Beets Anyone?

“It’s all right, I peed on it.”

Four hardened adventurers drew back in disgust. 

The client looked around at them all in confusion. “But that’s what you’re supposed to do!” he protested. “I mean, it’s common knowledge!”

What does it say about us as a society, Milton pondered, that this idiot has urinated on himself without a qualm because ‘common knowledge’ told him to? He sighed in exasperation. “Lissa, see what healing herbs you can find. Tarmenghorst, prep some bandages and hot water. Halvsig—” The dwarf looked at him pleadingly, beady little black eyes glistening in their nest of curling facial hair, and Milton gave in. “Fine. Give me your tweezers and go start backtracking. Just make sure you mark the trail clearly.”

“On it!” Halvsig opened one of the multitude of pouches dangling from his belt and handed Milton a pair of sharp iron tweezers before trotting gratefully off into the trees. 

Sighing again, Milton turned to the client…Douglas? Donald? Jeez, I can’t remember his name, and I don’t even care. My heart’s just not in this anymore. “Let me see your foot.”

“Why? I told you, I peed on it.”

Yeah, you did, moron. And now I have to touch it. “That’s just an old wives’ tale, it doesn’t work. In fact it can make it worse. We need to make sure the stinger is out and soak the wound, then pack it with a poultice.”

“But—” Frantic eyes darted from Milton’s unsympathetic face to the very pointy tweezers in his hand. 

Before the client could wiggle away, Milton sat on him and wrestled one kicking leg into submission. He yanked off its boot and sock, grimacing at the released odor and examined the extremity for prick marks. Stray-sod stingers were thinner than thin and wickedly sharp, able to stab through the boot sole of any bumbler who stepped on one. The tips of the stingers then broke off, releasing a venom that caused victims to lose all sense of direction. This buffoon had apparently stumbled across a clump of the stuff during a latrine break, then lied about being constipated as an excuse for taking so long. Why was he limping? Just a slightly tweaked ankle, nothing to worry about. It was only after they ended up crisscrossing over their own tracks and his escort refused to follow him a step further, that the client fessed up.

What am I doing with my life? Milton asked himself as, target acquired, he mercilessly dug the tweezers into the pad of the squirming foot. It was a question that had been circling his mind a lot lately. Even before the diagnosis of “brittle mana” —he hadn’t even known that was a thing—and the warning that he had one, maybe two epic battles left before his ability to use enchanted weaponry literally crumbled to pieces. 

Milton hadn’t told the others yet, wanting to do one last job together without its finality hanging over everyone’s heads. Though, in all honesty, he was grateful to have an excuse to quit the business that he’d leapt eagerly into as an idealistic twenty-year-old. Seventeen years. Seventeen lousy years of putting up with crap like this. 

A firm pinch and a pull and the stinger was out.

Dropping the first foot, he grabbed the other one—better safe than sorry. Professional heroism was emphatically not all it was cracked up to be. Oh, Milton knew it was different in the big leagues, just as he knew missing out on his shot at them was, at least partly, his own damn fault. From the get-go his guild agent had advised a name change; “Milton Cufflebottom” wasn’t exactly a moniker to instill awe in the hearts of the masses. It was sound advice, all the pros did it. But Milton had been named for his paternal grandfather, the very man who had inspired him to become a hero in the first place. 

So what now? A desk job at the guild? Another washed out, not even has-been, quill pusher making sure the next generation of future washouts signs their waivers on the dotted line? I can’t go crawling back to the family homestead; Grandpa’s dead, and every other bridge has been completely incinerated. But maybe there are a few acres somewhere that I could get for real cheap—at the edge of a wasteland, or haunted bog, or something. If I sell off all my gear I might be able to swing it. Maybe the bank would be willing to extend my loan if I give up hero work for something more stable. I could settle down, maybe get married…There are women out there who like scars, right? Then he thought about just where a few of those scars were and just how he had gotten them—scars and stories that were more than just a little embarrassing—and felt a warm blush creep up his face. Maybe not get married. I bet Wulf Ravensen never got half his hiney bitten off by a horny tarrasque. ‘Wulf Ravensen,’ pfft, such an obviously fake name. Not finding any more stingers, he dropped the second foot and stood up.

A moment later Lissa ran back with a satchel full of foraged medicinals and began steeping them in the pot of water Tarmenghorst had readied. Milton frowned down at the sniveling client. 

“Go,” he said, tipping his head in the direction of the elf and wizard, “soak your foot and then let Lissa bandage it up. I need to wash my hands.”

Of course, refusal to change his name hadn’t been the only thing holding him back. There were unexpected politics and backroom connections, shady wheelings and dealings that had caught his younger, less jaded self off guard. Games he had (then nobly, but looking back, naively) refused to play. All of those missed opportunities and confidently self-sabotaging decisions played on a loop through Milton’s head as the troop retraced their steps along the route Halvsig had marked. At least it helped him tune out the client’s incessant talking. 

Milton still didn’t like the political machinations that seemed so at odds with the title “Hero,” but had Tarmenghorst been a stronger wizard Milton would have asked his friend to cast him back in time so that he could smack the unrealistic fool he’d been upside the head. 

A pack of goblins leapt out of the bushes and the hero’s party automatically took up position around the client, dispatching the low-level threat with well practiced ease. 

Are we all just going through the motions, or is it only me? Milton swung his magic sword—a mid-grade weapon at best, like all of his equipment—lopping off an ugly green-brown head. He could feel his failing mana crackle in protest, but it held. Goblins didn’t count as epic. 

He’d been so enthusiastic in those early years, deluding himself that having to take less glamorous gigs put him more in touch with the common man. Let others be heroes of the rich and famous, he would be a hero of the people.

Gall! What absolute tripe! Idiot hero of the idiots, more like! Here you are, Milton, babysitting one more pasty-faced dweeb who’s taken it into their heads to be an adventurer, convinced they’ve unlocked the secret to finding some long forgotten treasure or other. Maybe we should’ve just left that stinger in his foot, it might’ve improved our chances of actually finding something this time. What I wouldn’t give for the hero’s cut of a hidden trove, once, just once in my lousy life. 

As soon as the danger was past, the client went from cowering twerp to pompous twit in less than two seconds flat, lecturing them all on what subcategory of goblin these had been and critiquing the company’s efficacy in killing them. Sadly, it was hardly the first time Milton had been tempted to murder someone. 

I wouldn’t be the first hero to turn bandit. Look at Lissa, I can tell she’s thinking it too. Doesn’t this guy ever shut up? I swear, if he mentions his ‘eidetic memory’ one more time, I’m going to do it!

“Of course, if you’d held your bow the way I explained before, elf, then that arrow would have gone clean through its abdomen. And, dwarf, you’re still not swinging your ax at the proper angle. The fire spell was a little better this time, wizard. But you, hero, seem to have forgotten everything I told you about swordsmanship. Though I suppose it’s not entirely your fault. After all, not everyone has an eidetic memory like I do.”

Milton’s eye twitched, hand tightening on his sword hilt. Lissa shook her head at him behind the client’s back and mouthed, “Not worth it.” 

“Well, what’s everybody waiting for?” The client strutted ahead. “Clearly I was testing your field knowledge with that stray-sod stinger. It took you all longer than I would have expected to notice something was wrong. But now that it’s out, of course, I know precisely where we are. Good thing too, your trail markers are woefully inadequate, dwarf.”

Poor Halvsig looked about to cry and Lissa had to shake her head at Milton again to prevent him crossing over to a life of villainy.

Deep breaths, Milton. Just five more days of following this jerk around in these blasted woods on his stupid quest for the Temple of Shaboomy-whozits, or whatever, then their contract would be up and they could all just walk away. Normally at this point Milton would be trying to talk the client into turning around, ensuring there was time left on the contract for his party to see them safely back to civilization. This guy, however, was pushing all his buttons.

Milton sighed yet again. Lissa was right, it wasn’t worth it. If we still haven’t found his temple-thingy by noon tomorrow, I’ll broach the subject. Not that he’ll listen to me, but at least my conscience will be clear. 

Fifteen minutes later, the client led them unerringly into a swarm of purgatory-wasps and only a quickly cast repellent fog by Tarmenghorst saved them all from being stung to death. Rather than thank the wizard, the client immediately complained about the smell (which was admittedly awful, but far better than being dead). 

Tarm-tarm really is a saint, Milton thought. If I were a wizard I’d have hexed the little snot front, back, and everything in between a dozen times over by now. If he’d just let Lissa or Halvsig scout ahead, we could have avoided that swarm no problem. But no, he and his damn ‘eidetic memory’ can’t share the directions to wherever the heck we’re going with us mere mortals. It’s too ‘secret.’ 

They made camp that night in a little clearing surrounded by larch trees. It was Halvsig’s turn to cook. 

Thank all that is holy! I don’t think I could have taken another one of Lissa’s ‘stews’ right now. Milton made himself useful gathering firewood and checking the perimeter. After setting up the lean-to, Lissa joined him. 

“Hey, Milton?” she said hesitantly. “The boys and I have been talking, and, well, we’re thinking of calling it quits after this job. I mean, Tarm-tarm’s getting pretty old, and dwarfs and elves may live a bit longer, but Hal and I aren’t exactly ‘young’ either. We both want to settle down and have families before it’s too late. Give the adventure of parenting a go, you know?”

“Yeah,” Milton shrugged, “I’m about ready to throw in the towel too.”

“You are?”

“Have been for a while now, actually. I figure I’ll get this idiot home in one piece, sell up, and try my hand at growing beets somewhere. There’s a lot you can do with beets, or so my grandpa always sai—'' Milton was cut short by the sudden and unexpected smash of Lissa’s lips into his own, her arms thrown around his neck, breasts pressed against his chest. He staggered, caught completely off guard and she let go—all too quickly, if he were honest (which, as a hero, he always tried to be). 

“Sorry,” she ducked her head, blushing adorably to the tips of her pointy ears, “I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”

“T-to me specifically? O-or just to anyone in general?” I mean, of course, I’ve fancied her since forever! How could I not have? But I’m just a washed out, second-rate hero. She can’t really want me, can she?

She laughed. “Yes, Milton Cufflebottom, to you.”

“But I have bite marks on my a—er, really BIG bite marks,” he sputtered asininely.

“Yes, I know. I was there, remember? You sacrificed your derriere to save all of ours. Besides, I have that whole ‘troll ripped off my nipple’ thing.”

Milton shook his head, reaching tentatively out to hug her again. “I don’t care if you don’t.”

Lissa stepped into his arms. “Guess we’re a matched set.”

“As long as you’re okay with beets.”

“I hear there’s a lot you can do with those.”

Halvsig kept giving the two of them knowing glances the next morning while they broke camp, beady eyes twinkling. Milton felt lighter, happier than he had in a long time, maybe ever. He didn’t even think about homicide when the client shrieked like a little girl over a bug in his hair, attracting the attention of a very hungry manticore—just chopped away until the monster was dead with a silly grin on his face, crackling mana be damned. 

He was floating on pink clouds and all the world was rosy. Even the twisted, overgrown ruins the client was currently leading them through had a certain romance to them…sort of…if you squinted just right. 

Stopping in the very middle of the ruin, the client reached into his satchel and pulled out a wonky black diadem. It caught on the satchel strap as he was lifting it and tumbled clumsily from his fingers. Milton, still smiling, stooped and picked it up for him. “Here you go.”

The client snatched it back with a glare. Ramming the diadem onto his own head, he stretched his arms wide. “Behold! The Temple of Shabhorztznamarry-Voosharrhavplitz!”

Gesundheit. Wait…does this mean we’ve actually finished the quest for once?! The idiot actually found it?! We’re actually going to get our cut of the treasure?! Hmm…not seeing any obvious treasure here. Must be hidden in some secret chamber, or something. The client’s chanting now, maybe it’s an incantation to open the vault? Milton glanced around, ears peeled for the telltale rumble of a cleverly disguised stone door opening, and caught his companions’ eyes. They all traded puzzled expressions and shrugs. 

The chanting stopped. “Now, you fools,” the client sneered, “you shall witness to the glory of my dark goddess! May the feast of your blood and bones be the first sacrifice to anchor her to this plane once more!”

Huh. Didn’t see that one coming.

“She will ooze forth and cover the world in her hellish darkness! And I, her archpriest, shall live forever, blessed by her hate to rule o—” Splat! The client got squished by fifty tons of evil eldritch goddess materializing right on top of him. 

Dylan! That’s his name! Er…was his name. Yech! Why do these things always have so many tentacles? “Tarmenghorst?”

“On it!” The weathered wizard pointed his staff at the gelatinous, squiggling wannabe deity and Milton felt the tingle of elemental magic through the soles of his boots as Tarm-tarm started gathering power up through his bare toes. The rest of them distracted the horror, buying time for the wizard to fully charge. The trick with otherworldly entities was to kill them before they got a proper toe (or tentacle) hold in this reality. 

Diving between flailing appendages, Milton swung his greatsword full force, its enchanted blade slicing disgusting evil goddess flesh with ease. And with each swing he felt his mana crack and shatter, the shards of it jabbing painfully in his metaphysical core. C’mon, Tarm-tarm! Damn slow-as-slow elemental magic!

Lissa took a hit from a tentacle that sent her flying. Milton bellowed in rage and rammed the greatsword into the goddess up to the hilt, just as Lissa hollered, “I’m okay!” He tried to pull it out again, but his grip was losing strength. Desperately, he wrapped his fingers around the quillons, picturing little half-elf children playing amid lush rows of beet greens, and heaved. Dammit! I need to sell this dumb sword! But it was stuck. 

The dark goddess screamed and thrashed, forcing Milton to bob and weave acrobatically as he drew his mismatched daggers from their scabbards. His hands shook with the effort to wield them, his rapidly deteriorating mana barely enough to make the magic stones in their pommels flicker. Hurry up, Tarm! 

A quick glance at Halvsig showed him a dwarf bleeding and covered in sucker marks, but still standing, for now. Half a dozen arrows sprouted from the goddess in quick succession, Lissa opting for a long range attack. Any minute now, Tarm!

“Clear!”

Milton and Halvsig dropped and rolled away under the snarl of undulating tentacles. Raw magic filled the old wizard up from bottom to top until his whole body glowed, washing the ruin around them in electric blue light.

“Wait! Tarm, you forgot to—”

Tarmenghorst yelled a funny sounding word and blasted Shabhorzzina-Woozy to smithereens, drenching them all in a downpour of foul smelling ichor.

You forgot to put up a shield first. Milton lay on the ground. The last sad particles of mana tinkled pathetically as they settled in an impotent little heap at his core. Done. 

“Ew! Tarm-tarm, this stuff takes forever to wash off!” Lissa complained. She limped over and flopped down beside Milton, taking one of his trembling hands in hers.

“Well, if we’re all retiring,” Halvsig mused, slumped against a moldering pillar, “at least we went out with a bang.”

Everyone else groaned.