Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest (2 page)

“I'm sorry, Mr. Whiteleaf. I'm not going to let a monster eat me for minimum wage.”

She moved to help him up. He slashed at her with a butcher knife he'd had hidden behind his back. The blade sliced across her forearm. The cut was shallow, but it triggered a rage within her. Perhaps it was the wound. Or perhaps it was something buried in her minotaur id, the collective memory of untold billions of bovine in pain and fear.

She seized him by the collar and lifted him in the air.

“Drop. The. Knife.”

He did. It clanked against the floor beside the broadsword.

“You crazy old man,” she said. “It would serve you right if I offered you to your own hamburger god.”

He trembled. His feet dangled limply. “It isn't personal. It's just that my god only appears once every three hundred years, and this is very important to me.”

The Lost God lurched slowly around the dining area. If this blind and clumsy thing was any indication of the gods of yore, no wonder they'd mostly been forgotten. It gnawed on the corner of a table.

The glass door swung open and Troy entered. It took only one glance for him to see something was wrong.

“Hel?”

She had yet to figure out how the god perceived the world, but there was something about Troy that drew its attention. The mound of meat squished its way in his direction.

“Troy, get out of here,” said Helen.

But it was too late. The god opened its mouth, and out shot a tongue of the same flesh. It wrapped around Troy's leg and pulled him toward its jaws. Yelping, he latched onto a table bolted to the floor.

She didn't think. She didn't have time. She certainly hadn't rehearsed this scenario in her mind. But by instinct she dropped Whiteleaf and grabbed the sword. A leaping blow chopped the tentacle. The god shrieked and leaned backward.

The meat coiled around Troy's leg whipped and writhed. They pulled at it, and the greasy flesh broke apart in their hands. But it kept moving, crawling on their arms like living snot.

The god charged. Helen drove the sword into the monster's lumpy body. The blade flashed and the thing recoiled. It sputtered and bubbled and squealed, swaying erratically through the room until it fell apart into a smoking pile in the middle of the room.

“What the hell was that?” asked Troy.

“A god of yore,” she replied. “But I think it's dead now.”

Whiteleaf ran to his broken god's corporeal remains. “What did you do? You destroyed it. Now I have to wait another three hundred years. Do you have any idea how annoying this is?” He stuck his hands in the hamburger, pulled them out, and scowled at the rancid meat. “You're fired. Both of you.”

“I already quit,” said Helen.

Troy grabbed some napkins from a dispenser and cleaned the burger from his hands. “What the heck is going on here?”

“I'll explain later. But we should probably call the police or something. I'm sure it's against the law to sacrifice employees.”

Whiteleaf screamed as his not-quite-dead god grumbled. It surged up his arms and swallowed his torso. His short legs kicked as they were drawn into the mass. Whether or not Helen would've tried to save him given a chance was unimportant, because his god devoured him whole in a matter of seconds. He struggled within the fleshy thing. A limb would break the surface, only to be drawn back in. At one point his face appeared. Half the skin had been eaten away, and he screamed, his cries muffled by mouthfuls of ground beef, before vanishing within.

“Quick and painless, my ass,” said Helen.

“I think I'm going to throw up,” said Troy.

The Lost God sprouted a skull. Most likely Mr. Whiteleaf's skull. Though the flesh had all been eaten away, the eyes remained. It turned those eyes on Helen and Troy, and its jaws parted.

“Ah, that hit the spot. Nothing like a little ritual sacrifice to get the juices flowing. Your god is pleased.”

“I'm afraid there's been a mistake,” said Helen. “We aren't your worshippers.”

The god scanned the room. “Well, you're the only ones here. Someone summoned me, didn't they?”

“Yes, sir. Someone did.”

“Where is this mortal that I might reward their loyalty?”

She hesitated to answer. If this god was a wrathful sort, he might not take the news well.

Thunder cracked as he impatiently waited for her response.

She said, “You sort of…well…you kind of…ate him.”

The god writhed. “Ah, damn. That is embarrassing. If I had cheeks, they'd be red right now.” He scanned the room. “Are you the only ones then?”

“Yes, sir,” said Helen.

“And neither of you worships me?”

“No, sir,” she replied.

A shudder ran through the god's flesh. “Get banished for a few thousand years and the whole operation falls apart. Damn the gods and our petty feuds.”

“We're terribly sorry for the mix-up,” said Troy, as they edged toward the door, “but we'll just be on our way—”

“No need to apologize. Not your fault. But you can help me just the same. A couple of strong young mortal specimens.”

The god focused his gaze on them, and they were immobilized by his supernatural power.

“You'll do.”

The god asked them to sit. It was only a formality. Their bodies surrendered to his impulses.

“What do you want?” asked Helen.

“What does any banished god want? To return to my rightful place in the heavens above. You're going to help me do that.”

“How?”

“A quest,” he replied.

Troy and Helen shared a glance.

“What?” asked the god. “Don't tell me people don't quest anymore.”

“It just seems a bit arbitrary,” said Helen. “You pop out of…wherever you popped out of…and give us a quest, just like that.”

“Of course it's arbitrary,” said the god. “Quests are always arbitrary. Why does the knight have to slay the dragon to get his princess? Why does the magic knickknack have to be stored away in some faraway mountain? Why do gods and the Fates themselves ask mortals to undertake perilous missions and face impossible odds in the vague promise of fabled reward? Because that's the way it is.”

“That's your answer?” she said. “It's stupid, but that's the way it is?”

The god snarled. “I don't make the rules. If you want me to smite you, I can just do that.”

Helen sighed. “No, I guess not. Go ahead.”

The god chuckled. “Look at it this way. You can still kill and terrorize. You'll just be doing it in my service.”

Helen frowned. “I don't kill and terrorize.”

He slunk back. “Really? But you're a monster, aren't you? A curse inflicted on the mortal world for its sins. A beast made to torment and bedevil.”

Helen scowled. Whatever transgression her ancestors had committed to earn their horns had been lost to history. If anyone in the family knew, he hadn't told her. It was something they'd put behind them.

“Look, guy—” It seemed the wrong term, but she didn't care. She would be damned if she'd allow this god to assume the worst about her simply because she had hooves and a tail. “We don't do that anymore. Anyone with any sense will tell you that enchanteds were the terrorized, not the terrorizing, more often than not throughout history.

“Furthermore, judging someone by the size of their horns fell out of fashion a while ago. Just because you gods cursed my family line, it doesn't give you a right to assume I'm a monster. I don't know what my family did to deserve this. Maybe they committed some horrible crime. Maybe they just ate turkey on Tuesday or caught the attention of the gods on a bad day. Regardless, the way I look has nothing to do with anything I or anyone in my family for untold generations has done. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't assume so.”

The god shrugged. “All right, all right. I didn't mean to insult you.”

“But you managed to just the same.”

He slumped low. “You're right. It was rude of me to make assumptions, but I've been away a long time.”

“Well, aren't you a god?” asked Troy. “Shouldn't you know these things?”

“It's easier when you're looking down from above. Like watching fish through a glass-bottomed boat. Although even that has its problems. Try keeping up with the politics of bacteria while studying them through a microscope and see how well you do. Also, have I mentioned I've been banished to a lower plane? I've been stuck watching you from beneath for the last thousand years. Aside from your taste in shoes, I'm not really up on much.”

Helen imagined the Lost God lurking, unseen, below her. She was glad she avoided dresses.

He must've read her face. Or possibly her mind.

“I was speaking metaphorically,” he said. “I have more important concerns than sneaking peeks at naughty bits. And, if I may be honest, I've always found those bits rather disconcerting.” The skull trembled. The mound of flesh shuddered. “If I'd had my way, we'd have stuck with asexual reproduction. But I was outvoted.”

He slunk close to Helen's and Troy's immobile bodies.

“But we're getting off topic.” The face studied Troy. “You're a fine specimen, aren't you? Strong jaw. Good teeth. Nice hair. Sturdy, athletic body. Plus you've got that heroic glint in your eyes.”

Helen snorted. Owing to her enchanted nature, she was very good at it.

“Would you two like to be alone?”

The god clicked his teeth together. “I like you. You've got moxie. Those mortals who dare defy the gods are the ones who usually end up most useful to us. The sycophants, the toadies, they're good for assembling a crowd, but at the end of the age, it's the defiant souls who get things done.

“Not always to our liking, though. That's the catch, isn't it? This universe does so love making fools of mortal and immortal alike. It's why the gods of irony rarely get invited to any of the cool parties.”

“Is there a point to this?” she asked.

Troy whispered, “It might not be a good idea to antagonize the skull god.”

The god chuckled. “I don't mind. Really. The best champions are fearless, even in the dread presence of the gods themselves.”

“Up yours,” said Helen.

“Oh, now you're just forcing it.”

A clap of thunder shook the restaurant.

The god shouted to the heavens, “Oh, shut up. I'm almost done here.”

Lightning struck the roof, causing the lights to flicker. In the moments of darkness, the god's true form could be glimpsed around the edges, a shadow in the emptiness, a strange shape from the primordial beginnings of time. But it was only a reflection of a thing not meant for mortal eyes and not really what he looked like at all. Just as close as either mortal could grasp.

It looked like a turnip on legs to Helen. A dragon made of sausage links to Troy. Both viewpoints were closer to the truth than either knew, though not really close at all.

“Haven't much time,” said the god. “The last time I stayed too long, they sent down a meteor strike. Thousands of mortals dead because the gods above couldn't give me five more minutes. And I'm the bad guy.”

Thunder cracked.

“Yes, yes, I'm finishing up now.”

Grumbling, he slithered before Helen and Troy.

“Your quest is this. You must gather the relics and bring them to the place of power at the appointed time.”

“What kind of relics?” asked Troy.

“I'm not sure,” he replied.

“How many?” asked Helen.

“Somewhere between two and six, I think. Possibly seven. No more than eight, I feel confident in saying.”

“Where is the place of power?” asked Helen.

“I don't know.”

“When's the appointed time?” asked Helen.

The god rolled his eyes. “Soonish.”

“That's a bit vague for a quest, isn't it?” asked Troy.

“Heck, maybe we already did it,” said Helen with a smirk.

The god heaved a sigh. “It's details. Just details. I don't concern myself with them.”

“But how do we complete a quest we don't even understand?”

“If I could give you a diagram, photographs, and sextant coordinates, I would. You still use sextants, right?”

They shook their heads.

“No matter. The more help I give you, the more the other gods are allowed to intervene on their end. Since I'm at a serious disadvantage, what with me being trapped in the lower dimensions and all, I can't win the game that way. My best shot is to give you your quest, push you out into the world, and hope for the best. It's bound to work one of these times.”

Helen said, “You've done this before?”

“Once or twice,” he replied. “Or nine or ten times.”

“What happened to the others?” asked Troy.

“You really should stop worrying about the details. It'll only stress you. They failed. They died. Those are the terms of the quest. Either accomplish the task or perish. That reminds me…”

Both mortals felt a sharp sting on the back of their right hand. A swirling pattern burned itself into their flesh.

“There,” said the god. “You are now officially and irreversibly bound to your quest. Succeed and I shall reward you most bountifully.”

“A vague promise of fabled reward,” said Helen.

“You're catching on. I like that. You're a bright pair, I can see. So I'll be straight with you. The big reward at the end of this quest is that you get to keep on living, which is exceptionally generous on my part. Fail and oblivion awaits.”

“You can't just do this,” said Helen. “It has to be against some rule somewhere.”

“You could try appealing to the mercy of the gods,” said the leering skull, “but in my opinion, you're better off on your own. In any case, it's done.”

“What's done?” asked Troy. “You haven't told us what to do or how to do it.”

“Do you really want me to? Would you find it comforting if I told you that every action is planned and that I know exactly what I'm doing?”

They nodded.

“OK, then it is and I do.”

“You're lying,” said Helen.

He laughed. “Moxie.”

Mr. Whiteleaf's sword and wand floated in the air and hovered over the god. “Tell you what I'll do. Since you seem like nice mortals in a bad situation, I'll give you just a smidge of extra help. I'll charge these items with magic power to help you on your quest.”

His eyes flashed, and the wand and sword flared with an inner light.

“It's not much, but it's the best I can do.”

The Magic Burger rattled as if it might shake apart.

“All right already. I'm leaving. Sorry, kids. No more time for questions.”

The mound of hamburger fell apart, and the skull bounced to a stop at their feet. The sword and wand clattered to the floor. Troy very carefully nudged the skull with his toe. The eyes fell out and rolled across the floor like marbles.

“What now?” he asked.

Thunder rumbled far, far in the distance.