you honestly say you would be here now?”

“I don't know. But I'm here. Isn't that enough?”

“If only it could be,” said Past. “But to complete your quest, you'll need to be more than merely present. This is about more than attendance. Unless you're content with playing the hero's stalwart companion. That can work.”

“Though I wouldn't recommend it,” said Future from the shadows. “Sidekicks usually end up dying at the most inopportune times to give the quest a little tragedy.”

“Is that what will happen to me?” asked Helen.

“I'm not allowed to say, but I wouldn't rule it out.”

“Fine. I'll go into the storeroom and face my fear.” Helen grabbed the handle, but the door didn't open.

“Too late for that,” said Future. “But if you're determined to be more than the sidekick, we need something.”

The three sisters turned their backs and discussed it. Future hid behind Past and Present, though there was also some supernatural darkness wrapped around her to keep her obscured.

Helen tapped her hoof on the floor, aware of the steady clomping but annoyed enough not to care. She glared at Troy. None of this was his fault, but she resented him, though she had no specific resentment in mind.

“You are not a sidekick,” he said.

She turned her back on him. Not because he'd done anything to deserve it, but because she needed to turn her back on something. Because she wasn't sure she believed him. Troy had gotten them here. He had been the first to sign up with the NQB. He had been the one who started their journey. The Chimera was his car. Aside from punching a cyclops, she hadn't done anything but follow. Even that had only been because she'd followed Troy onto the battlefield.

She wasn't a timid person by nature. She wasn't a follower. Or so she'd always believed. But Troy was a natural leader, a guy who just seemed as if he should be in charge. He didn't seize control. It just came to him by cosmic expectation. Imagining them standing side by side, even she saw him as the one in charge. She was Watson to his Holmes. Iolaus to his Hercules. Rick Jones to his Rom the Space Knight.

The sisters spoke up.

“We want your bracelet,” said Past.

Helen covered it with her hand. “You don't understand. It's not a regular bracelet.”

The sisters smiled, showing they understood all too well.

“I don't take this off,” said Helen.

“You took it off when fighting the cyclops,” said Past.

Present stepped forward and held out her hands. “Sometimes the only way forward is to abandon old limitations.”

“You just said I have to accept my limitations.”

“What makes you think those are two different things?”

“You don't have to do this, Hel.” Troy put his hand on her shoulder. “You are not my sidekick. I don't care what the fates say.”

He was only looking out for her, and she realized he always would. It was who he was. But if she listened to him, if she allowed him to talk her out of this, then she might as well turn the entire quest over to him and pick up her official boon companion badge on the way out the door.

She removed the bracelet. A heat ran through her body. Her fur bristled. Her ears swished. Her horns itched. She tightened her fingers around the bracelet.

“OK, but I want something else in addition to directions for this.”

Present half-smiled. “You dare barter with the fates?”

“
The
Fates? No, probably not. But you're just
some
fates. Little
F
.”

“Such foolhardy bravado,” said Present.

Past nodded. “I like it.”

“I want something useful, something that will come in handy at some point in the future at a vital moment.”

“Is that all?” asked Future.

“You didn't let me finish. I don't want something dumb like toilet paper or good advice. I want something that will turn the tide in a life-or-death situation.”

From behind Helen, Future slipped something cold into Helen's hand. It was a small rusted key.

Future was behind a shelf again in the blink of an eye. Faster. “I thought you might ask for something like that. And now for your end of the bargain.”

Helen handed her bracelet to Present before she could talk herself out of it. Her fingers let go reluctantly. Her heart thumped louder in her chest. So loudly, she believed everyone else had to hear it too.

“Hel, are you sure about that?” Troy asked.

She swallowed hard, willed her body calm, her ears flat against her neck. She lied through an unconvincing smile. “I'm sure.”

Present gave the bracelet to Past, who wore it like a crown because it was far too big for her wrists. The youngest sister skipped away.

“Thank you for shopping with us,” said Present. “Please do stop by again.”

“What about those directions?” asked Helen.

“Pick a road,” shouted Future from several aisles away. “You'll get where you're going.”

Helen grumbled. “Those aren't directions.”

“Aren't they?” said Future.

Helen's hand clenched into fists.

“Forget it, Hel,” said Troy. “Let's get out of here.”

The Wild Hunt rolled into Gateway a little before midnight with all the subtlety one would expect from two dozen orcs atop raging mounts. Even if the town hadn't mostly been asleep by ten, they still would've made a heck of an impression. As they tore down the main street, lights snapped on in the houses along the way.

Nigel smiled. He felt like Johnny Strabler riding into Wrightsville to stir up fear and disquiet among the locals. He knew he wasn't much of an outlaw. The club didn't even break the speed limit on their weekend cruises. But it was at times like this that he could connect with his ancestors, sense the smallest portion of the fear the horde had once stirred in the old world.

It was a rush he rarely experienced in his normal life. The closest he'd come in any other situation was when he thought he'd discovered an embezzler. But that turned out only to be a misplaced decimal point.

They pulled into the local truck stop. The club left their bikes running, kicking up exhaust fumes and rumbling as if the pavement itself might shake apart under their feet.

He shouted at Peggy above the din, “Are you sure this is the place?”

“The spirits never lie,” she yelled. The pale orcess picked a bug out of her pointed teeth and flicked it away. “Well, they rarely lie.”

She tilted her head to one side and nodded as if listening to a faraway voice.

“They say the minotaur and the boy were here. Not long ago.”

“They say where they went?” asked Nigel.

She shrugged. “To quote a great sage…answer unclear, try again later.”

“You'd think our gods would send more helpful spirits,” he shouted.

She cupped a hand to her ear.

He grumbled, revved his engine. The club followed his lead, pouring decibels into the air until the windows rattled. When Nigel felt he'd stirred enough terror in the hearts of these frail mortals, he gave the signal to kill the noise. The Wild Hunt fell silent in a moment. All except Franklin, who sputtered to a halt, ending with a loud backfire.

He smiled sheepishly.

Nigel thought about killing Franklin. Whenever the miles became too tedious, his mind would wander to the many ways he could slaughter the would-be orc, and the notion never failed to bring a smile to his face. But every horde needed an omega, and it was the will of the orc gods that their lives ever be filled with annoyance and strife. Killing Franklin might make Nigel happy for a day, but he was fairly certain Grog would send a more terrible annoyance. Nature abhorred a vacuum.

Nigel, for all his barbaric ancestry, wasn't a killer. Some part of him, deep down, might yearn for the old ways, but another part knew that it was a romantic fantasy. Under the old ways, Franklin would've suffered more humiliation, but orcs enjoyed their omegas. Nigel, on the other hand, would most likely have died at the hands of one of his ambitious lieutenants.

That was the advantage of a civilized world. Where once he could've relied on being stabbed in the heart by a treacherous ally, in this day and age he had to deal with a few passive-aggressive asides from Alan Spleenspearer, the self-proclaimed Plumbing Fixture King of Northeastern California.

Nigel didn't even like killing spiders if he could help it. He'd do it when required, but only if they refused to climb into his hand and be taken outside.

Yet here he was, tasked with assassination. While the dragonblood ax strapped to his back thrilled him, he was less keen on his mission the more he thought about it. But it wasn't his choice to make.

The club barged their way into the restaurant and grabbed all the free tables and booths they could find. Nigel was disappointed that the staff and patrons didn't seem as unnerved as he'd hoped. What little malevolent aura the club had quickly faded when Carl Heartchewer ordered a salad and Becky Bonebreaker asked for egg substitute. Orc physiology, particularly orc digestion, became troublesome after thirty. Not a problem when the average lifespan was fifteen to nineteen years, but in the modern world an orc could live well past a hundred.

It wasn't as if cholesterol or heart disease could do them in easily. They were far too stubborn to allow those things to kill them without a fight, but they took their toll. To modern orcs the greatest battle wasn't against opposing armies or their indifferent gods, but against their own bodies. It was a battle they were destined to lose, but picking losing battles was tradition.

Nigel ordered the oatmeal. No sugar. No honey. No milk. Riding the open road for too long always made him a bit urpy.

“I'll take a steak,” said Franklin, who had somehow ended up at the same table as Nigel. “Rare. Bloody.”

Nigel glared at the wannabe.

“We're looking for a couple of young people,” he asked the server. “Good-looking Asian human and a minotaur girl. Seen them around?”

“Oh, they came through a little while ago. Left a few hours ago.”

He smiled. There were certain advantages to chasing after such a distinctive pair.

“Which way did they go?” he asked.

She opened her mouth but reconsidered. “You aren't on a quest, are you?”

“No.”

“Because if you're on a quest,” she said, “you have to defeat the cyclops to get to the next stage.”

He grunted. “We're not on a quest. We're just looking for these two kids.”

She appeared unconvinced. “I'd love to help you out, but this is an important business in our town. I'd rather play it safe. Anyway, I don't know which way they went, so I can't help you.”

Nigel ground his teeth together. The noise reverberated through the restaurant and quieted all conversation.

He stood, stared down the woman. She held her ground.

“I don't make the rules, honey.”

“I'm pretty sure we're the bad guys,” said Nigel. “I don't think we have to follow the same rules.”

A glance around the room showed that nobody cared.

“Maybe you're intimidating wherever you come from,” she said, “but here in Gateway we're used to folks like you. At least half the heroes that pass through are arrogant schmucks. If they aren't, they tend to be preceded by schmucks they're chasing or followed by schmucks that are chasing them. Either way, if I didn't help the giant talking wolf or that lich with his army of mummies—surprisingly generous tippers by the way—that came through here last week, I'm not going to be bothered by you.”

Nigel unslung the ax on his back and with a mighty roar cut a table in two with one stroke, leaving the ax embedded in the floor.

“Oatmeal, plain.” The woman scribbled in her notebook. “You want anything to drink with that?”

“Yes!” shouted Franklin. “Your warm blood, pumped into our glasses by the last beatings of your heart!”

He jumped from his seat and threw his laminated menu to the floor. It slapped softly against the tile. When that didn't achieve the desired effect, Franklin swept his hand across the table and sent the aluminum napkin dispenser clattering across the room. He seized a bottle of ketchup and was moments away from dashing it to the ground when he noticed everyone was staring at him with mixtures of perplexity and irritation.

With an embarrassed smile he returned the bottle to the table. “Sorry. I thought we were all supposed to be breaking stuff now.”

He retrieved the napkin dispenser.

Nigel plopped back into his seat. “I'll take a ginger ale.”

She left to place the order.

“What do we do now?” asked Franklin.

“We eat,” replied Nigel. “Any news on the spirit front, Peggy?”

“I'm working on it. The spirits get pissy sometimes.” She unscrewed the salt shaker and poured its contents onto the table. She sifted through the grains for an omen, a portent, anything really.

The orcs settled down and waited for their food, which was delivered shortly.

The server set a steaming bowl of plain oatmeal before Nigel. “Sure you don't want something on that?”

He snarled as he stirred the brown paste. “I'm good.”

The bell on the door chimed, and a thin, one-eyed man entered the restaurant.

“Hey, Clifford,” said the server. “You're in here late tonight.”

“Couldn't sleep,” Clifford replied. “Thought I'd get some waffles.” He sat at the booth behind Nigel.

“Sorry about your record,” said the server. “You had a good run, though.”

“Rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you.”

Nigel pivoted in his seat. “Excuse me, but are you the cyclops? The one we're supposed to fight for information?”

Clifford waved Nigel away without looking at him. “I've had a hell of a day, pal. Talk to me tomorrow.”

Nigel grabbed his oatmeal and sat, uninvited, at Clifford's table.

“We're looking for a couple of kids. Maybe you know them. Young Asian male and a minotaur woman.”

“I know them,” replied the cyclops. “And believe me, I'd be happy to tell you which way they went. But that's not how it works. First you have to defeat me.”

Nigel nodded to the club. The orcs (and Franklin) stood and encircled the table.

“There are rules,” said Clifford. “You have to do it the right way.”

Nigel grabbed Clifford by the collar.

“Now wait just a minute—” said Clifford.

Nigel threw the guardian of Gateway to the mob. The orcs proceeded to deliver a beat-down to the godling, who had several feet of concrete foundation between him and the empowering earth.

Franklin, unable to push through the mob, sat with Nigel.

The server and customers gaped at the one-sided battle.

“I told you.” Nigel grinned. “We're the bad guys.”

Franklin picked up Nigel's bowl and hurled it to the floor. The shattering dish brought everything to a standstill.

“Oh, sorry. I thought that was the part where we were supposed to break stuff.”

Nigel yanked away Franklin's steak. He took it in his bare hands and bit off a hunk of meat that he swallowed without bothering to chew. His colon would pay for it in about an hour, but right now he was feeling too orcish to care.

And it felt good.