The Greater God almost rolled his eyes. There were few gods with the audacity to address him so casually, especially when the life of a mortal they were supposed to be caring for hung in the balance. Then again, it was Mischief. This was simply how she was. He relaxed his powers, which allowed the manticore and Garrett to see him. The demigod gave a terrified yelp. “As of right now? Thirty seconds.”
“What?” Garrett shrieked. “What do you mean thirty seconds?”
“Twenty-five seconds. Twenty-four seconds. Twenty-three seconds.”
“Hmm… that doesn’t sound good.” Mischief grinned. “But I’ll tell you what, Garrett. Since your mother is such a good friend of mine, I’ll help you out.” She reached down and grabbed him by the arm. “Try not to throw up.”
The pair of them vanished from the manticore’s lair. The beast shot Death a pleading look, as though begging the Greater God to return its prey.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait,” Death replied. He hopped off his rock and patted the manticore on the head. It was an adorable creature although he’d always wondered how Life had come up with manticores in the first place. If Muse was to be believed, Life had created manticores shortly after imbibing vast quantities of a particularly good vintage of divine wine. Death had known better than to ask any further although it made a lot of sense. The last time he’d seen Life get drunk, she’d created the chimera. “In some ways, I envy you. You don’t have to fill out paperwork. Oh well. I’ll get Mischief to do it for me. It’s the least she can do since she’s the one interfering.”
Mischief and Garrett reappeared in the middle of a wide, grassy plain. Naturally, the first thing Garrett did was throw up, and he continued throwing up for the better part of five minutes. The goddess was unpleasantly surprised by how much he’d apparently been able to fit into his stomach. On the upside, he’d had the decency to crawl away from her before losing control of his stomach. Once he’d stopped throwing up, she tossed him a gourd of water and sat cross-legged on an old tree stump. Her brows furrowed in contemplation.
It was true that not all demigods took after their divine parent much, but how was this idiot the daughter of her friend, Jealousy? Sure, Jealousy wasn’t the mightiest goddess in combat, but she could handle herself in a fight if she had to. She was also incredibly cunning and clever. Garrett? He was lucky he hadn’t tripped over and impaled himself on his own sword although she wouldn’t put it past him. Then again, what were friends for? She’d promised Jealousy that she’d look after him since the other goddess was currently occupied with her duties. Jealousy hadn’t been very involved in raising Garrett, but she would still be heartbroken if something happened to him, especially if he managed to get himself killed by anything less epic than a dragon, preferably one with a reputation for crushing cities and slaughtering legendary heroes by the dozen.
“Are you done?” Mischief asked.
Garrett nodded wordlessly from where he’d flopped onto his back. In arguably the least auspicious sign ever, vultures had somehow appeared above him. They were already circling, no doubt assuming that an easy meal was not far away.
“Good. Not every mortal – or demigod – handles teleportation well. Clearly, you do not. Now, since we’ve already established that you’re terrible at being a hero your way, we’re going to do things my way, which means you’ll be training. I don’t know if it’ll be enough for you to win, but at the very least you’ll die without making a complete fool of yourself.” Mischief paused and eyed the vultures speculatively. “Maybe.”
Escaping from the manticore must have restored his meagre courage because Garrett stumbled to his feet and brandished his sword in what he most likely felt was an impressive manner. Mischief had seen the greatest mortal and divine swordsmen. He looked more like a drunken toddler than a warrior.
“Let me try again,” he said. “I think I can do it this time.”
“Really? You want to try again after what happened last time?” Mischief rolled her eyes and then gasped, pointing behind him. “By the gods! What’s that over there?”
Garrett turned, and she kicked his legs out from under him. His sword slipped out of his hands and into hers, and she sat down on his chest with the weapon held to his throat. To add to his humiliation, she was still in her mortal guise – the form of a red-haired little girl.
“Yes, I think you’ll be fine against the manticore.” Mischief patted him on the cheek with the flat of the blade. “It’s not like it’ll riddle you with poisonous barbs before it eats you in what I can only assume will be a fairly slow and horrific manner.”
Garrett sagged and closed his eyes. “Fine. I suppose some training would help.”
“Great. I knew you’d see things my way.” Mischief jumped off him and clapped her hands. “And who better to train you than my brother, Mayhem?”
Garrett gulped as Mayhem appeared amidst the cries of an enraged mob and a cloud of fire. The god was armed to the teeth, and there was a manic gleam in his eyes. Mischief snickered. It was easy to forget how good her brother was at fighting since he enjoyed creating havoc and chaos more than he enjoyed killing things. However, there was a reason he got along well with Annihilation.
Garrett tried to crawl away, but Mayhem grabbed him by the leg.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun, you and I,” Mayhem said.
Garrett directed a frantic look Mischief’s way, but all she did was smile and give him a cheerful wave. “Oh… crap.”
* * *
Mischief winced as Garrett once more greeted the ground with his face. If he were a normal mortal instead of a demigod, he would already have broken most of his ribs and fractured his spine. As for his face, well, he wouldn’t have one. However, he was not a normal mortal. He was a demigod, and being a demigod came with certain benefits, increased durability foremost amongst them. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t be happy come bedtime. He’d be lucky if he could lie down normally, and she might even have to rig up some sort of hammock for him.
On the upside, he was doing better than she’d expected given his dismal performance against the manticore. Demigods had a tendency to awaken their latent divine heritage when thrown into life and death situations. It was one of the reasons she’d expected him to do better against the manticore. However, Garrett hadn’t awakened his latent divine heritage, possibly because all he’d done was scream, run around, and cower behind a rock. He’d done precious little actual fighting. What he’d needed was an opponent whom he couldn’t hide or run away from, an opponent who would neither relent nor show mercy, an opponent who seemed to find pummelling him amusing. What he’d needed was someone like Mayhem.
“Better,” Mayhem praised as Garrett managed to clumsily block one of his strikes only to take the flat of the god’s sword across his stomach an instant later. He folded like a reed under the foot of an elephant, and Mayhem tossed him onto his back. “But you still have plenty of room for improvement.” He chuckled. “Have a break. We’ve been going for a while now, and you’ve made decent progress.” His lips curved up into a grin. “For example, you’ve already stopped screaming in favour of trying to defend yourself.”
“Thank you, Lord Mayhem.” Garrett bowed low to the ground. Mayhem had made it abundantly clear in the first ten minutes of their training session that he was not going to put up with any backchat from Garrett. In fact, Garrett was certain there was a dent in his skull from where Mayhem had whacked him the last time he’d made a snappy remark. “May I… uh… have some water?”
Mischief summoned another gourd of water and drank it. “Look at that. It seems like we’re out of water. You’ll have to get your own.” She pointed off into the distance. “There’s a stream about a mile in that direction. If you start walking, you should be able to get back before nightfall. Trust me, you want to get back before nightfall. You’ve already got vultures circling you, and I’ve heard there are wolves here. I’m sure they’d be quite keen to take a bite out of you.”
“A m
ile… wolves?” Garrett cringed and stumbled to his feet. He wasn’t sure if she was joking or not, but he couldn’t afford to risk it.
As he shambled away, Mischief turned to her older brother. She could fight if she had to, but she wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was a better fighter than her. “What do you think? Should I start planning his funeral, or…?”
Mayhem laughed at the expression on her face. “He’s not hopeless although he’s far from the most talented demigod I’ve worked with. It’s obvious that he hasn’t had much in the way of training. Oh, it looks like someone has tried to teach him, but either the lessons never sank in, or his teacher wasn’t any good. On the other hand, he learns reasonably quickly if you beat the lessons into him. In between all the screaming and running away, he learned a surprisingly large amount. Take that basic sword stance I taught him. After I started hitting him whenever he deviated from it, it didn’t take him long at all to learn it. It’s not the best learning style, but it is something I can work with. Just look at the results. You must have noticed it, how much he’s improved in only a few hours.”
Mischief had noticed, and it gave her hope that she wouldn’t have to organise his funeral later or explain to his mother how her son had gotten eaten by a manticore. Garrett’s lack of courage was proving to be quite handy. They could use his fear of pain and death to push him much harder than they would otherwise have been able to.
“You’re right. We can do this, but we don’t have a lot of time.” Mischief made a face. If only that idiot hadn’t promised his king that he’d deal with the manticore inside of six months. He only had five more months before he had to return home in disgrace. She could scarcely imagine how badly Jealousy would take it if that happened. A demigod son who couldn’t even kill a manticore? It was unheard of, and Jealousy would never, ever hear the end of it from some of the snider gods. “Do you think we can get him good enough in the time we have left?”
“On his own.” Mayhem shook his head. “Not a chance. But if we take into account that sword of his, we might be able to get him good enough to give the manticore a real fight. If we can shore up the basics and teach him how to use his sword even halfway decently, he’ll have a chance.” He turned and gazed off in the direction Garrett had shambled. The demigod had collapsed and was currently crawling on his hands and knees. He smiled. Good. Garrett might not seem very brave, but he was tenacious. “How did he even get that sword of his? Jealousy must have given it to him, but I didn’t even realise she had it.”
The sword was something Wisdom or Knowledge had made centuries ago during one particularly boring lunchbreak. It absorbed energy from its surroundings and used it to fuel some kind of heat-based attack. It was supposed to be comparable to dragon fire, even in the hands of a demigod. In the hands of a god, it was likely to be even more potent. Not surprisingly, it was one of the most powerful weapons in the mortal world.
“I think she won it in a bet, and she gave it to Garrett’s father because he liked swords. Unfortunately, Garrett doesn’t seem to have inherited much of his father’s talent in that area.” Mischief sighed, and her expression grew pensive. “Ever since his father passed away, Jealousy has worried about him, but she can’t bring herself to spend more time with him. She’s worried about how she’ll feel if he dies too. You know how it is. Demigods might be part god, but they belong to the mortal part of the Cycle. All of them, one way or another, end up in Death’s realm.” Mischief scowled. “Which is why, all jokes aside, I would prefer it if he didn’t end up in a manticore’s stomach. Jealousy will be very upset if he dies.”
Mischief didn’t have any children, nor did she have any intention of having any. She preferred to simply ‘adopt’ interesting gods and mortals and take them under her wing. It was simpler, and it was so troublesome to get attached to a mortal, only for them to die on her in less than a century. It still hurt sometimes to think of all the mortal friends she’d made over the years, the ones she’d watched and helped their whole lives. She’d even travelled with some of them, spending years on the road with them. She couldn’t imagine how bad it would feel to lose an actual son or daughter.
Mayhem reached down and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We’ll get him as ready as we can, but we’ll have to push him hard. I’ll train him to the brink of death every day and then heal him. We’ll be able to cram in ever more training that way. What about Rabble? Should we get him involved too?”
“We’ll let our little brother surprise him. It wouldn’t do for Garrett to get complacent.” Plus, it would be hilarious to watch Garrett flail around and panic when Rabble ambushed him.
“Let’s hope this works.”
“It had better. Otherwise, Jealousy is going to be an absolute pain to be around.” Mischief rubbed her chin. “Maybe I could try bribing Death. No… he’s impossible to bribe. What about Young Death? That could work. If I get her enough candy to last her a decade, she might agree to ask her father about making sure Garrett lives through this. What do you think?”
“It’s worth a shot,” Mayhem said. His mind drifted to something he’d overheard from Justice who’d been asked to babysit Young Death on more than one occasion. “But do you know how much candy Young Death can eat? Getting her a decade’s worth of the stuff won’t be easy, even for you.”
* * *
Garrett hated his life. He hated it a lot. Every morning, he would get up at the crack of dawn – and sometimes even earlier – and Mayhem would proceed to beat him black and blue until lunchtime. He would then get a brief break to eat, drink, and ponder the pain of living before the pummelling continued, usually until dinner. Of course, it wasn’t like Mayhem was simply beating him for the fun of it. No, the god was instructing him in the noble art of combat – in what was probably the most hands-on way imaginable. Nothing got lessons on combat to stick faster and more permanently than fearing for his life. During dinner, Mischief would take over. When she wasn’t teasing him or healing him, she explained tactics and strategy. As she had pointed out on many, many occasions, he might have been a demigod, but he would be an idiot to rely on mere power to overcome his opponents. He had, so she claimed, a decent head on his shoulders. It was about time he started using it to keep it where it was.
That had been his life for the past month and a half. Honestly, it felt more like a decade and a half.
But had he gotten any better? Based on his success – or spectacular lack thereof – against Mayhem, it was hard to say. Mayhem was a god, an incredibly skilled one too. Even when Mayhem restricted himself to using the same strength and speed as Garrett, he could still pummel Garrett with ease. On the upside, Garrett was sure he’d gotten stronger and faster. He had already added muscle to his scrawny frame, and swinging his sword around was no longer as tiring and difficult as before. He’d also graduated from crawling to the stream for water. He could now shamble all the way there without collapsing. On a good day, he might even be able to walk instead of shamble. So he’d definitely made progress, but would it be enough? In between getting pummelled and lectured, he’d realised how far he still had to go before he could even hope to beat the manticore. It was thoroughly depressing.
Today, however, things were going to be different.
Garrett was awakened by the growl of a wild animal, and he was up on his feet in an instant. Sometimes, it was good to be paranoid. His gaze swept over the camp, the darkness lit by the flickering of the campfire. Wolves! There were wolves attacking the camp! Where were Mischief and Mayhem? They were supposed to keep wolves and other wild animals away. At least, that’s what they’d promised to do. Oh, it didn’t matter where they were. The point was that they weren’t here now, and the wolves were. He could either protect himself or end up in some wolf’s belly. He drew his sword and backed away from the closest wolf. This was bad. The camp was right out in the open. There were wolves in front of him, and he didn’t dare to turn his gaze away from them to see if there were some behind him too. Knowing his luck, there w
ould be a dozen of them behind him, all of them starving and ready to take a bite out of him. He was still backing away when, out of nowhere, a bucket of what smelled a lot like sauce of some kind splattered all over him. If the wolves had felt any hesitation before, they didn’t anymore. They sniffed the air and then charged. Apparently, humans and gods weren’t the only ones who enjoyed condiments on their food.
The next few moments passed in a blur of metal, fangs, and sauce that would have gone wonderfully with a side of beef – or a side of Garrett.
The wolves closed in from all sides. They were trying to flank him, but he managed to fend them off. His body moved with strength, speed, and surety he’d never thought he was capable of. Fire burned through him. His jaw clenched. His sword felt as light as a feather in his hands. Suddenly, he was driving the whole pack back and forcing them to retreat. A handful of times, his sword met flesh, but none of his blows was deep enough to kill. Even so, the wolves grew wary. His sword was far sharper than their teeth, and he wasn’t completely clueless about how to use it. His body moved almost of its own accord, adhering to the lessons that had been beaten into him day after day after gruelling day. Finally, the wolves broke, and he stared at his sword – and the blood on it – as they turned tail and fled. How was this possible?
The answer came to him as the rush of battle faded. He’d spent the past month and a half fighting a god, albeit one who was taking it easy on him. What were wolves compared to such an opponent? They were nothing. And Mischief had explained it to him. He wasn’t just a man, no matter how much he felt like one, and not even a strong one at that. He was a demigod, and the legends had always said that demigods were at their strongest when faced with death. Had he finally managed to awaken his latent divine heritage? Maybe. However, there was still something he didn’t understand. Where had the bucketful of sauce come from? Wolves weren’t exactly known for dousing their prey in condiments before moving in for the kill.
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