Epic (12 page)

Downstairs, the kitchen was tidy; his mother was up, her eyes red, but otherwise she looked composed.

“Mum, I’ve some more questions.”

She smiled. “Ask. There is no reason now why you should not know everything.”

“Did Dad ever say how he got away from Roftig?”

“I believe that he bribed the captain of the ferry. Before he was exiled, your father was one of the most successful characters in Epic. But ever since his return, he has not had a gold bezant to his name.”

“I wonder then. Perhaps we can do it again?”

“Perhaps. But where are we going to get thousands of bezants? None of our friends are rich.”

Biting back a reply, Erik continued through the questions that had filled his thoughts that night.

“Is it that bad in exile? What did Dad say about it?”

“Yes, it is bad. They have no Epic, no rules. It is barbaric. People fight and people starve because their food is stolen. They do not have proper homes, just what they have made for themselves. No one there lives to old age.”

“We have to get him back.”

Freya smiled again. It was good to see, even if the smile held no hope.

“What happened to Ragnok?”

His mother shuddered. “You’ve seen him. He is the player Ragnok Strongarm—he has become a member of Central Allocations.”

A surge of anger momentarily rocked Erik. “How could they?”

“I don’t know. After what I told them, I really don’t know. I suppose it was my word against his and they needed him too much, what with Harald going into exile.” She looked up. “Erik, have you thought about what you will do if I am sent into exile or if I choose to join him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I will come with you. Except . . .”

She waited for him to continue.

“Except that I will have one last try on the Red Dragon before I go.”

He was surprised to see his mother nod. “Why not? We have nothing to lose. What do you need? I will sell all the items on my character for you.”

“Arrows mostly, barrels and barrels of arrows.”

“Very well.” She sounded tired and resigned rather than hopeful.

“Mum?”

“Yes, Erik?”

“Do you want me to start pruning the trees?”

That brought a bitter smile to her face. “No, there’s no point now. Whoever moves in here after us can do it.”

Chapter 12

NOBODY KILLS DRAGONS

Earlier in the
day, a strong wind had disturbed the sea. Far out on the horizon, white-topped waves were still rolling determinedly towards the shore, and, all along the line of the water’s edge, stones and boulders were gray and slick with the spill of seawater. A distant faint growl sounded regularly as the restless sea heaved and sucked at a bay full of pebbles.

“Well?” asked Erik defiantly.

B.E. was sitting on a rock, unconsciously flicking small stones with his thumb, trying to land them in a rock pool. “I am stunned. Harald in exile for violence. Why did he do it?”

“Listen, you oaf!” snapped Injeborg. “Erik said that was private.”

“True.” B.E. looked slightly chastised. “But it’s hard to understand.”

“I’m not excusing violence. All I can say is that he lost his temper in circumstances that would have tested anybody,” Erik offered.

“Erik,” interrupted Injeborg, “you don’t have to answer to us. We’re your friends; we’re on your side, right?” She glared at B.E. “And we want Harald back. So . . .” She relaxed a little. “You said you had a plan. Tell us about it.”

“I don’t like this. You know what the penalty is for harboring an exile.” Bjorn looked unhappy.

“I think I can get around that.”

“All right, Erik, let’s hear it.” B.E. reached down and closed his fist around another pile of tiny smooth stones.

“I think we should force Central Allocations into drawing up a law offering amnesty to everyone on Roftig Island.”

“Erik, that’s brilliant.” Injeborg leapt up at once, waving her arms. “See, Bjorn. Nothing illegal. Harald will be back with us and we can live as normal.”

“Apart from one small problem,” sneered B.E.

“You mean Central Allocations will never allow it.” Erik knew the next step of the argument was the crucial one. “That’s why we have to kill the Red Dragon first.” He had been ready with this answer.

B.E. accidentally let all the stones run through his hand as he looked up in surprise. “Say that again?”

“We have to kill Inry’aat, the Red Dragon, first. Then we use the wealth to become an unbeatable team. After which we propose the amnesty.”

“Well, you have to admire the audacity.” B.E. broke into his characteristic wide smile, which always seemed to be more cynical than good humored.

“The dragon. That’s not possible.” Sigrid spoke for them all. Even Injeborg looked skeptical.

“Yes, it’s possible. I’ve spent hours up there, and I’m convinced it can be done.” Erik stood up so that he could see everyone and measure their response. I honestly believe there is a flaw in the logic of the dragon’s strategy.”

“Go on.” B.E. was interested.

Picking up a large rock, Erik walked over to a patch of damp sand. “This is the dragon’s cave.” He dropped the rock. “Here is Bjorn, here is Injeborg, this is Sigrid, and this you, B.E.”

The four crosses in the sand formed a rough semicircle facing the stone, with a gap between the top and bottom pairs.

“Now I trigger Inry’aat and run back to here.” Erik placed a cross in the gap, so that they were now all about equal distance from one another. “Meanwhile, Bjorn shoots, or, if he misses, Injeborg.” He looked up to see them all attentive. “The point is that the dragon changes target to the last person to hit it. So it turns. But before it can get into range to pour firebreath onto Bjorn, B.E. fires, or Sigrid, from the opposite side. So then it turns again. Get it?”

“I see. So we keep it turning. Never letting it come too close to someone.” B.E. looked seriously at the marks. “Blood and vengeance, Erik. This might work if your research is right!”

“What about you, Erik? What does Cindella do?” asked Injeborg.

“I am ready in case we get two misses. That brings Inry’aat my way until you can get the dragon back into the position you need.”

“And if you miss as well?” asked Bjorn slowly.

“Then we will all die very quickly.”

Bjorn scowled, but B.E. was interested. “What about the ranges? Have you studied them?”

“Oh, yes. I know exactly where to stand, and the length of its firebreath.”

“All right. I’m in.” B.E. stood up and brushed his hands free of the clinging pieces of pebble. “Bjorn, what do you think?”

“I’m sorry, but I think it’s a bad idea. I know Erik wants his dad back, but I think we’ll all be killed.” Bjorn looked down at the rocks, his face heavy with discontent. He hated to disagree with his friends.

“But Bjorn, think of the wealth. Imagine, thousands and thousands of bezants’ worth of treasure. If Erik is right, we won’t even need to go to Mikelgard; we will be rich, and famous!”

“If . . .” Bjorn shook his head, frowning. “If Erik is right about this, why hasn’t someone else done it already?”

“I agree with Bjorn,” Sigrid interjected. “Farmers’ children just don’t kill dragons. Nobody kills dragons these days. But if they did, it would be the people in Mikelgard, with all their magic and expensive gear.”

“But nobody even thinks about fighting dragons anymore.” Injeborg spoke up. Erik had known that he could count on her. “Only our Erik. That’s why he has seen something that they have missed.” She turned to her brother, “Come on, Bjorn. Let’s try it.”

“No. It’s hopeless.”

Injeborg stamped her foot in frustration. “You are always waiting for something to happen to you. But that’s not how life is. You have to be creative, set out to change the situation. They know how to do that in Central Allocations. Why can’t we be the same?”

As Erik knew well, Bjorn could be extremely stubborn, and his expression was forming the determined scowl that meant he would not be moved.

“Bjorn, please,” he broke in before his friend could say something that he would never retract. “Don’t make up your mind just now. At least think about it, and join us all in the amphitheater. We can practice.”

“The library cannot generate dragons,” Bjorn pointed out.

“No, but it can give us wyverns to practice on, and they follow the same strategy.”

Erik understood Bjorn only too well. A part of him, a sad-sounding voice that spoke when he was alone with his thoughts at night, had voiced these objections, and more. It was a struggle not to admit that Bjorn was right, that it was wiser to keep the gains that had brought them so near to University than throw it all away in a vain effort to kill the dragon. He was roused from his growing mood of self-defeat by unexpected support.

“Well, I think Erik is onto something!” B.E. clapped his hands together, enthusiasm visibly filling his body with energy. “You can’t refuse to practice in the arena, can you, Bjorn? And I bet it works, you know.” The fire in B.E.’s eyes was a fire of jewels, gold, and glory.

“Very well. Let us see what happens in the arena.” Bjorn respected B.E. As the oldest and most experienced player among them, he was to be taken seriously.

 

As he ran home to gather up some fruit and water, the darkness that had been coloring his thoughts for the last day began to lift, and Erik was almost cheerful as he passed Freya in the kitchen.

“We are going to Hope Library to practice for the dragon!”

“Good, Erik dear. Good.” She sounded listless, but he could not stop to talk to her now.

Cindella looked sprightly, especially in the knee-length Boots of the Lupine Lord, which Harald had lent her for the graduation tournament and which she might now never get a chance to return.

Howling sound and color whirled all around him, then he was inside Epic.

Cindella ran quickly through the streets of Newhaven until she turned into the wide street that ran to the amphitheater. An impressive stone arch lined the entrance, four times the height of a person. Way up in the stonework, nearly out of sight, pigeons were walking to and fro, the wall stained from their mess. The arena was quiet. Very few people spent time practicing when they could be earning pennies. The towering layers of seats were all silent and empty; they stretched away, row after row mounting dizzyingly to the barely discernible statues around the rim of the amphitheater.

The others appeared: Bjorn as his pot-headed, sturdy-looking warrior; B.E. a slender elven fighter, carrying a steel longsword; Sigrid a healer in a simple woollen robe; and Injeborg, a young witch.

“Osterfjord Players, are you ready?” The librarian’s voice cut sharply through the air, echoing throughout the stadium.

“Just a moment, Thorstein, please.” Erik waved them into position. All had bows, which looked ungainly on the healer and the witch, but B.E.’s elf was a natural archer.

“Ready now.”

“Wyvern simulation incoming.”

A shimmer in the center of the sandy fighting area, becoming a ferocious giant silver lizard. Immediately the wyvern took off, its flapping wings sending out whirlwinds of bitter sand. The moment that Erik could see the rage in its red eye and feel a hint of the heat radiating from the body of the creature, he knew that something had gone wrong. It was too close. With an appalling shriek, the Wyvern blasted flame from its mouth and all went black.

Rather than unclip, Erik waited, his ears ringing; he did not expect to be left in the dark for long, nor was he.

“Resetting. Ready?” Thorstein’s voice came into the darkness.

“Yes, please.”

The librarian chuckled. “That was quick. Not often you see a group down so fast. Want a less dangerous creature?”

“No, thanks, Thorstein. Something went wrong that time.”

“Heh. It certainly did.”

A whirlpool of color and sound dragged him back to Cindella and the amphitheater.

“Sorry, everyone. I wasn’t ready. I had my head down when it appeared.” B.E.’s voice was hesitant, acutely embarrassed.

“And I missed,” added Sigrid.

“Never mind. Everyone set this time?” Erik asked.

When they had all replied in the affirmative, he shouted out, “Again please, Thorstein.”

“Here it comes.”

This time, before it could charge anyone, the wyvern was stung with an arrow from B.E. It flapped around towards him. Bjorn then hit, the arrow flying away off the creature’s spine, but the blow was enough to divert it. Then B.E. again. Back and forth the wyvern turned, sometimes gaining on an opponent as an archer fumbled to notch the arrow quickly, but always being struck before it could come close enough to blast fire. When, as sometimes happened, both archers on one side of the ground missed, Cindella fired, turning the wyvern towards her, and giving the others time to restore the pattern.

The strategy was working perfectly!

Slowly but surely the wyvern began to look haggard and torn from the arrows that pierced its body. No longer able to fly, it hissed as it lurched one way, then the other, unable to close in on an opponent. Finally it collapsed.

“Amazing! It works!” B.E. was jubilant, his elven warrior throwing his arms skyward.

“Wonderful!” Injeborg’s witch slapped Cindella on the back.

“Wait!” Sigrid shouted. “Look, the tail, it’s still twitching!”

Before they could react, the wyvern surged up towards Sigrid’s healer, its feigned death having broken the pattern that the players had established. The crunch as it sank its teeth into her leather-clad body was excruciating.

“Yaaa!” B.E. ran bravely in, brandishing his sword.

The creature snapped its head around and blasted molten saliva onto the elf, immolating him instantly.