Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest (15 page)

Troy emerged from the tent, standing in the rain too. Achilles stuck his head outside, but with a whimper retreated to the dry sanctuary.

“Go back inside, Troy. I'll be fine. It's my problem. I'll deal with it.”

He didn't move. “Hel, you're great. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I'm great. I'm the greatest seven-foot-tall girl with horns in the world.”

“You do that too often,” he said.

“Excuse me if I have body issues.” The rain soaked her, and she could smell her musky moist scent, somewhere between an odor and a stench but certainly not anywhere good within that range. “I was born with a tail.”

“We all have issues, Hel.”

She wanted to be annoyed, but he spoke with such sincerity.

“Do you want to know the real reason I stopped dating Ginger? She was only dating me because she had a thing for Asians.”

Helen cracked a smile despite herself. “Oh, come on…”

“It's true. Oh, it didn't hurt anything that I'm handsome and popular and generally an awesome guy. But the Asian thing was the topper. Except she liked China. Was into kung fu and warrior monks and Jackie Chan movies. But I guess a Japanese guy was the best she could do. Although, honestly, I'm not sure she understood the difference. It was all one big cultural heap to her.”

He chuckled. She didn't. Not because she didn't find it amusing, but because it wasn't the same thing.

“I know it's not the same,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But it is similar. It's still stuff we all have to deal with. You're great, Hel. And you're beautiful. And I don't mean that in a generic
everyone is beautiful
kind of way because what the hell does that even mean? No, you're smart and funny. You can punch a cyclops godling and get away with it. Maybe you've got fur, hooves, and a tail. But one day you're going to meet someone who sees past it. Or maybe you'll meet someone who is way into it. You'll know they're the right person because you won't care why they want to be with you. You'll just be glad they're there.”

He came closer. Her first instinct was to retreat, but she was soaked. The stench of her minotaurism was unavoidable. He smiled, and she couldn't resist it even if she'd been trying.

“We should probably get out of the rain,” she said.

“What's the point? We're not going to get any wetter.”

They were soaked. Their clothes clung to them like second skins. In Troy's case, it only highlighted his chiseled physique. And his hair, even moist and flattened against his head, looked as if it'd been styled that way.

She sat on a rock and gazed into the dark sky. He sat beside her and put his hand on her arm. Just for a moment. And in the blue twilight, she could see the swirls in her wet fur left by his fingers.

“Sorry about the smell,” she said.

“Hadn't even noticed.”

He had to be lying. She believed him anyway.

“And for the record, Hel, I've always thought the tail was cute.”

The rain fell harder, and she found she didn't care. She wondered why she ever had.

The Wild Hunt had neglected to bring camping gear, and this was just fine. Their ancestors had spent their nights under the sky. It wasn't that orcs hadn't known about tents. It was that seeking shelter against the elements had been deemed a sign of weakness in ancient orc society.

It was a very stupid thing to believe, as every modern-day orc knew. Many a great overlord and king had perished of pneumonia, frozen to death in the dead of winter, or perished from dehydration under the desert sun. Yet this had been their way, and most historians agreed it had worked out well for everyone else since orc machismo had kept them from achieving the numbers and organization to conquer the rest of the world in more savage times.

By the time common sense became an orc virtue, the time of conquest was mostly over. The world had been partitioned off into nations and the glory of war had become something ugly. Nigel suspected it always had been, and that if he'd gotten the chance to know his ancestors, he would see them as a bunch of morons with not enough sense to put on a jacket when it snowed.

But tonight, in the dragon preserve, the brisk air did his lungs good. Just chill enough to cause the hair on his arms to stand up, but not life-endangering.

According to Peggy, it was too dangerous to hunt for their prey in the dark. They found a sanctuary stone. She used her shamanic gifts to summon a minor fire elemental, and the Wild Hunt sat around the flame and waited for the dawn. They played cards by the light of the fire and drank beers.

Nigel didn't participate. He found a spot off to the side, lay on his back, and studied the stars. Orcs had once believed that each star was a sun unto itself, and that the universe was filled with worlds, most of them lifeless failed experiments of the gods above. This world was fated for much the same destiny, as their prophets had foretold. Just a tiny, insignificant speck in a grand cosmos, doomed to inglorious death when the sun burned out.

Orcs had ever been a cheerful lot.

There were still those who rejected firmament theory. The world was full of nuts.

James Eyestabber sat in the dirt beside Nigel. “Nice night.”

“Looks like rain,” replied Nigel.

“Looks like.”

Nigel said, “Something on your mind, James?”

“No. Just enjoying the night. Want a beer?”

“Got one.” Nigel held up his bottle.

James sneered. “Don't know how you can drink domestic.”

“Beer's beer.”

“That's where you're wrong. You should try this. It'll change your life.” He handed Nigel a bottle of something with a strange name written in glyphs. “It's brewed by Swiss gnomes. It's expensive as hell, but once you have a taste, you'll never go back to that swill you used to call beer.”

Nigel had no interest, but James wasn't going to take no for an answer. Nigel popped the cap with his tusk and drank it all in one extended swig. He wiped his mouth, ran his tongue across his teeth.

“Plummy.”

“You're supposed to savor it,” said James.

He had always been a questionable orc, though everyone knew the answer to that question. Imported fruity beers and a splash of fuchsia on his bike's gas tank left little doubt in most club members' minds. It didn't help that Nigel knew it was fuchsia only because James had nearly throttled Travis Bladebiter for mistaking the color for purple.

It was an unfair assumption built on stereotypes, and even though Nigel knew better than to jump to those conclusions, he hadn't seen James so much as glance at a woman. He did have a lot of stories about his longtime roommate Gary.

It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that two straight single men could go sofa shopping together, but it wasn't something Nigel would be willing to wager on.

“Try another,” said James. “This time—”

Nigel bit the top off the bottle, chugged the whole thing, spit out the broken glass.

“Plummy.”

Franklin walked up. “Hey, James, these imported beers are awesome.”

A fuzziness crept around the edges of Nigel's senses. It started as a wobble in his ears. The stars grew incredibly bright, yet he still stared at them while they burned his eyes. He smelled chocolate.

“Hey, what's in this Swiss beer?” asked Franklin, his voice vibrating in Nigel's ears. “I feel weird.”

Peggy Truthstalker spoke up from behind him. “It's not the beer. It's the vision weed I put in your sandwiches.”

Their pale shaman smiled. Her face split in half and a rainbow of colors spilled forth, painting the sky like a canvas.

“Why would you do that?” asked Nigel. Or he hoped that was what he was asking. It felt as if his tongue was squirming against his will, and the words sounded like garbled radio signals. But Peggy seemed to understand it.

“We're in a magical land filled with dragons,” she said. “It seemed like the right place for it.”

Franklin and James stared off into space, drooling and mumbling to themselves.

Nigel tried sitting up, but his body refused to move. Peggy's headless specter bent over him and traced a symbol on his forehead with her finger and some red paint.

“Just go with it. Fighting will only make it worse.”

Starlight devoured the world. He blinked, and it all faded. The fuzziness vanished, replaced by sensations so sharp he could hear the trees growing and count the stars, cataloguing them by brightness and their placement in the firmament.

He stood alone at the campsite or its closest spirit-realm equivalent. It was all so entrancing, marred only by his pessimistic assumption that he was really convulsing in the dirt right now, possibly eating rocks or about to walk off a cliff in his reverie. His face felt vaguely wet. Either it had started raining, or he was facedown in a puddle of water (or worse) and about to drown.

A figure stepped out of the forest. The plump orcess dressed in a burlap gown that hid very little, save for her face under the shadow of a hood, glided toward him. Freckles covered her bright orange skin, and her hands ended in blue claws.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Naturally he assumed she was here to devour his soul, and he grabbed his ax.

“There's no need for that.” Her soft voice filled his body and melted away his paranoia.

She lowered her hood to reveal a face filled with golden eyes. So many eyes that her skull had to be four inches taller to fit them all.

“Oh, you're a goddess,” he realized aloud.

She smiled. “What gave me away?”

“All our gods are hideous. So which one are you?”

It was understood by his people that they had more gods than they generally acknowledged. They didn't waste a lot of time keeping track, though there was probably a holy book somewhere that had the complete list.

“I am Thuzia, goddess of wisdom.”

Nigel grabbed a beer and took a drink, wondering if he wasn't actually sucking on a stick in the physical world. “Wisdom? I didn't know we had one of those.”

“I'm a relatively new addition to the pantheon,” she admitted. “But I have been sent to offer you succor.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I'm a married man.”

Thuzia turned toward the woods. “Have it your way. It's your vision. If you want to waste it being a smart-ass, who am I to argue?”

“Do we kill these two?” he asked.

“I don't know. Wisdom is my specialty. Not prognostication.”

Nigel said, “Can you at least tell me what they did to earn the wrath of Grog?”

“They've done nothing to anger your gods. Their only crime is being the unwilling servants of the Lost God, who was banished by the other gods above when your world was still young.”

She sat on a log and gestured for him to join her.

“The reason for the banishment is a bit complex. The rivalries of the gods are as complicated as they are petty. Though the Lost God always was a bit of a dick. All deities see mortals and this world as their personal toy box, but they can usually share. But the Lost God got a bit too grabby, was a little too destructive. Earthquakes, floods, plagues, futile and bloody wars. These were his favorite things. Which didn't bother his brothers and sisters much at first, but when it became clear it was getting out of hand, something had to be done. Mortal suffering meant little to the gods above, but threaten their amusements with careless destruction, and they will act.”

“Why banish?” asked Nigel. “Why not just kill the son of a bitch?”

“Where's the fun in that?”

Nigel used his hand to obscure the top of her hideous face. Her smile filled him with warmth. He wondered if it counted as cheating if it was a vision.

“It doesn't,” said Thuzia. “But it isn't going to happen.”

“Can't blame a guy for thinking about it.”

“Can we return to the topic?”

He grunted.

“The real reason the gods didn't kill their especially destructive brother was that they couldn't. Gods cannot kill gods. Not as mortals kill mortals.”

“Why not?”

“Metaphysics are complicated. Just accept my word on this. Gods can die, but it requires a specific alignment of circumstances. The most important element is the hand of a mortal, chosen not by the gods or the Fates, but by his or her own will. Such mortals are all too rare. But there is nothing in this world or any other that the gods fear more. They would be the greatest weapons for the gods to wield against one another, but by their nature, these mortals don't listen to the gods. Catch-22.

“Banishment was their best alternative, but it was an imperfect solution. The Lost God can't escape his punishment, but it doesn't stop him from trying. He succeeds, to varying degrees, every so often. And the clash of the gods shoving him back into his cage wreaks havoc upon the mortal world.”

“How much havoc?”

“A few hundred thousand souls dead. Not much, in the grand scheme of things. Certainly nothing worth noticing by the gods above.”

“Then why bother drafting us?”

“Because Grog is sick of the bullshit. If you think it's hard being an orc, you should try being an orc god. It's not any better for us up there. The way the other mortal races used to look down upon you, that's the way it still is up there. The other gods are polite enough, but they don't respect us. We orc gods can relate to you mortals in a way few other deities can. And Grog doesn't see the point in allowing thousands to perish for the amusement of the gods.”

Nigel stared at the red moon. It stared back with its three eyes.

“You're telling me we're the good guys?”

“I wouldn't go that far. Whatever the future holds, mortals will live and die regardless of your actions. But many will die considerably less horrible deaths if you do your job.

“But to be clear, Grog's motives aren't entirely altruistic. He's also hoping to stick it to the other gods, deprive them of amusement. But benevolent spite is about the best one can hope for from the gods.”

He could live with that.

Nigel took another drink. “Are you sure you don't want to take a tumble?”

Thuzia shrugged. “Oh, all right. But let's make it quick. I've got things to do.”

She stood. Her dress fell away, revealing her in all her naked glory. She undid the clasp on her cape and hood. He stopped her, looked into her many bloodshot, yellow eyes.

“Leave the hood on.”