Epic
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
Chapter 2 - IN PRAISE OF BEAUTY
Chapter 3 - A NOTE, A MAP, AND SOME ADVICE
Chapter 4 - THE LAW OF VIOLENCE
Chapter 5 - A GLITTER OF METAL PANELS
Chapter 6 - DUELS IN THE ARENA
Chapter 7 - THE FIRST SIGNS OF DISCORD
Chapter 8 - BEHOLD, THE EXECUTIONER
Chapter 9 - FEVER AND DISTRESS
Chapter 10 - HARALD UNMASKED
Chapter 11 - BROKEN GLASS
Chapter 12 - NOBODY KILLS DRAGONS
Chapter 13 - THE DRAGON’S LAIR
Chapter 14 - THE COMMITTEE DIVIDED
Chapter 15 - TWO STRANGE INTRODUCTIONS
Chapter 16 - A BRIBE
Chapter 17 - A DANGEROUS PHILOSOPHY
Chapter 18 - A NEW CAUSE FOR CONCERN
Chapter 19 - A MOTLEY CREW
Chapter 20 - DANGER AT SEA
Chapter 21 - THE GLOATING PIRATE
Chapter 22 - A CRUEL DISMISSAL
Chapter 23 - LANDSCAPE PAINTING
Chapter 24 - ARGUING WITH A VAMPYRE
Chapter 25 - AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
Chapter 26 - THE KING OF THE MERMEN
Chapter 27 - A VERY THOROUGH COUP
Chapter 28 - FINEM FACERE MUNDO
Chapter 29 - THE CALL TO ARMS
Chapter 30 - WAR
Chapter 31 - THE TOUCH OF THE VAMPYRE
Chapter 32 - EPICUS ULTIMA
Chapter 33 - A PARTY
Acknowledgements
Teaser chapter
THE COMMITTEE
“We preside over a planet of what, five million souls? A peaceful society, a stable society. And what keeps it so? Epic.”
THE PEOPLE
“Do Central Allocations even think about what it means to split up friends and families? But what can we do? Even to challenge them on a small decision is to be killed in the arena like your mother. Let alone if someone suggested a really radical change.” Injeborg was worked up, talking as much to herself as to Erik.
“Did you ever daydream about dueling Central Allocations and winning?” he asked her, the thought soaring up from the bottom of his heart.
“Always.”
FIREBIRD— WHERE SCIENCE FICTION SOARS™
FIREBIRD
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © Conor Kostick, 2004
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Kostick, Conor.
Epic / Conor Kostick.
p. cm.
Summary: On New Earth, a world based on a video role-playing game, fourteen-year-old Erik
persuades his friends to aid him in some unusual gambits in order to save Erik’s father from exile and
safeguard the futures of each of their families.
[1. Fantasy games—Fiction. 2. Role playing—Fiction. 3. Video games—Fiction. 4. Science Fiction.]
I. Title. PZ7.K85298Epi 2007 [Fic]—dc22 20060199958
eISBN : 978-1-101-17653-5
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
for Aoife
Chapter 1
A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
A sea mist had coated the window of the farm’s kitchen with minuscule drops of rain. Erik was trying not to think of the terrible gamble taken by his mum. His nervous attention was focused on the droplets. Erik sat perfectly still, watching the flecks of water as some of them joined together to form larger drops, and these in turn amalgamated. Eventually, a raindrop grew to the point where it could no longer cling to the glass, and with an erratic plunge rushed downward, moving all the swifter as it gathered up the water in its path—a catastrophic event in the world of the million mist droplets.
Next to Erik, apparently paying equal attention to the faded patterns in the wood of their well-worn table, sat his dad. Neither of them had spoken in over an hour, and their shoulders were hunched from tension. At long last, hollow footsteps rang out, changing in tone as they moved from wooden stair to tiled floor. The kitchen door latch was raised and his mother entered.
“Well?” asked Erik. But as soon as his mother had set foot in the kitchen, he could see from her gaunt, pale face that the news was bad.
“I’m dead,” Freya replied, a tremble in her quiet voice.
Harald stood up and pulled out a chair for her. She grasped the chair with a shaking hand and slid into it, not meeting their anxious eyes.
“The poison did no good service, then?” inquired Harald gently.
“No.” She shook her head. “I didn’t penetrate his armor.”
Taking her hand in his, Harald tried to comfort her. “You did your best. We knew it was nearly impossible.”
“At least she fought.” Erik stood up suddenly, energy flooding through him after so much stillness. His dad was a kind man, but Erik was unable to control the bitterness that came from nowhere to rage through him. Mum at least had entered the arena on their behalf; she was the truly brave one. Harald had hidden; he always hid.
“We will find a way.” Harald pointedly ignored Erik, and put an arm around Freya.
“Will we?” She let out a gulping half-cry, a sound that shook Erik with the realization that she had run out of answers too. It was frightening to see someone who had been so steady all his life unable to control herself. “Let’s be honest with each other. At least we have that.” Her eyes were tearful. “We are going to be reallocated.”
Reallocation. Work on the farm was hard. But not as hard as in the coalmines, or on the saltpans, or a great many of the other tasks that had to be done on the planet of New Earth. Reallocation would mean leaving Osterfjord and his friends, and probably it would mean being parted from his parents. Their lives were no longer their own.
“Why don’t you issue a challenge, Dad?”
“Stop it,” Harald snarled angrily. “Still you will not take my word.”
“No. I won’t. Not anymore. It doesn’t make sense.” Erik could feel shrillness rising in his voice and paused to take a breath. “What can be worse than being reallocated?”
“There is worse,” replied Harald ominously.
“Leave it, Erik. We’ve had this out a thousand times.” Freya looked up for the first time since entering the room, and met his eye. “Your father cannot fight for us. That’s the end of the matter.”
“But why?” Erik pleaded.
“I cannot say.” Harald was grim-faced.
“Blood and vengeance. I’m fourteen now. I’m
old enough. Tell me.”
“No.”
Even before he knew he was going to do it, Erik threw the clay mug he was holding against the wall. It cracked apart crisply, the clatter of shards resounding around the kitchen as they fell to the tiled floor, leaving a reddish mark on the whitewash. All three of them stared at the remains in silence. He knew what they were thinking: a massive catastrophe was about to overwhelm the family, yet they were regretting something as inconsequential as the loss of a mug. Almost at once, his anger subsided and Erik felt embarrassed and guilty; it was indeed a waste.
As they paused, each uncertain as to what needed saying, footsteps could be heard running through the yard. Hurriedly rising from her chair, Freya began to gather up the jagged pieces of pottery. Then came a rap on the door.
“Come in!” Either Harald did not care that the visitors would see the broken mug, or else he actually wanted them to.
A golden-haired girl flew in, bringing a breeze and her stocky brother in her wake.
“Injeborg, Bjorn, welcome,” Harald greeted their young neighbors. Freya placed the shards of clay behind a basket and stood up.
“Hello. We’re very sorry about the duel,” Injeborg said earnestly. Behind her Bjorn added his condolences with a nod.
With a forced smile, Freya lifted a stray hair back behind her ear. “Thank you. And thank your parents for the sword and the potion. They must have been worth months of effort. I’m sorry they went to waste.”
“Oh, don’t worry, they don’t regret it. Yours was a good cause. We will miss you terribly if you have to go.” Injeborg’s eager face suddenly clouded over as though she wished to take back her words.
“Erik, take your coat and go with your friends. Your mum and I have much to talk about.” Harald gestured to the door.
“Aye, and behind my back as always.”
Erik slammed the door as he left, the latch rattling and failing to catch. He noticed Bjorn and Injeborg exchange a glance of alarm, but no one spoke. The three walked in silence away from the farm, the hoods of their woollen jackets up over their heads, putting them each in their own world. Erik set a fast pace, even though it meant Injeborg was having to skip from time to time in order to keep up. Bjorn, however, plodded along behind with measured strides. Only when they had crested a hill and brought the sea into view did Erik relent from his moodiness. There was no point fueling his anger and despair, especially in front of his friends; they only wanted to help.
Behind them were acres and acres of olive trees, set out in neat but tedious rows that radiated out towards infinity from a small community of six farms and a large round building that held the olive press. This was his home, the village of Osterfjord. Ahead, towards the sea, the hillside was sandy and bare. Nearby was a particularly large boulder that gave shelter from the sea breeze. It had served them often before, and they went to sit underneath it now.
“Don’t be upset, Erik,” Injeborg said, tentatively moving to place her warm hand on his. “It might not be so bad. Even if they reallocate you, it could be to the saltpans. That would mean you living in Hope—not so far away.”
“And in any case,” added Bjorn, “Central Allocations won’t make a decision before graduation. That gives you a chance.”
“Did you watch?” Erik changed the subject.
“Yes. We were all in the arena, everyone from Osterfjord at least and many from Hope.” Bjorn looked cautiously at Erik out of a broad, fleshy face in which watery green eyes were holding a question.
“I couldn’t bear the waiting. And anyway I wanted to be at home for Mum.” Erik paused. “Did she fight well?”
“Very well!” exclaimed Injeborg. “She really knows how to wield a scimitar. But you know what she was up against. Ragnok must have had ten thousand bezants’ worth of armor alone.”
“More.” Bjorn knew a lot about the value of arms and armor.
“It’s so unfair.” Normally Erik considered self-pity a sign of weakness, and never let it take form in his own mind, let alone allow his friends to see it. But these were not normal circumstances. Not only was he likely to be placed among complete strangers and set to some painfully arduous work, but his own parents considered him a child still, untrustworthy and unequal to a discussion on a future that would affect them all. In his own mind he was loyal, dependable, and could hold his tongue if a secret needed to be guarded.
“Of course it is unfair. Totally unfair and unreasonable. It’s not your family’s fault the solar panel broke. That could happen to anyone. Why should you be punished?” When Injeborg was angry, her pale cheeks flushed red—only then could you see the resemblance between the slender girl and her stocky brother.
“Ya. And it’s not as if a new family could fill the quota without that power. It doesn’t really make sense to reallocate you.” Bjorn tied up the neck of his jacket as he spoke, trying to keep out the cold, damp air.
“Do Central Allocations even think about what it means to split up friends and families? But what can we do? Even to challenge them on a small decision is to be killed in the arena like your mum. Let alone if someone suggested a really radical change.” Injeborg was worked up, talking as much to herself as to Erik.
“Did you ever daydream about dueling Central Allocations and winning?” he asked her, the thought soaring up from the bottom of his heart, from where he normally hid it, saved for those moments when he lay thinking of the future.
“Always.” Injeborg looked up at him, their eyes met and Erik saw total understanding. He was glad now he had blurted out his wish.
“Not I,” Bjorn said with a shrug to convey his pragmatism. “It’s too unrealistic.”
A chaffinch landed near them, looking for shelter, head flicking busily so that everything around it could be surveyed by its two tiny black eyes. The warm hand that covered Erik’s tightened as Injeborg unconsciously stiffened, holding herself still so as not to frighten the bird. Erik tasted a happiness that was all the more precious for the bleakness that surrounded him. The affection and solidarity of his friends was a great comfort, and the prospect of losing them was more painful than the thought of having to labor in a coalmine.
The breeze, which was merely ruffling the tiny feathers of the chaffinch, making it seem like the bird was wearing a fur collar, suddenly gusted. The chaffinch was gone.
In those few moments, deep within Erik, a decision had been made. It was a decision he relished. Impossible as it sounded, he was going to fight Central Allocations and avenge the death of his mother.
Chapter 2
IN PRAISE OF BEAUTY
Dead again.
Erik sighed aloud and rubbed his ear in exasperation, anticipating the despair in his mum’s voice when she found out. Struggling to find a way to challenge Central Allocations, Erik was taking risks in Epic like never before. He was quite prepared to die in pursuit of the revenge and information he needed. But his mother would not understand. Her one hope was that Erik would escape reallocation by doing well in the annual graduation tournament. From that perspective each death was a disaster, wiping out any wealth and equipment Erik’s character had obtained. If he was not careful, he would be entering the tournament practically naked, an easy victim to any ten-year-old who had got as far as obtaining a rusty dagger.
Just as Erik reached up to unclip from Epic, the thought struck him that he should at least prepare a new persona. And that was a way to postpone telling his parents the bad news.
Gender: Female
The selection had been made almost without thought and Erik surprised himself. It was the first time he had ever chosen a woman. Usually people stuck to their own gender; indeed they generally tried to match the character as much as possible to their own figure, possibly because many marriages eventually came about from meetings within the game. In any case, the impulse pleased him. Perhaps he would be luckier as a woman.
He flicked through the enormous database of women and picked a figure. He settled for one that was small, pa
le-skinned with red hair, green eyes, and a few freckles. In build, his character conformed to him, although Erik, like his mother, had dark hair and brown eyes. Then, perversely, he allotted all his start-up points to beauty.
Serious gamers, and the whole world consisted of serious gamers, never wasted a point on beauty that could be spent on more practical attributes, or combat skills, craft skills, weapons, magic items and spells. As a result, Epic’s population of players consisted entirely of dull, gray-looking humanoids.
His friends were in for a shock; it would be impossible to explain his choices to them, as there was no rational argument in favor of throwing away every practical advantage in favor of beauty. Perhaps he could just say the creation of an attractive female character was a whim, because he knew she was not long for the world. That would be partly true, but at the same time Erik felt that she was a genuine reflection of the mood that he was in, a mood of nonconformity, of wanting to defy the usual conventions of the game.
Looked at from every angle, she was an impressive creation. She was stunning. Lacking any armor, she stood in tunic and trousers, looking lithe and confident; you could feel the glow of energy from within her.
#smile
She grinned cheekily at Erik and his heart skipped; the vividness of the facial animation was lifelike. A smile command issued to any of his previous characters would have seen the gray polygons of their head shuffle in a gesture indistinguishable from a snarl. He chuckled aloud, the cloud of his recent death lifting. This was fun. She might not last a week—especially given his plan—but he already felt a fondness towards his new alter ego. She would stand out and be the cause of a lot of questioning. She looked more like an NPC—the computer-generated Non-Player Characters—than a player’s character.