Epic (6 page)

“So the treasure could still be there?” Erik looked to the librarian for confirmation.

“Oh indeed, it could. Your Captain Sharky is a listed character, who was a pirate some fifty years ago. The
Queen’s Messenger
was a royal ship based in Cassinopia around the same time. It is a very, very promising quest, young man.” Thorstein’s face wrinkled with lines around the eyes that showed he was accustomed to smiling.

“Great, after the graduation tournament, I’ll sail to Cassinopia then.”

A large hand reached out to touch Erik on the shoulder as if to check him. Thorstein looked somber again. “Not so fast, young one. This is a quest that you need preparation for. The Skull Islands are somewhat explored and they are home to very dangerous predators. The sea is full of sharks, but worse, Rocs have a nest in a mountain of one of the islands. You, and whoever comes with you, will need to have excellent skill levels and equipment.”

Erik let out a long sigh.

Harald glanced at Thorstein, who rolled his eyes up, as if to share a slight amusement at the impetuous nature of youth.

“Take your time, young man,” said the librarian. “A quest like this will make you rich, but not if you hurry. Then you will be dead and it will be lost to you forever.”

“Well, now that we are without a solar panel, we do not have time on our side,” Erik muttered bitterly in reply.

“You also.” Thorstein looked down. “Times are getting hard.”

“That brings up my reason for being here.” Harald cast a shrewd look at the librarian. “I have a team of five who are willing to challenge Central Allocations. We wish to lodge a complaint that the Hope District is facing discrimination in the distribution of solar panels.”

“That is your right, of course, but I would urge against it. You cannot defeat their teams. You will die for no gain.” Thorstein shook his head solemnly.

“Enter the complaint, please.” Harald said no more. So, after a pause, Thorstein lumbered back to his chair and sank heavily back into it. With one last somber look their way, he clipped himself up.

Soon he stood up again. “The complaint is registered. There will be a trial in the amphitheater in two weeks’ time, eight o’clock our time.”

“Thank you, Thorstein.”

The librarian shrugged. “I sympathize with you. But I am sorry that you are spending your lives so uselessly.”

Chapter 6

DUELS IN THE ARENA

The arenas of
Epic’s great cities were intended to be practice grounds. You took your character along and you could practice combat in an environment where it did not matter if you died—you simply reappeared at the arena entrance. It was a chance to discover how effective your weapons and spells were, and to improve your skills. Over the years, public battle in the amphitheater had become the method of conflict resolution.

The arena at Newhaven was enormous, a massive stone structure with steps rising from the wide circular theater at the center to dizzying heights at the back. Statues of warriors lined the perimeter facing the amphitheater—silent and unresponsive witnesses to the centuries of battle that had taken place on the sandy floor far below them.

Today the amphitheater seats were about a third full, mostly with the dull gray figures which represented people watching the game via their characters. Here and there, standing out in their color and definition, NPCs were also in attendance. Erik was present in his persona as Cindella. Beside him were Bjorn, Injeborg, B.E., and B.E.’s younger sister, Sigrid, all in their characters—a warrior, a witch, another warrior, and a healer, respectively. Many families in Hope District had stopped work and were clipped up to Epic to watch the duel—it was an occasion that justified a break in their labor. For a huge national event, such as the final rounds of the annual graduation, the amphitheater would be near full. For a small district appealing against Central Allocations they had done well to fill even a fifth of the seats, especially as none of the other cases due that day had any planetary significance.

It was with some impatience that Erik heard an announcement across the amphitheater.

“Case number 133, year 1124. Snorri the warrior versus Central Allocations. Snorri the warrior from Estvam accuses Central Allocations of unfairly denying his wife a hip operation. The contest will be to the death. Random terrain.”

A warrior entered the amphitheater, half covered in chain-mail armor and carrying an ax. A few cheers went up for him and he waved to the loudest part of the crowd.

“Poor man,” Injeborg said, and her tone reflected the genuine pity in her real voice. “What chance has he got?”

“What chance has any of us got?” uttered Bjorn glumly.

From that uncharacteristic remark, Erik realized that Injeborg and Bjorn were as nervous as he was—they were just better at not showing it. After all, both their parents were going into the amphitheater, and with them a life’s savings of arms, armor, and spells. All week, people from the district had been visiting their characters in the world of Epic and giving them presents—such as healing potions or pieces of armor. But it was going to be nearly as difficult for a district team as an individual to beat Central Allocations.

Jeers and boos alerted Erik to the arrival of the Central Allocations warrior, Ragnok Strongarm.

“I know why I hate him—for killing my mum. But why does all the crowd shout out against him?” Erik found the stadium’s response to the C.A. warrior bemusing, although he was glad to add his voice to the catcalls.

“Well, he is new to Central Allocations. He has achieved very little in the game of Epic outside of the arena. But Hope District dislikes him because he killed the agricultural school headmistress when she fought for the school to have another tractor,” B.E. replied.

“And he led a team that defeated Greenrocks when they objected to the changing of their crops to rapeseed,” Bjorn added grimly.

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten that,” B.E. said, nodding.

Bowing to the crowd, Ragnok Strongarm seemed to be enjoying the jeers. He waved repeatedly, although not to his opponent. When his cloak was cast aside, it was evident that Ragnok was a Sidhe elf, tall and slender, with long silver hair in several braids to keep it from his face. His armor glittered with blue and gold light.

B.E. whistled in appreciation. “That chain mail alone has got to be worth ten thousand bezants.”

“Combatants ready. Three, two, one, begin!”

In a blink, the floor of the amphitheater had changed. Suddenly it was a pool of clear, deep blue water; platforms were moving around upon its surface as though they were performing a highly ritualized dance. There were cheers and laughter from the crowd. This was a rare terrain.

“I love having practice on this,” said Erik, his appreciation of the unusual duel conditions lifting him out of his nervous silence for a moment. “Did you ever try it? The trick is to pick a route across. It actually is harder than it looks. If you get the wrong platform first, you’ll go well astray.”

“This is the terrain that mages must dream of,” B.E. mused aloud. “Imagine being a fighter and having to make your way across while spells are coming down around your ears.”

With a loud shriek, an arrow flew through the air and struck the Estvam warrior. Ragnok Strongarm was making no effort to cross to his opponent, but had calmly strung his bow and was watchfully preparing his next shot. The Estvam warrior, without a bow, was desperately trying to pick a path across the pool, jumping from island to island, trying to predict the motion of the platforms. Another shrieking missile. The warrior was struck in mid-leap and spun into the water. He disappeared and did not come up—the water was clear enough for the spectators to be able to see him struggling to remove his heavy boots as he sank. His last convulsions silenced the crowd.

“The conflict has been resolved in favor of Central Allocations.”

Ragnok bowed and departed as the amphitheater reset itself.

“Ugh. What a horrible way to die. His armor must have dragged him down.” Even from the limited expression available to the gray polygons of her healer, Erik could see the wince of young Sigrid.

Erik felt sick. It was their turn next, and he could not see how they would avoid being butchered with similar ease.

“Case number 134, year 1124. Hope District versus Central Allocations. Hope District accuses Central Allocations of discrimination in the allocations of solar panels. The contest will be to the death. Survivors of the winning team will be resurrected. Random terrain.”

Huge cheers filled the amphitheater as the Hope team entered. Even the normally placid Bjorn was shouting himself hoarse. It brought tears to Erik’s eyes to see his friend bellowing for all his worth. While Bjorn’s character remained gray, Erik knew that across in the Rolfsons’ house he would be flushed bright red from his efforts to spur on their team.

The Hope challenge was taken up by those families with most to gain from any new panels, who in the first instance were the residents of Osterfjord. It was strange to see his lifelong neighbors in the amphitheater. How difficult it was to believe the heroic-looking figures crossing the sand were the olive-growers who lived just a few hundred yards away.

One of the Hope team was wrapped deep in a cloak, with his hood drawn right over his head; the others were waving back to the crowd.

Erik felt a nudge. With a nod of her head, Injeborg indicated the hooded figure. “That must be your dad.”

“It must be.”

“I wonder why he is covered up?” B.E. wondered aloud.

“So do I.” An unexpected rush of unhappiness filled Erik’s eyes with tears. He did not have his parents’ trust. They had told him nothing of the mystery of Harald’s character. But he could be trusted. After all, hadn’t he kept the story of his broken tooth a secret?

“It must be to keep a surprise for the Central Allocations team,” Injeborg suggested. Even though the medium of the game masked his tearful eyes, Injeborg’s sympathetic glance at Erik suggested she understood something of his feelings.

The Central Allocations team entered and the crowd grew silent.

“Bloody vengeance!” B.E. put his face in his hands.

“What?” Sigrid was jittery as she turned to her brother.

“They’ve brought out their best team, I would say.” B.E. peeked between his fingers. “Halfdan the Black, Wolf, Hleid the Necromancer, Thorkell the Spellcaster, and Brynhild the Valkyrie. That’s four dragonslayers amongst them.”

The Hope team, whose brave appearance had lifted the crowd, now appeared shabby beside the scintillating garments and powerful magical appearance of its opponents. Around Halfdan light itself seemed diminished, apart from a black glow from his boots. The strange shadows cast from his armor caused those who stood near him to appear to be just the human form for enormous and distorted-shaped demons lying on the ground. The level of noise from the audience dropped, conversations becoming subdued.

“We don’t have a chance, do we, B.E.?” Sigrid looked up at her brother, who just gave an unhappy shrug.

“Combatants ready. Three, two, one, begin!”

The amphitheater flowed in an instant, to form a rocky area, with some stacks of boulders reaching shoulder height. The Hope team hesitated then, having said something to each other, ran for cover. Only four of them reached the rocks they were aiming for.

Erik could see no sign of his dad.

“Where’s Harald?” asked Bjorn.

“Invisibility?” suggested B.E.

“Ohhh, how wonderful! Let’s hope so!” Injeborg clapped, her enthusiasm encouraging them all to be more hopeful.

The Central Allocations team was in no hurry to close on its opponents. Its spellcasters were chanting, while Halfdan and Brynhild—the two warriors—stood confidently before them, on guard. Wolf strode out and shouted a command in a strange guttural language. With a gasp from the crowd, he transformed himself into a large, fierce-looking, black wolf and began to howl.

In contrast with the last fight, the crowd was absolutely attentive and the few voices that called out were very distinct. Erik desperately wished he was down there with the Hope team—but with a character powerful enough to withstand these legendary opponents.

Above the amphitheater, the clouds rumbled and gathered. A great shadow fell over them all and Erik could feel the pressure of the sky.

“Oh no,” groaned B.E. “It’s Thorkell the Spellcaster. He’s going to cast a lightning strike.”

Almost as one, the thousands of people in the crowd were cowering in anticipation of the terrible crack in the sky as a blast of lightning was wrenched from it by the spell; some had their hands over their ears. Then they were on their feet cheering. The dark skies dissolved and sun broke through to gleam on the white silicate of the boulders in the arena floor.

“What? What?” Erik leapt up to see Thorkell writhing on the ground, his pale blue, sigil-covered robe becoming covered in dirt, white foam around his lips. A slender elf was retreating, whirling two short swords before him in a glittering, mesmerizing pattern. Then, with a cheeky bow to the crowd, the elf stepped into a shadow and disappeared.

Injeborg leapt up beside Erik, bright eyes searching for his.

“Erik, it’s your dad! It’s your dad!”

His friends were around him now, slapping his back and cheering.

“He has to be a master thief.” B.E. shook his head. “Who would have believed that in Hope we had a master thief.”

“Yes! Yes!” Pushing aside his friends, Erik leapt to his feet, fists clenched. “That’s for my mum!” He did a little jig and punched the air. “Die, all of you, die!” He shouted as loudly as he could at the remaining four members of the Central Allocations team.

The crowd was on its feet still, cheering on the Hope team. B.E. shook his head with disbelief. “I had no idea so many people would take our side. They must feel the same way about Central Allocations.”