Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest (26 page)

Helen had never feared becoming a monster. She had a recurring dream where she grew to Godzilla proportions and stomped her way across innocent cityscapes, but that wasn't an especially terrifying proposition. If her condition transformed her into a mindless beast, she always figured it wouldn't matter because who she was, deep down inside, would be gone, replaced by some primal creature no more malicious than a rabid dog.

She feared more the idea that there would be something left inside her, some small piece of herself that could only watch from a tormented prison while her bestial self killed and maimed. Seeing Troy bleeding on the ground triggered her inner monster, but the beast wasn't the rage-filled terror she'd always assumed it would be. It was cold. Hollow. An emptiness. She'd always assumed she was wrestling with the Hulk. But she wasn't filled with unbound rage. Rage could be tamed. Rage could be mastered.

This emptiness was different. She wasn't enraged. She wasn't out of control. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She just didn't see any reason to stop herself.

Her first target was Franklin. She trampled him beneath her hooves. Seven stomps shattered his bones, pulped his organs, and reduced him to a gurgling lump of flesh. The enchanted dragon blood kept him alive. She picked him up and stared into his broken face. One eye had burst out of his skull. He twitched. His lips moved, though only blood and teeth spilled from his mouth.

He poked her with his sword, but his twisted arm didn't have the strength to pierce her skin. The weapon slipped from the two remaining fingers on his right hand.

She tossed him aside. He fell beside Troy. Blood spilled across the pavement. Troy's blood. Franklin's blood. It coated her hands and hooves. Some of it was hers. Most of it wasn't. She rubbed it between her fingers.

The Wild Hunt, those who could still stand, circled around her as she stared at the sticky red liquid.

Nigel held up his hand to stop the orcs from renewing the attack.

“I don't know your name,” he said to her.

She kept staring at her hands. “Helen.”

“Helen, I'm sorry. This has gotten out of hand. We need to take a—”

She looked at Troy, unmoving, on the ground. “He was the greatest guy ever, and you killed him.”

“Not me,” said Nigel. “Franklin did it. And you killed Franklin. We're even now. We don't need to—”

“Even.”

The calmness in her voice frightened him.

“We can never be even.”

“No, we can't.” He dropped his battle-ax and motioned for the others to do the same. They clattered on the ground. The muscles under her bristling fur tensed. “But you killed Franklin. You avenged your friend. And now—”

She whirled, grabbing him by the jacket, hoisting him in the air. There was nothing in her face, no hint of anger.

“His name was Troy. You killed him, and you didn't even know his name.”

Nigel smiled, though he recalled that an orc smile was a sharp-toothed, innately malevolent expression.

“Not me. Franklin. And you killed Franklin, so—”

“It's not enough.”

She dropped him, noticed the pain of the short sword in her shoulder. She yanked it out, stared at the blood running down the blade. Her blood.

“Even when I kill you all, it won't be enough.”

“Now let's talk about—”

Alan Spleenspearer snatched up a club and with a mighty shout smashed Helen across the back of the head. The mighty blow broke the weapon in half. Helen barely moved.

“Goddamn it,” yelled Nigel. “Why the hell does everyone keep doing that?”

Alan shrugged.

Helen punched Alan hard enough to launch him across the midway. He crashed into a ring toss booth, causing it to collapse in a heap.

The orcs piled onto Helen, and the battle renewed. Nigel stepped back to a safe distance. He retrieved his ax, held it in tight fingers. He would wait his turn. If he was going to do something stupid, he was going to do it right.

Helen made short work of her opponents. Nigel was reminded of their fight with the dragon, but whereas the dragon was only a wild beast, she was a brutal, efficient killer. She broke bones and smashed skulls with her bare hands. While orcs could be stubborn foes, even they had their limits. They fell to the wayside. Helen snorted, stepping over her defeated foes and moving toward Nigel.

He raised his ax and unleashed his war cry.

She didn't make a sound.

They launched into one another. He would only get one strike, and he swung for her head. The magic blade sliced through her left horn, sheared away a few locks of hair. She punched him in the solar plexus. He gritted his teeth, stifling a shriek as every rib broke and his right lung collapsed. Whether because of his own stubbornness or the enchanted blood encrusting him, his crushed heart continued to beat.

He made a second clumsy attack. She caught his hand and squeezed. The bones ground together, though he was beyond pain. He felt only heat running through his arm. She twisted it to an impossible angle. His ax dropped to the ground.

Nigel staggered but didn't fall. He wiped the blood and drool dribbling from his mouth.

“For what it's worth”—he punched her in the chest, doing far more damage to his hand than to her—“I'm sorry.”

Helen pushed him to the ground. She fell to her knees and proceeded to punch him in the face, over and over and over again, until his head was little more than a stain on the concrete. She didn't stop until several members of the Wild Hunt, running on the dwindling reserves of enchantment, dragged her away.

The great god Grog stood beside Nigel, who stood beside his own corpse.

“You had one job,” said Grog. “And you screwed it up.”

Nigel's spirit body wasn't in much better shape than his corporeal one. It hurt when he drew breath, and every move was agony. The only thing that made it tolerable was the knowledge that he was already dead so he couldn't end up hurting himself any more.

He pointed at Helen. She wrestled with the orcs, but she wasn't that into it anymore. It was the only reason they weren't all dead or dying.

“Have you seen her? How were we supposed to stand up to that?”

Grog's five heads glowered. “Don't give me that. You have that battle-ax, enchanted with dragon blood. You could've killed her. You pulled your strike at the last second. You were one clean stroke from beheading her before you lost your nerve.”

Nigel grunted as he straightened his spirit fingers. “You can't prove that.”

Franklin, a disembodied spirit, lurched into view. He mumbled unintelligibly with his broken jaw.

“This pathetic human is more orc than you could ever hope to be,” said Grog.

Nigel willed away the hunch in his broken back and pushed his knee back into place. “If being an orc is killing two innocent kids, then I'll pass.”

“Innocent?” Grog chuckled. “She killed the both of you.”

“Doesn't mean they're killers. Come to think of it, not sure I'm really one either. The more I think about it, the less I see myself as a killer who happens to be an accountant and the more as an accountant drafted into doing your dirty work.”

“You shame your ancestors.”

Nigel twisted his foot into its proper position. It was his spirit body. He saw no reason it should be bent and broken.

“My ancestors can kiss my ass. They were a bunch of uncivilized dumbasses. They formed massive armies over and over again, and every time, no matter the size of their legions, no matter the promised glories of mad wizards or crazed gods, they always lost. It's what we orcs do. We lose. We always get beat. If we're lucky, we grab a little glory on our way to oblivion. I don't think I need to hear any crap from you about it because you picked us for the job. This was the only way it could go.

“And even if I did pull the deathblow—and I'm not saying I did—then I'd be content with the results. If I could've won but didn't, then it puts me ahead of every other damn orc that's ever been. And I don't have to be a killer to have that.”

Franklin mumbled with his broken spirit body.

“I'm not judging you, Franklin. You did us proud. And when I'm added to the bones of the unworthy, I'd be honored and privileged if you lay beside me.”

Franklin smiled. Or tried to, but the sinews of his spirit flesh only managed to pull the left side of his jaw up.

“This is all very touching,” said Grog, “and maybe you're right that orcs always lose. I was hoping that, since this time you were the good guys, you'd break that particular habit. Yet there's still time.”

“We're dead,” replied Nigel.

“Not quite.”

“I don't know if you've been paying attention, but that slab of bloody meat in a leather jacket is what's left of me. Considering that there are bits of my brain scattered across the pavement, I think it's safe to say my time is up.”

Grog said, “No, you're not. You can't die as long as the dragon puke covers you.”

“Glad I didn't rush to take a shower after that. But I'm a living slab of immortal mush. I'm still not doing much good to anyone.”

“Your body will recover. Given time. Time we don't have.”

Three of Grog's heads nodded toward Troy's body. A gray shadow, another astral body, crouched beside him.

“The boy isn't dead. Not yet. And the Lost God whispers in his ear, telling him it is time to don the helmet, to take on the mantle of power.”

Franklin stammered and grumbled.

“Yes, if he's there right now, you take care of it,” agreed Nigel. “You're the great and terrible Grog. You can't put this guy in his place?”

“There are rules,” said Grog.

“Screw the rules. Just kick his astral ass.”

“There's no way to harm anyone or any god on this plane.”

Grog and the gray shadow locked glares. The shadow flashed a wicked smile before returning to its corrupting whispers.

Nigel grunted. “Awfully convenient how you can't do a damn thing on your own.”

His god roared, and the lighting of the astral plane shifted to a crackling crimson. He pounded his fists at Nigel and Franklin, and Grog's bloodshot eyes stared them down. Neither mortal soul blinked, though Franklin would've if he'd had eyelids on his good eye.

“You've become a pain in my ass, Nigel.” Two of Grog's heads smiled. “I can respect that. But if you truly aren't a killer, then you must stop the boy from—”

“His name is Troy,” said Nigel.

One of Grog's smiles dropped, though the remaining head nodded its approval. “Troy must not put that helmet on. Death and destruction will be the inevitable result, and if you choose not to act, then you are surely as responsible as we useless gods.”

Franklin mumbled his agreement.

Nigel said, “I don't remember asking you.”

And then he was in his body. Searing flesh and powdered bones made every move agony. Even with the magic of dragon vomit, he wondered how he could move at all. He crawled, inch by inch, toward Troy. His eyes had grown back but could see the world only as a blur. Whooshing filled his ears, but he could hear Helen fighting the few remaining club members. He hoped they could keep her occupied long enough.

He reached out and grabbed Troy's shoe. With his hazy vision he glimpsed Troy struggling to free the helmet from a backpack.

“Don't do it,” gasped Nigel. The words came out as a squeak pushing past a crushed throat.

He tugged at Troy's pants, using them to inch forward. With his other hand, Nigel grabbed the helmet. They wrestled. Troy had lost a lot of blood. He was dying. But his body was mostly whole, and Nigel wasn't much of a match. Troy planted his free hand on Nigel's face and attempted to push him away.

Helen grabbed Nigel by the arm and yanked him into the air.

“Why aren't you dead?” she asked.

“Stop. Helmet,” he croaked.

Noticing Troy moving, she threw Nigel aside. “Oh gods! You're alive. You're alive!”

Troy donned the helmet.

Nigel cursed the heavens. It was the way of orcs to always lose.

Troy stood.

“You're OK?” she asked. “But how?”

“It's fine now, Hel. It's all fine. It was the only way. Now you're safe. I'll take care of everything.”

He smiled, though it was impossible to tell with the helmet covering everything but his eyes. The curse mark on Helen's hand vanished.

“You're the best. Never forget that.”

He doubled over. His body tensed as the Lost God overwhelmed him. Helen reached for him, but a decorative fiberglass gryphon tore loose from the concrete. It pushed her aside with a screech. Troy, but not Troy, climbed on the creature's back. It spread its shiny wings and launched itself into the sky. It shot toward Castle Adventure at the center of the park.

The magic sword, her wand, the shield, and the dagger flew after him. The amulet ripped free of her pocket, but she slapped it tight against her leg. It punished her with agony, a wicked fire burning across her nerves. Not just figuratively. Smoke sizzled on her fur.

Maybe it was the adrenaline or her monstrous curse or pure force of will, but she refused to let go. When the amulet seared its way out of her jeans and then tried to do the same to her hands, she only squeezed harder. With one last determined burst of magic, it yanked her off the ground. It spun around like a top. Her fingers loosened. Her grip failed. The amulet flung her away and she slid across the asphalt with such force, the fur and flesh of her right shoulder and arm peeled away in a bloody red scrape.

She sat up, only to watch helplessly as the relic sailed off toward Castle Adventure.

Peggy and the earth elemental, having reached an understanding, surveyed the carnage. Beaten orcs. A slithering pile of goop that was Franklin slowly pulling itself together. Nigel, looking more dead than alive. And Helen, wounded and bloodied, standing there silently.