Epic (7 page)

Wolf gave a great howl and raced towards the Hope team. But Halfdan the Black was looking around as though panicked. He swung his great two-handed sword back and forth, nervously looking for his enemy. Brynhild, acting with a confidence more in keeping with her winged-helmeted valkyrie, grabbed him and said something in his ear. They then stood back to back, with Hleid between them, astride the dead body of Thorkell.

The crowd was roaring on the team. The cry of “Hope! Hope!” was taken up around the amphitheater, even by those who had no relationship to the district. Without a word being said, they shared a feeling that this moment could be a piece of history. It was impossible to believe it yet, but perhaps the team from a small district could beat the mighty Mikelgard team—after all, the great mage Thorkell was down—unheard of! Could this day mark the end of the careers of four legendary dragonslayers?

Wolf leapt from rock to rock, tongue lolling. As he approached the four other Hope players, Rolfson and his warrior companion lifted their swords and shields. But Wolf was not seeking to fight them. His charge swerved at the last moment and from a boulder he launched himself over the fighters to land on Siggida, Bjorn and Injeborg’s mother, the healer of their team. Ignoring the blows of the fighters, which did not seem to be making any impression on his thick hide, Wolf savaged at Siggida’s throat until she was dead. Snarling, he then turned towards the two warriors, mouth a bloody grin.

“Silver weapons. We need silver, or magic,” B.E. said anxiously.

From the shadows behind the wolf, a motion. A flashing of blades. The wolf howled and swirled about to see the source of the blows that had unexpectedly pierced him. The mysterious elf stood before him, slowly rotating his two short swords, parrying lunges from the snarling fangs of the wolf. Again the crowd was on its feet, cheering. Erik took the opportunity to examine more closely his dad’s character. It was a wood elf, smaller than a Sidhe, but stronger looking. His armor was mainly leather, but it was beautifully scrolled, suggesting it might be magic. From beneath the elf’s cape Erik could see the glimmer of golden hair—an unusual indulgence and the only clue that the character was indeed that of his father.

The wolf was clearly slowing down, and from its panting mouth long trails of saliva full of foam hung to the ground.

“Those swords must be poisoned,” observed Bjorn.

“Agreed.” B.E. was raptly attentive to the battle.

While Wolf panted in a more and more labored fashion, Erik looked back to the Central Allocations team. The remaining members were not idle. Hleid had planted her skull-capped staff in the chest of the body that she stood over. With a flourish, she gestured towards the two-blade-wielding wood elf, who was causing them so much consternation. Thorkell’s reanimated body slowly rose from the ground, then turned to face its target and flew towards him.

“Death and destruction, what is that?” whispered Injeborg.

“I have no idea.” B.E. clenched his hands together, conveying his dismay, despite wearing a stock expression on the gray, slabbed face of his warrior.

Harald was glancing up from the dying Wolf from time to time, and had seen the incoming undead creature. He ran back into the shadows and disappeared once more, but the zombie version of Thorkell was not misled by the concealment; it constantly altered its flight, indicating the route of Harald’s movements.

A flock of ravens cawed and screamed as it suddenly flew over the sides of the amphitheater and dived towards the conflict. Hleid had thrown back her purple robe and was screaming, arms aloft, white hair streaming into the sky, as she directed the birds down onto the other Hope team members. The Hope mage managed to point and direct a burst of fire at the birds, many of which fell and flopped to the ground. But there were thousands of ravens in the cloud and soon they had surrounded the three visible Hope players. Rolfson and his companions were able only to thrash around, running into rocks to dislodge the wicked stabs of the dark flapping creatures. The mage, the least well armored and without a helm, fell, hands wrapped around his eyes. In an instant, he was completely engulfed in a writhing black carpet of birds that shortly afterwards stopped moving. The two warriors fought on, heads ducked, swinging sword and shield at the ravens that were crowing and pecking at them.

The zombie indicated by its remorseless chase that Harald was moving swiftly around and around the perimeter.

“Where’s he going?” wondered B.E.

“Well, what can he do?” answered Erik bitterly. “He’s stuck. If he stops, he’ll be killed. If he attacks Halfdan and Brynhild, he can’t possibly win, and the zombie will be on him in no time.”

With a lurch, the zombie directed itself towards the Central Allocations team.

“There he goes!” said Injeborg.

Halfdan and Brynhild braced themselves, weapons raised, and were ready as Harald materialized before them. But, ducking their blows, he did not stop to fight. His swords were not even in his hands. Instead, with a tumble, he rolled through their thrusts and seized the staff of Hleid with both hands. With a great yank he twisted her off balance and, although Halfdan slashed down a blow onto his shoulder that caused him to stagger, Harald recovered to sprint away, holding the staff above him like a trophy, to the pleasure of the crowd, which redoubled its volume of cheers.

In fact, as Erik looked around the stadium, he could see considerably more people in the arena than when the fighting had begun. Somehow the word was spreading and more and more people were clipping up to Epic in order to see the duel.

Once clear of his opponents, Harald pointed the staff back at Hleid, manipulating the skull. She looked aghast and turned to see the zombie Thorkell abruptly halt in his flight, and then start moving towards her with arms raised. Hleid shouted out panicked spells, but the zombie came on. Halfdan and Brynhild struck the creature with mighty blows, and although it shuddered, it knocked them aside to grasp Hleid by the throat and squeeze the life out of her. With her death, Thorkell fell to the ground, once more a fleshy bag of bones.

“Hope! Hope!” It was the giant-killing of the century. A great roar of approval rang out, as Harald brandished his swords again, saluting the four directions of the compass before once more stepping into the shadows and disappearing. Three down!

“Your dad is incredible!” Injeborg gave Erik a hug.

Erik was immobile, shivering all over, his body basking in the release of a deep tension that he had not realized it had contained. There was a strange taste in his mouth, which he understood to be the taste of vengeance fulfilled.

“I’ll never underestimate a thief again,” Bjorn muttered to himself.

Down on the floor of the amphitheater there was a lull. Rolfson and his comrade had killed the last of the ravens, and were drinking healing potions to restore themselves. The mage, however, had died under the assault of the birds.

At the other end of the rocky fighting area, Halfdan and Brynhild stood back to back, alert for the thief.

An announcement came over the amphitheater.

“Hope team offer a tie. Full resurrection to all; all equipment restored. Providing a reappraisal is taken of the solar-panel allocation.”

A warm ripple of applause greeted the statement.

“That’s sensible.” B.E. explained. “It’s a good result for us. And they will find it difficult to refuse. If they try to carry on but end up losing their lives, there is no coming back for any of them.”

The announcement had clearly divided Halfdan and Brynhild, who while remaining back to back were anima tedly turning their heads over their shoulders and gesturing—their weapons exaggerating the sweeping arm movements. After some time, the crowd began a slow hand-clap. Erik joined in with a sense of extraordinary liberation. The gods of the game were being humbled and the crowd, being quick to sense it, added to their humiliation.

As the noise of the clapping built up to resound around the amphitheater, Brynhild shrugged and sheathed her weapon. Halfdan raised his sword and waved acceptance.

“The conflict has resulted in a tie and the matter will be reviewed.”

Great cheers were raised for Rolfson and the remaining Hope warrior as they walked, waving joyfully, from the amphitheater. The crowd would have loved another glimpse of their master thief, but he did not reappear, which—as the amateur tacticians explained at the party in Hope that night—was a wise move.

Last to leave were Halfdan and Brynhild, still brandishing their weapons in vehement disagreement.

Chapter 7

THE FIRST SIGNS OF DISCORD

The tower in
which the Central Allocations meetings took place was surrounded by raincloud, making the emergency session unusually claustrophobic. Streams of rain were running like tears down the glass. It was so dark within the dome that lamps had been brought to the table. Legend had it that they were sitting inside what had once been the nose cone of a spacecraft. The body of the space-ship, if it ever existed, had long since gone, its valuable metal being replaced by stone and mortar.

“What a shambles,” Ragnok sneered. “The famous and powerful Central Allocations team humiliated by a town of rustics.”

Of all the members of the highest committee in the planet Ragnok was the only one to emerge from the previous day’s fighting with any real credit; he could afford to gloat. His Sidhe warrior had dispatched Snorri the warrior with just two bow shots. Nevertheless, Svein Redbeard thought his cocky manner unwise; it would win him no friends. Of course, it was amusing to see the legendary aura slip from his fellow dragonslayers, but that enjoyment should be kept private. Fortunately, Svein himself had not been selected for the team that had suffered such humiliation, and his own reputation as one of the most powerful players in the game was inviolate.

“I had no protection.” Thorkell shrugged off any responsibility for the disaster and folded his arms, aged pudgy fingers drumming slowly on a light blue velvet jacket that echoed the colors of his character’s rune-inscribed cape.

“Thorkell the Spellcaster! You were more use dead than alive.” Brynhild laughed, a surprisingly young, if bitter laugh, from such an elderly woman. She also resembled her character, insofar as her long silver hair was combed into two braids. “What must it have looked like to the spectators: Thorkell the all-knowing as a zombie floating over the sand?”

To judge by the other mocking expressions in the room, the valkyrie was not the only member of the committee to enjoy the memory of its most pompous and arrogant member being a brainless tool of Hleid the Necromancer.

“Now, enough.” The chairperson, Hleid, was less forceful sounding than usual. She had aged since the battle, thought Svein, and her wrinkles looked tired rather than lending her face its usual authoritative aura. “Let us deal with the matter in an orderly way. We all of us have things to do.”

“Agreed.” The last thing that Svein wanted to do was to spend all day wrangling over the mistakes of the Central Allocations team. He had a good lead on his own personal quest that had been sent to him by the librarian at Fiveways and he wished to spend the afternoon looking into it.

“Firstly we have to reappraise the allocation of solar panels to Hope District. Proposals?”

“Give them ten more?” suggested Bekka. Svein smiled at her; she was always the most generous of the Central Allocations committee.

“Five.” It was obvious that Ragnok hated to give the rustics anything at all, but even he knew it could not be helped.

“Seven,” said Wolf.

“Seven. How about seven?” Hleid looked around the table to passive faces and shrugs. “Seven it is.”

“What a nightmare.” Halfdan shuddered. “There is going to be a flood of claims now.”

“Indeed.” Svein scowled frostily to remind Halfdan that for all his fanciful black garb, Halfdan’s supposedly invincible warrior was one of those responsible for the mess.

“Next,” Hleid hurried on, “battle analysis—and let us try to be constructive.” She sighed. “Perhaps a non-combatant’s view would be useful to begin with.” Hleid slowly looked around, peering over her glasses. “Bekka, what did you think?”

“Me?” Bekka was surprised. As the committee’s druidess she was more usually called upon to help make potions and cast spells involving animals than to discuss battles. “Well, let me think.” She paused, looking intently at her hands for a while in concentration. She was taking the responsibility of the question very seriously. At the very moment that Ragnok let loose an exaggerated yawn, Bekka continued, “What I think is that our side did not fight as a team. Wolf is too used to fighting opponents without silver or magic weapons and wasted his life trying to win the fight on his own. I think that the team should perhaps have defensive or warding spells up first, not Thorkell’s dramatic attempt to wipe out all our opponents with one lightning bolt. I think that they should have discussed a plan before commencing battle. Basically, I think our team was racing to see who would get the glory of killing the opposition and failed to work together or take the other team seriously.”

“I got the healer.” Wolf spoke up, angrily, arms behind his head; he had one foot up on the table, his chair tipped back as far as it could safely go.

“Yes, but that’s all. You are worth more than a fifth-rate healer.” Brynhild seemed particularly ready for an argument today. Voices began to rise all around the table.

“Members of the committee, please. Let’s respect the desire of the chair to keep matters constructive,” Svein called out above them all, then dropped his voice. “I believe that Bekka has analyzed the battle accurately and that all we need to do on this item is to adopt a resolution that in the future all teams will meet before the conflict is due to start and discuss tactics. We used to do that without fail, but we have grown complacent.”