Epic (4 page)

Bjorn was just thinking how pleased his father would be when he heard his name.

“Hey, Bjorn! It’s me Erik! Are you in from the rain as well?” The voice came from somewhere near a red-haired, attractive NPC, a human woman with a stylish rapier and a sheathed dagger in her belt. Looking slowly back and forth, Bjorn was puzzled.

“Erik? Where are you?”

The NPC bowed. “This is me, the female swashbuckler.”

“Female? Swashbuckler? I’ve never heard of that character type. What are you up to?” Bjorn was bewildered and worried. What was his friend doing? Had the stress of his family troubles caused him to have some kind of nervous breakdown?

“Is that a new helmet?” the swashbuckler asked.

At this question, Bjorn’s concerns were replaced by the surge of pleasure his important breakthrough gave to him. “Yes, I had to trade in the greaves, gauntlets, and tunic, plus two bezants. But isn’t it great? I believe I’ve boosted my armor score by about twenty percent.”

“It is great, Bjorn. Well done.” Erik’s character smiled and that was an extraordinary sight. Bjorn was so used to the inexpressive gray polygons of players that it was still hard to believe he was not interacting with an NPC of the game. Erik must have started his new character with a maximum investment in beauty, which was absolutely a waste and another sign his friend was cracking up under the strain of imminent reallocation. The poor kid obviously no longer cared; he probably felt that it was too late to perform at all well in the tournament.

“I’m going back to fight the kobolds. I should be able to solo them now. . . .” Bjorn paused. “Do you want to come?”

In that moment of hesitation, Bjorn had struggled with himself. The etiquette when killing monsters was that everyone in a group shared the small amounts of loot equally, regardless of who did the most work. In this case, there was no doubt that Bjorn had no real need for Erik’s help and that his warrior would be crunching up kobolds with his warhammer far more quickly than would a female character whose starting points had all been spent on beauty. In effect, Bjorn was offering to tow Erik along. It would have been easy to convince himself that Erik was not serious about his new character and that any loot divided with it would be wasted. But friends were friends and, regardless of Erik’s irresponsible choices, it was right to make the offer.

“Sure, Bjorn, that would be good. I won’t be much help, though.”

“Don’t worry. Everyone has to start somewhere.” Bjorn hoisted his warhammer over his shoulder and the two of them walked north along the quays. As they did so, Bjorn revised down the amount of new copper bits that he had hoped to make this afternoon.

While they made their way through the flapping canvas and rope of the market stalls, Bjorn noticed something unusual. The NPCs were not stationary; their heads were turning towards the two players.

“Erik, look at the merchants.”

“Hmmm. That’s odd.” Erik’s character made the actions that arose from the
#wave+smile
command.

A nearby seller of herbs smiled and waved back.

“You try.”

Bjorn had his big warrior wave. Nothing.

“They like me!” The inflections of a player’s voice carried through into their character’s speech, and it was clear that Erik was delighted.

“Come on. I want to see how effective this helmet is.”

As they walked on, Erik continually waved and smiled at the NPCs, many of whom waved back. Even a frightening-looking desert mystic, selling spells for magicians, gave a slight nod of his head towards Cindella. Admittedly it was extraordinary, but Bjorn was becoming a little impatient with Erik’s frivolity. The sooner they made it to the kobold plains, the better.

At the end of the quays were streets with permanent shops. Standing outside a jeweler’s was a guard in full plate-armor, resting his hands on his two-handed sword. Theoretically a thief, or a gang of players, could try robbing shops, but the various defenses employed by the merchants would almost certainly kill them. The elderly shop owner waved back at Erik’s gestures and surprised them both by calling out, “Cindella. What a joy to see you!”

Erik turned to Bjorn, and even through the medium of the game, they exchanged a significant look. That a merchant should call out to a player was totally unexpected.

Turning to the merchant, Erik tried a number of phrases:

“It is a joy to see you too.

“Thank you.

“Hail, merchant.”

“Erik, the sign!” Bjorn pointed up to a wooden marker that said
Antilo the Jeweler
.

So, after a slight pause, Erik tried simply, “Hail, Antilo.”

“Come in, my dear. I’ve something I’ve been saving for you.”

“Come on, Bjorn. We have to check this out.”

“Let’s not be long, though, Erik.” Bjorn tried to keep the irritation out of his voice.

They followed Antilo into the shop, waiting a moment to adjust to the darkness.

“Here you are—a present. When it was sold to me, I immediately thought of you. It matches your hair perfectly.”

A pendant appeared in Cindella’s hand. It was silver and had a garnet that twinkled with red sparks. Erik equipped it to his neck.

“Here, look,” Antilo said, pointing to a mirror.

For some time, the merchant and Erik’s character stood still, admiring the silver pendant on her pale neck.

“Are you done, Erik?” muttered Bjorn quietly.

“Thank you, Antilo.” Cindella turned away from the mirror.

“No need to thank me, Cindella. To have such a beauty as you in my shop is reward enough. But should anyone ask, tell them this pendant came from Antilo the jeweler.”

“I will tell them that this pendant came from Antilo the jeweler.”

There was no further response from the smiling shop owner, so it did not take any extra effort to get Erik to leave the shop.

“Good. Let’s hurry.” Bjorn set off.

“Wait, Bjorn. Look at me. What do you think?”

“What?” He turned. “That pendant? Surely it’s a worthless trinket?”

“True, but even so. Have you ever heard of a merchant giving anything away?”

Bjorn had to agree the encounter was strange, unprecedented. Curious, he looked more closely at the jewel.

“Actually, that’s really strange. It’s pretty good, might be worth something. Ten silver maybe.”

“Let me try my appraise jewelry skill,” suggested Erik.

There was a long silence.

“Well?” asked Bjorn eventually.

“I don’t believe it!
It’s worth over a bezant!
”

Bjorn stood silent. At home he was simply stunned. If his warrior had greater facial detail, Erik would have seen its jaw drop. In a few minutes of existence, Erik’s joke character had just obtained more wealth than Bjorn had gathered in a year of patient fighting. Bjorn’s thoughts were awhirl. Part of him bitterly resented Erik’s instant success. And a lot of uncomfortable questions arose. Was there another way to play the game that meant his years of accumulation were wasted? Did many other people know about this? Was he being stupid all this time that he had prided himself on his careful banking and tiny increases in copper coins? On the other hand, Bjorn felt a surge of excitement too. Perhaps Erik had made an important discovery about the game? Already with this new wealth he could buy some decent equipment, get off to a flying start. From nowhere Erik could now hope for some modest success in the graduation tournament, and if Bjorn could help him, then of course he would do so.

Chapter 4

THE LAW OF VIOLENCE

A row of
distant figures stood shoveling salt into barrels, filling them and then working together to lift them up to rest beside each other on a narrow track. Later, a cart would be pulled along that path, and the heavy barrels of salt would be raised by teams of workers and stacked onto it. But for now they were doing the backbreaking work of hacking through the crust and lifting layer after layer of white salt into the barrels. After digging down to a depth of about three feet, the salt turned yellow and was still damp with the estuary mud. This they left. Erik was studying the process intently. The haze of salt dust that rose around the workers looked unpleasant. On a hot day, it would be choking. He could imagine the dryness of the atmosphere, all moisture absorbed by the salt; eyes half closed against the stinging dust; pores clogged with salt; skin worn to an ancient leathery texture. Everyone could recognize a lifelong salt worker by the roughness of their skin. But more dangerous still was the work of those who were out on the dikes. Up to their waists in tidal water, they were letting the sea gush into the great rectangular flood plains that had been marked out by the dikes. Then, when the tide was at its height and on the turn, they had to fill the breach, hurriedly piling stone and mud to seal the water in, so that the sun could evaporate the trapped sea, to leave yellowing piles of salt for the shovelers. Two or three dike workers a year died in the struggle with mud and tide.

“Erik.” Her voice was tentative.

“Inny.” He didn’t turn around, but was glad that she had found him.

“Can I join you?”

This time he glanced up, and smiled. “Of course.”

“Bjorn says you have a female character, and that she has gained a bezant already.”

“Yes. It’s amazing. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I really think that I have connected to the game in a way people usually miss out on. It’s made me wonder what more is possible.”

“That’s wonderful, Erik. You might have time to get somewhere before . . . you know.”

They sat close together. A few strands of Injeborg’s long blond hair were lifted by the breeze to touch Erik gently on his cheek.

“The saltpans are bad news, Inny—look.”

“I know. But at least you would live close to us still.”

“Even that is still an unlikely allocation. I should put in a request, I guess. But I still hope . . . I hope that I can find a way to make a challenge myself. Or maybe that my dad finally comes out of hiding and is successful.”

“Erik. Can I ask you something personal?” Injeborg looked serious. He was so used to seeing her in a playful, tomboyish humor that Erik was slightly shocked by a sudden insight into the adult woman she would become: thoughtful, intelligent, and, he had to admit, beautiful.

“Yes. Ask.”

“Why doesn’t your dad play Epic?” She quickly added, “You don’t have to say if it’s a secret.”

“Oh.” His gaze shifted uncomfortably from hers back to the workers in the estuary. “I wish I knew. I wish they trusted me, but whatever the secret is, they keep it even from me.” He was embarrassed to admit it. Suddenly Erik felt tearful. “You know I can be trusted, Inny, don’t you?” Instinctively he rubbed his tongue across the rough bottom edge of one of his front teeth.

“Of course. Every time you smile, I know you can be trusted.”

Erik grinned then, and they cast their minds back seven years.

 

The September olive harvest was a rare opportunity for fun for the children of the village. The adults would lay down netting around the small trees, then stand back and let the children run wild. They would shake the branches, or hit them with sticks, or even climb into the thickets to rock the trees, until the ground was strewn with olives and debris. The olives were then gathered in the nets and poured through a bucket and moving platform device to sort out the twigs and leaves from the black and green olives.

Erik rode on the shoulders of Big Erik—or B.E. as they all called him—grabbing tree branches and shaking them until all the olives were down.

“That one done?” asked B.E.

“Aye. Finished.”

“Quick then, there’s Injeborg!” B.E. was a bold scoundrel nearly twice Erik’s age and Erik loved to be involved in his games.

“Yes, hurry, hurry!” Erik drummed his feet onto B.E.’s chest as they galloped to the next tree. Injeborg, holding hands with her chubby brother Bjorn, ran up just behind them.

“Ours!” Erik was gleeful.

“But there’s not many left,” complained Bjorn.

“True, true, you can help us with this.” B.E. loosened one of his hands from its grip on Erik’s legs to gesture at the tree.

For a few minutes they were silent, busy pulling tree branches back and forth. Then, with some difficulty because of Erik’s weight on his shoulders, B.E. bent low and moved the two of them stealthily up behind the girl, who was crouching, back towards them, in order to reach the lower branches. Erik giggled, knowing it was bold, and vigorously thrashed the branches above her head. B.E. could barely keep his balance as olives rained down on Injeborg.

“Oh!” She ran out, hands over her head. “Did you do that deliberately?” Injeborg challenged them, little hands on hips, her fair hair a tangle of twigs and leaves.

“Of course not,” replied B.E. innocently. “You know the rules.”

Injeborg eyed them suspiciously. “Ya. And I also know you two.”

Bjorn came over. “Are we finished?”

“That was the last one,” answered B.E.

“Then let’s go get a drink.”

“Wait. Carry me.” Injeborg always gave as good as she got, which is why it was good to tease her. She pulled her brother down so she could get on his shoulders. “Now, you two troublemakers,” she hailed them imperiously. “Let’s play Epic.”

“Oh, Epic!” shouted Erik.

“How?” B.E. was puzzled.

“We are knights. And the first one to fall over loses,” explained Injeborg.

“Is that allowed?” asked Bjorn.

“Probably not,” replied B.E., hoisting Erik up more firmly and gripping him tightly.

“Well, I don’t know.” Bjorn was uncertain.

Erik felt the excitement in his mount and knew from the tension of the frame beneath him that B.E. was ready to move.

“Charge! Charge!” Erik yelled at the top of his voice before being abruptly cut off as B.E. jumped towards Bjorn. He recovered his position, only to have Injeborg grab him by the shoulder and pull hard.