Epic (9 page)

By the time the guard-post lights of Newhaven were approaching, Ragnok had calmed down. The trail of bodies he had left in his wake on the stone road was thinning out. After all, closer to the city, the chance of any word of his slayings reaching the committee rose and he could not bear to hear their censorious comments. There was even a chance that they might vote to exclude him from using the Executioner. Of course, the argument for not killing players unless they had been voted to be assassinated was completely logical and watertight—there was no point arousing questions. But the illicit thrill of being a player-killer was something that could not be understood with logic. Nor could logic explain the pattern of his killings. Curiously it was not the stronger-looking players that attracted his attention—and if there was any justification for the deaths of players it was to eliminate possible threats to the Central Allocations team. No, it was the slightly heartrending players, with their one weapon and tiny pieces of armor, which drew his attention. There was something bewitchingly naïve and tender about them, spending their spare time killing kobolds and orcs for pennies, saving assiduously and slowly. And so he rode them down, bringing their struggle up the ladder of Epic to an abrupt end.

Once in Newhaven, Ragnok rode slowly through the narrow, cobbled streets, keeping to the back ways. Although he would be taken for an NPC and ignored by the vast majority of players, there was always a small chance that someone would come and talk to him, in the hope that he would have some clue to some foolish quest. After a tedious and restrained journey through the back streets, he arrived at the cathedral and tethered the horse.

“Later, brave one,” Ragnok whispered to the horse and entered the huge building.

The cathedral was busy; oil lanterns had been lit on the walls, drawing attention to the vast space that was enclosed under the high, vaulted roof. Statues of the holy martyr and her acolytes filled deep-set alcoves; monks in cowls were chanting, while a representative cross-section of Newhaven society sat on the benches to hear the evening sermon from the bishop.

You had to admire the sophistication of Epic. Even though there was probably not one other player in the great building, the NPCs continued with a life of their own. If you were engaged in a quest that required meeting the high and mighty of Newhaven, you could do worse than to wait here and try to talk to them after the service was over. Still, that was for people like Svein Redbeard. With long strides, Ragnok hurried along the aisle that led to the base of the cathedral tower. Ignoring an attempt by an NPC monk to talk to him, he entered the tower, closing the door behind him, and began to run up the stairs.

Even the Executioner did not have infinite reserves of stamina, and by the fortieth flight of stairs, he was moving with distinctly less speed. By the one hundredth, he was down to a walk. But that was the last. Suddenly the whole of the sky opened up to him. He was at the top of the tower, looking down on the city of Newhaven.

The glitter of the stars above was matched by the patterns of torches below. He could have been adrift on a dark lake whose waters transformed the silver glimmers in the sky to yellow blazes below. Newhaven was a well-ordered city, and the main thoroughfares were lit by torches at regular intervals, creating trails of torchlight all around him, stretching for miles. The great amphitheater was completely dark and empty, a huge black circle avoided by the sinuous lines of light.

With a sigh Ragnok prepared to unclip. When dawn came to Epic he would return and begin his search.

Chapter 9

FEVER AND DISTRESS

A pale and
overcast dawn had turned Erik’s room gray. He was awake early, and for a moment in his dizziness he wondered why it was so urgent to get up. Big Erik had been calling for him to run away? No. That was a dream. Then he remembered and ran to the bathroom to be sick in the sink. His mouth tasted of sour apples.

“Mum?” Erik leaned on the doorframe to his parents’ room. The two of them looked peaceful, asleep in the bed. “Mum,” Erik said louder.

She lifted her head, disheveled brown hair covering her face. “Erik? What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been sick.”

“Go and lie down in your room. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The ceiling of his room was whiter now, its rough plastering and ridges of whitewash reminding him of the snow landscapes you could get in the amphitheater when practicing Epic.

“What’s the matter, Erik?” His mum felt his forehead.

“I’m sick. My tummy hurts.”

“Where exactly?”

“Here.” He rested his hand just below his belly button. The warmth of it was comforting.

Brushing aside his damp hair, his mum kissed him; the touch of her lips was cool. “Oh Erik, you’re burning up! Do you think you could ride a cart to Hope? To see the doctors there?”

“Oh, yes. A cart ride. Leban can take me.” Erik was mumbling, becoming more feverish as he spoke.

The journey to Hope took forever and yet they arrived all at once. Harald unpacked Erik from the furs in which he had traveled. It was suddenly very cold and he shivered. The hospital was like the library, he thought, lots of windows. It was too much of an effort to walk, so when people put their hands on his limbs and head to carry him, he did not shake them off. The bed they put him into was white and cool.

“Hello, young man,” a kindly-looking doctor said, smiling down at him. “Can you show me where it hurts?”

The doctor lifted back the sheet and Erik pointed.

“And does it hurt more when I press?” Erik shook his head. “Or when I let go?” The moment the doctor lifted his hand, Erik’s body jerked up with a violent spasm of extreme pain.

“Well. That’s pretty clear cut, eh?” The doctor replaced the sheet and went away with his dad. Soon, though, Harald returned.

“Erik?” he said, sitting beside his son.

“Yes?”

“Every person has an organ known as an appendix. Sometimes these go bad and have to be removed. It’s not that unusual. But you’ll have to stay here for a while afterwards. The doctor says that we are very lucky that your mum made me bring you in straightaway. It could have been much worse, but now you will be fine.”

“Really? Could I have died?”

His dad hesitated. “Possibly.”

That was good. It would impress his friends more to tell them that he could have died.

“It’s an injustice, though,” Harald growled.

“What, Dad?”

“If you were in Mikelgard and a senior Epic player, they would treat you differently.” He paused. “Or if we had thousands of bezants.”

Erik could see his dad was angry, but couldn’t follow his reasoning.

“Here the doctor says the necessary equipment has been broken for over twenty years. Here they have to use surgery. You will be left with a scar and it will take longer to heal.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

With a jolt of dismay that temporarily woke him from his fever, Erik understood the meaning behind his dad’s words. “But, Dad, that’s the first stage of the graduation tournament.”

“Aye.” Harald let out a long, sad breath. “Still, son, your health is more important than anything else. And, after all, you were in no hurry to move from Osterfjord.”

“I know. It’s not for me. It’s the others.” A jumble of thoughts and feelings swirled around in Erik’s head. “What’s going to happen to the team? We were all set up as the Osterfjord Players. Inny, B.E., Sigrid. Bjorn even gave up his place on the Agricultural School team to be with us. What about all our practicing . . . ?” Erik trailed off feverishly. The hours of preparation in the hunting grounds and the arena faded to irrelevance. His dream of finding a way to challenge Central Allocations now seemed like an impossible fantasy.

Erik and Harald sat in silence, downcast.

That afternoon, the hospital porters came for him, lifting him onto a trolley. As it rolled along the hospital corridor, it gave out a squeak that cycled around and around like a distressed bird.
Eraaachka, eraachka, eraachka
. . . The plaster on the roof of the corridors he passed underneath was cracked, and in some places a patch of yellow stone was visible where it had come away altogether. Eventually they parked the trolley in a room with a large movable light, poised over him like a snake ready to strike. For a long time, he was left there alone, listening to the banging of distant doors, worried about the snake. Then the room began to fill with people and he caught snatches of conversation.

“You have to make the incision around here and peel back the skin until you can grasp the inflamed appendix. . . .

“There shouldn’t be too much blood but, just in case, have one nurse wiping so you can see what you are doing. He should have a clamp ready too, you never know. . . .”

Just then the nurse realized that Erik could hear what they were saying. “Could you please get on and administer the anesthetic!” she snapped.

“Here, inhale this.”

A pungent cotton pad held at the end of a long pair of prongs was put before Erik’s nose. He breathed in.

Erik woke up from the operation very sore. The slightest movement was extremely painful, so he lay on his back listening to the other people in the room. Echoes of footfalls against hard floors told him that the room he was in was large. A faint murmur of voices was all around, none of them loud enough for individual words to be distinguishable. The day passed slowly, marked by the changing quality of the light as shadows withdrew from the cracked pattern of the ceiling, only to crawl forward again until they were dispelled by a nurse lighting up the oil lamps.

The nighttime was worse, though; sleep came only fitfully. It was not only that he kept waking up as a result of his body moving too much; it was also being in a strange room. Erik was conscious of being surrounded by sick children; there was often hushed activity somewhere out of his sight, and always a faint humming sound in the background.

The following day, a nurse made him get up while he changed the sheets. It was agony and Erik could not believe how cruel the nurse was to insist that he move to the chair beside the bed. It was the first time he had looked down at his stomach since the operation. His cotton top was stuck fast to his body with blood. Trying to peel if off aroused a sharp pain more terrible than bending, so he left it. The sheets that the nurse took with him were also covered in blood.

Each day, Erik found it was easier to accomplish the bending of his body as he swung his legs onto the floor. And each day, more and more of the dry blood flaked away, until at last, with great relief, he could pull off the stained cotton top. The area below his stomach had a great white scar, about halfway between his belly button and his right hip. It looked like a pallid white worm, and it was nearly a foot long. The soft flesh was held together by a dozen large stitches. Now at least he could walk about slowly, holding his sore side and wearing a new cotton tunic and trousers that he had been given by the hospital.

One afternoon, his mum and dad brought his friends along. They came in, looking around tentatively, disconcerted by the size of the room and the numbers of people gathered around beds.

“Here! Injeborg!” He waved to them and they hurried over.

“We have presents for you, Erik,” Injeborg said proudly.

Sigrid handed him a jar of honey.

“Oh great! Thank you, Sigrid. The food in here is awful.” He put the jar on the table beside the bed.

“Bjorn. Give him your present.” Injeborg was eager for Erik to see what they had brought him.

“Here, Erik.” Bjorn sheepishly took a cardboard box from his bag. There was a painting on the cover of a boat at sea near Osterfjord. Erik opened the box and inside were hundreds of little jigsaw pieces made from thin cardboard.

“He spent all day on it, Erik, cutting them out. And they have a coat of varnish on to keep the paint on.” Injeborg’s eyes flashed with pleasure.

“I tried to get the painting the same both times. But you can always tell it’s the right piece by the fit,” Bjorn muttered shyly.

“Thank you, Bjorn. It’s a very good present.”

“And here’s mine.” Injeborg drew out an entangled mess of string and wood. At first, Erik thought it was a puppet.

“Ermm, thanks, Injeborg,” he said, starting to unravel it. Then he saw that it was a mobile for hanging up.

“I thought it would remind you of Osterfjord,” Injeborg explained eagerly. “See, here is a shell from the beach. And that is a cone from your fir. And that’s supposed to be your donkey. Only it’s hard to draw. But can you see? I clipped a tiny bit of hair from Leban’s tail.”

Erik laughed. “Injeborg, it’s magic. I wonder if they’ll let me hang it from the rail there?”

“Of course they will. Tie it up, Bjorn.”

Her big brother glanced around the room, looking for someone to ask permission of. Then, with an apologetic shrug, he stood on a chair and tied the mobile to a bed rail. It balanced well with two main arms slowly turning back and forth around each other.

“That’s really good, Inny.” Erik looked up at the affectionate smiles of his friends. That they had been thinking of him enough to take this much trouble with their presents was a revelation.

Erik noticed that B.E. was waiting for him.

“Here. I hope you haven’t read it already.” B.E. gave him a book:
Lessons in Epic Strategy
.

“No, no I haven’t.” Erik opened it curiously. It had a fascinating contents page: “Single Player Combats,” “Spells for Outdoor Battles,” and many more.

“This looks really good. Thank you for parting with it, Big Erik.”

B.E. just waved away the thanks. “It’s no bother. I never got time to study it properly. But you might, being stuck here for two weeks.”

Their faces, so bright and friendly, suddenly fell.

“It’s such bad luck,” said Sigrid.