Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest (3 page)

They called the police. Then they called their parents. Eventually, after much hullabaloo, Helen and Troy found themselves sitting in a sparsely decorated room with a table and four chairs. They were there for a little over an hour until a man in a gray suit entered.

He had the crisp suit and stone-faced demeanor of a government agent. Or rather the image of one television and movies had given Helen. But his tie was bright yellow, and his hair was a bit shaggy. And not in that pretending-to-be-messy way. It was actually messy. There was his soul patch and his wire-framed spectacles. It was as if someone had taken an all-business bureaucrat and a beatnik, and dropped them in a blender to create a not-entirely-convincing mix.

He smiled.

“Hi, kids. How's it going?”

“Could be better,” replied Troy.

The man chuckled. “I'm sure it could be.” He took a seat across the table from them, loosened his tie, and removed his glasses, holding them between his long index fingers and delicate thumbs as if the spectacles might explode.

“Helen Nicolaides and Troy Kawakami, I presume.”

They nodded.

“Well, haven't you two had an exciting night?” said the man. “My name is Waechter. Neil Waechter. National Questing Bureau.” He held up a badge. He didn't flash it, but allowed them a good long look at it.

“What's that?” asked Helen.

“Your tax dollars at work. We're a small agency. Not very well-known. We were the ones to throw Hitler's cursed ring into the fires of Mt. Heidelstein. We were the people who harvested and planted the last seed of the dying yax imix che tree to finally end the dust bowl. We found the magic arrow that ended General Sherman's rampage before he could gather enough sacrifices to…well, perhaps I've said too much.” He smiled. “The point is that we take care of problems that arise that can't be solved by politics, wars, or wishful thinking. We're the people behind the pages of history.”

“You know about these, then?” Helen pointed to the mark burned into the back of her hand.

“Indeed I do. It's a divine brand, a form of motivational magic a god might place upon a mortal. They can be fairly complex, but this one's very simple. It marks you as compelled to complete a certain task. And if you don't”—Waechter frowned, tapped his glasses against the table—“well, I'm afraid that's the bad news.”

Helen rubbed her thumb across the back of her hand, hoping she could just brush off the mark. “Can't you do something about that?”

Waechter sighed. “I wish I could, Miss Nicolaides. But this is some very potent magic here. If this were just something placed on you by a wizard, I have an ointment in my coat pocket that could erase it with a few drops. But this is divine, and divine magic trumps anything I have at my disposal. I'm sorry.”

“So what does this mean?” asked Troy. “Are you telling us we're going to die?”

“I won't lie to you. It's a definite possibility.” Waechter leaned back in his chair. “I'm sorry. Perhaps that was a bit too honest.”

“Actually, I'm glad you just said it,” replied Helen.

“Me too,” said Troy. “No point in tiptoeing around it. But you said it was a possibility. Does that mean there's a way to avoid it?”

Waechter smiled slightly. “There's no guarantees, of course, but I'm authorized to help you out.”

“You mean you can help us with our quest,” said Helen.

He nodded. “You're quick on the uptake.”

“You're with the National Questing Bureau. We've been given a quest,” she said. “It's obvious, isn't it?”

“So it is.” Waechter leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “But there's a certain procedure to these things. So before I can help you, I need you to commit to this course of action. Questing isn't an easy business.”

“What choice do we have?” asked Troy.

“There is always a choice, Troy. Always. When most people are called to adventure, they elect to stay in their nice, ordinary lives. It's not a judgment on their character. If questing were easy, everyone would be doing it.”

He removed some papers from his pocket, unfolded them neatly, and slid them across the table. He handed them each a ballpoint pen.

“I'll need you to sign these.”

“I'm not signing anything until I talk to my mom,” said Helen.

“Nor should you. I'm not here to prevent you from speaking to anyone. But I find that it's easiest to discuss these affairs directly and without a lot of unnecessary people around. They only confuse the matter, even if they are usually well-meaning. The point is that you have been called. You have taken the first steps into a new world, a realm of wonder and peril, where the laws of nature take a backseat to the rules of adventure.”

“We didn't ask to be called,” she said.

“That's a common occurrence. We've tried having trained questers in the NQB, but it never really worked out. Even if you put them in the right place at the right time, they never get picked. It's always some poor sap who happens to be walking by, some unfortunate farm kid, a bank teller, a reluctant rogue. It's never the guy or gal who should be saddled with the burden. It's always the one you don't expect.”

“If it's always the one you least suspect,” asked Helen, “shouldn't it sometimes end up being the one you suspect by virtue of not suspecting them?”

“Oh, that happens too,” he replied. “We have an agent who has undertaken fifteen separate quests. The hell of it is that never once was he on official NQB business when chosen for them. We keep him on the payroll and just leave him to his own devices. It seems to work better than anything else we tried. But he's the exception, not the rule. Most of the time it's people like you who end up called.”

“So what are these?” Helen asked. “Permission slips?”

Waechter shook his head. “You don't need our permission to quest. It's a free country, isn't it? You are guaranteed the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of glory. It's in the Constitution. These are just a formality. Signing them will grant you all the rights and privileges of a questing government agent for the duration of your adventure. I'm afraid our lawyers insist upon them.”

Troy asked, “If we sign these, we get to be secret agents?”

Waechter waggled his hand. “Of a sort. Yes.”

Troy grabbed his pen, but Helen covered his form with her hand. “You can't just sign that.”

He grinned. “But come on, Hel. We're talking secret agents here. That's kind of awesome.”

She grinned back. “OK, that is kind of awesome. But we should still read it before signing it.”

It didn't take long. The forms were only a page long and avoided extensive legalese.

“Do we get magic amulets?” asked Troy. “Or maybe a helmet of invisibility?”

“No helmets,” said Waechter, “but you do get travel expenses, questing permits, and decoder rings.”

“You're kidding, right?” asked Helen.

“There are no decoder rings,” he admitted. “Budget cuts.”

Troy signed his form, but Helen was still reluctant.

“Secret agents, Hel,” he said. “When are we going to get this kind of chance again?”

Against her better judgment, she signed.

Waechter tucked the forms back into his pocket. He dropped two manila envelopes onto the table. “These are yours.”

They tore open the envelopes, finding their own National Questing Bureau IDs, credit cards, and Waechter's business card.

Helen frowned. The ID used her driver's license photo. The one where her nostrils seemed especially flared and her eyes were half-closed. And she should've polished her horns that day.

She wasn't surprised Troy looked perfect in his.

“This is it?” she asked.

Waechter nodded. “For now. I'll need to clear the sword and wand through our artifact division before returning them to you.”

“Those weren't ours,” said Helen.

He stood, put his glasses back on. “They are now.”

“Wait a second. I thought you were going to help us complete our quest.”

“And I am.”

“But where's the map? The directions?”

“Questing is not a video game. There are no walk-through guides, no maps, no checkpoints, no big X that says, ‘Slay giants here.'”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” asked Troy.

Waechter smiled. “There will be time for questions tomorrow. I suggest you pack for a trip and drop by my office around eleven. We'll work out the details then.”

He exited before they could say anything else.

Helen noticed that Agent Waechter's business card had an address printed on it. There was also the phrase “The answer is destiny” handwritten in pen.

Nigel Skullgnasher's midlife crisis hadn't been much different from any other. He'd gotten a tattoo and some piercings, started working out, begun dressing inappropriately for his age, had his tusks sharpened. His wife had been tolerant of these new habits. Just as long as he didn't try trading her in for a younger model, which he never would have done because, by orc tradition, divorce could come only after a duel to the death, and he wasn't at all certain he could take her in a fight.

He wasn't unhappy with his wife or his marriage. He just wanted to feel young again, to tap into his ancestral spirit, to feel the wind in his black hair, to ride as part of the horde, to plunder and pillage and be feared and respected. He ended up settling for the next best thing and joining a motorcycle club.

There wasn't any pillaging. His Harley-Dragonson Twin Cam parked in the heated garage saw the open road only on the weekends.

But he traveled the open road in his nightly dreams, barreled down the endless highway where his hideous gods waited to reward anyone who could make the final journey across the broken plains where every orc soul met its final reward.

He brought his motorcycle to a sudden stop. The cloud of dust and sweet exhaust in his wake swept over him. He wiped the grime from his face, pulled off his obscured goggles, and used his tongue to loosen a fly stuck in his teeth, which he swallowed.

He'd reached the foot of the Gray Mountain. No orc ever saw the mountain and lived. So he must've been dead. He didn't remember dying, but it was the only explanation. Perhaps in his sleep. He'd just gone in for his checkup and the doctor had mentioned it would be good to cut his cholesterol but hadn't made it seem like a big deal.

He was most mad that he'd skipped dessert tonight. Death he could deal with. But it would've been nice to have a slice of cherry pie before bleaching under the Cruel Skies for eternity.

He opened the cooler beside the Mound of Unworthy Bones. The selection of beers was limited, but at least they were only slightly warm.

The ground rattled as a giant motorcycle came roaring down the mountain. It spewed clouds of screaming smoke and its wheels split the earth in its wake. It could've crushed Nigel without slowing down, and he half expected that. The gods of the orcs were a merciless lot. Even making it to the mountain didn't earn you a place at their table. Not until one strangled the life from them with one's bare hands did one earn that privilege.

The motorcycle came to a sudden stop, kicking up clouds of dust and smoke. When it cleared, the great god Grog stood before Nigel. Grog towered thirteen feet high and wore armor made out of thorns. Each of his five heads had a giant maw and one eye. His pale skin carried the scars of 1,003 battles with the other gods.

Nigel nodded to his ancient god. “'Sup?”

Grog said, “Not much. Toss me a brew, would you?”

Nigel threw a six-pack to his god.

Grog shoved it into his jaws, cans and all, and swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Another?”

“No thanks. I'm driving.” Grog cleared his throat and spat up a wad of acidic phlegm that burned its way into the ground. “Nigel Skullgnasher, you have been called.”

“Right.” Nigel chugged the last of his beer, tossed it onto a pile of cans and the bones of all the previous challengers. The pile was about twice as tall as the Gray Mountain.

“So how do we do this?” he asked. “Bare-knuckle? Axes? I have a tire iron. Or is that against the rules?”

Grog chuckled. “There are no rules.”

“Right. OK then, I'll get the tire iron, if that's OK with you.”

“Go ahead.”

Nigel found his weapon. He swung it a few times to get the feel for it. He knew he couldn't win this fight. According to history, even the legendary orc warlord Rork Orabrork had only put a crack in Grog's toenail before ending up on the unworthy mound, though that had earned his skull the honored position of the very summit, which was more than any orc could honestly hope for.

“Ready when you are,” said Grog.

Nigel charged and with a mighty roar he smacked the god across the armored shins. The air filled with a steady clang as he pounded on that one spot until his arms grew heavy. Only until he was thoroughly exhausted, until he could no longer hold the iron, did he fall to his knees. Wheezing, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“How was that?” he asked. “Anything?”

Grog shrugged. “Not particularly impressive.”

“Go to hell.”

His god laughed. It was the closest thing he'd give to a nod of approval. “Get yourself together. Have another beer.”

“Another? I thought I was only allowed one.”

“That's only if you were dead,” said Grog.

“I'm not?”

“Did I say you were?”

Nigel stood. He was still out of breath. “But the Gray Mountain…”

Grog spoke with a booming voice that knocked Nigel off his feet. “No orc may see it and live!”

Nigel sat up. “Yeah. That.”

“You're still going to die. Just not tonight.”

Nigel stood, grabbed another beer from the cooler. “Then why have you appeared to me? No offense, but I didn't think I'd have to see your ugly mug more than once before going on to oblivion.”

“Nor I yours, but I need you to kill someone for me.”

“Uh-huh.” Nigel took a drink, belched. “You do know I'm an accountant, right?”

“I was not aware of that,” admitted Grog.

“I've never killed anyone before.”

“It's not that hard. Just find something sufficiently sharp or heavy and do what comes naturally.”

Nigel scoffed.

“What?” asked Grog.

“I don't know if you've been paying attention or not, but I live in a more civilized age. Just because my ancestors were barbaric hordes that doesn't mean I'm a natural-born killer. I think it's a bit racist that you assume that.”

“That's uncalled-for.”

“Isn't it, though?” said Nigel. “You appear to me in a vision and demand I kill someone. Surely there must be more qualified souls for the job.”

“I am the greatest god of the orcs,” said Grog. “I work with what fate has given me.”

“I have to imagine there are one or two orc killers out there who you could appear to.”

Grog stomped the ground with his foot and the Gray Mountain rumbled. “Enough! I don't have to explain myself to you. I am your god, whether we like it or not. I'm here to charge you with a holy mission. So shut the hell up and just accept it.”

“All right, all right. Don't get your panties in a bunch. Although why me?”

“Because you have sworn the oath to serve me, have you not?”

Nigel said, “I don't remember that.”

Grog cleared his throat. “‘I, Nigel Skullgnasher, vow to honor the spirit of the wilderness.' Sound familiar?”

It did. It was the oath he'd taken when joining his motorcycle club. He hadn't thought much of it at the time.

“So that counts?” he asked.

“Am I also not known as the Spirit of the Wilderness?”

“I don't know. Are you?”

“I am.”

“I didn't know that,” said Nigel.

“Still counts.”

It was Nigel's own damned fault. Orc religion mostly involved ignoring the gods and having them ignore you in turn. But the hideous gods had a wealth of nicknames—mostly, Nigel suspected, for situations like this. Some he suspected were made up on the spot, but since there was no way to prove that, it was pointless to argue.

“Fine. Who am I killing?”

The sands swirled and formed into two statues of Helen and Troy.

“Wow. She's a big 'un,” said Nigel. “And the human, he's Asian. Does he know karate?”

Grog rolled his eyes. “You called me racist.”

“Hey, if this kid has a kung fu grip, it's probably something I should know.”

“Your fear brings shame to your ancestors,” said Grog.

“My ancestors can kiss my ass. They didn't have to figure out a way to kill someone after already using up all their personal days at the office. I have a performance review at the end of the month, by the way. Not that I expect you to care.”

“Good. Because I don't.”

“So where do I find these two?” asked Nigel.

“You will be sent a seer, a guide to show you the way.”

“You can't just give me their names and addresses?”

Grog said, “There are rules we must all follow.”

“I thought you said there were no rules.”

“I may have been exaggerating.” Grog mounted his monstrous motorcycle. “Be seeing you, Nigel.”

He revved his engine, and the screaming black smoke enveloped Nigel.

He snapped awake, and for a moment he thought it might all have been just an ordinary dream. Then the phone rang. He answered in the middle of the second ring. His wife stirred in the bed but didn't wake.

It was Peggy Truthstalker from the club. She'd had the dream too and had been chosen to be his guide. After they both grumbled about the situation, he hung up and made plans to see her the next day.

The phone rang again. It was another club member. Nigel hadn't been the only one called upon by Grog. The entire club had been charged with the mission. It seemed like overkill for two people, even if one of them was seven feet tall and the other might possibly know kung fu. But he was in no position to question anything.

After the fourth call he left the phone off the hook and crept up to his attic to find his grandfather's old battle-ax. He wiped away some of the dust. His grandfather had killed over thirty Nazis with this ax during the war, and slain the last Axis ice dragon at the Battle of the Bulge. Nigel had the medals stashed somewhere.

He swung the ax a few times. Then sliced a steamer trunk in half with one stroke. Grinning, he picked at the pieces of frost along the edges of the cut. The enchantment from the dragon's final breath still clung to the weapon. Though Nigel wasn't keen on killing anyone, he was excited about getting a chance to break it out, to test himself in real battle and make his grandfather proud.

Although a minotaur and a kid probably weren't up there with a dragon. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

His wife shouted from below. “Nigel, what the hell are you doing up there at this time of night?”

He said something about hearing rats.

“We better call the exterminator tomorrow,” she shouted. “I don't want those things chewing up my mother's quilts.”

Nigel picked a thread clinging to the ax's blade. The halved steamer trunk and its sheared quilted contents stared back at him.

“Ah, damn.”

“What's that? Did you say something?”

Nigel set the ax down. “Nothing, dear.”