Epic Page 2

  #wave farewell

  She waved good-bye.

  Unclipping his headset and gloves from the computer, Erik stood up and stretched. He rubbed his ear again where it was sore from supporting the device for four hours—four precious hours given to him so that he could start catching up with the other Epic characters of his age group.

  Dusk had stolen over the land while he had been immersed in Epic. His parents and the neighbors would be in from the fields. They were probably cleaning their iron tools carefully against rust, or preparing their evening meals. A flickering light from the corridor showed that a fire had been lit downstairs. Time to face the music. Erik moved slowly and quietly down the bare wooden staircase.

  “Damnation!” It was Erik’s mum from the kitchen.

  “What is it, Mum?” Erik walked into the room.

  “Oh, Erik, I didn’t know you were there,” she sighed. “The stove is not working properly. There is no hot water at all.”

  She looked tired, but then her face brightened hopefully. “Did you make progress today?”

  “Well, yes and no.” Hating to disappoint her, Erik moved to the table and took a seat, looking at the straw placemat.

  “Yes and no?”

  “I died. But I learned . . .”

  “Oh, no. Not again. Oh, Erik, why can’t you get on in the world? The graduation tournament will come soon and you won’t have a chance.” She stopped herself abruptly. They both knew the speech. She sat at the table and looked at him until tears started to form in her eyes. Unable to look at her, Erik stared at his hands, deeply unhappy. He understood her perfectly, but stood by his new, dissenting approach to the game.

  “Erik, listen to me for your own sake. Dad and I will be reallocated somewhere soon, but you still have a chance to win some choice over your future. I just don’t understand why you are throwing it aside.”

  Erik did not respond, not wishing to upset his mum further, but not yet ready to accept her perspective.

  “Let’s see what your dad has to say.” Freya got up and opened the door onto the yard. “Harald, can you come in?” she called.

  “Dinner already?” Erik’s dad brought an armful of logs with him from the woodshed. He smiled at Erik but quickly caught the mood. “What’s the matter?”

  “Erik died again.”

  “Just a moment.”

  They stayed silent while Harald took the logs through. Erik’s stomach tightened with anxiety. His dad came back, brushing the chips from his jumper.

  “What got you, son?” Harald’s voice was noncommittal.

  “The Red Dragon again.” Erik was reluctant to admit this; it sounded like he was stupid. It was hard to explain.

  “Again? That’s how many. Three?” Harald sat down opposite him.

  “Four.”

  Harald nodded slowly. “How many more before you give up on it?”

  “Dunno,” Erik said curtly. “Look. I’m not giving up on it until I’m convinced that it’s impossible. But I have my reasons. It can be done.”

  “But if that is true, why has no one else killed Inry’aat, the Red Dragon?” His mum was standing beside the table, arms folded.

  “Because they’ve been too busy fighting to see what I saw.”

  “Which was?” asked Harald.

  Erik glanced up from the mat he was toying with. A note of genuine interest had replaced parental severity in his dad’s voice.

  “The attack pattern of the dragon,” Erik hurried on. “See, it doesn’t charge for the nearest opponent but the one who is doing the most damage.”

  Harald nodded. “Intelligent creatures usually do that.”

  “Yes. But it turns mid-charge, if it decides a new person is the greater threat.”

  “Go on.”

  “The timing would have to be precise, and the amount of damage would have to be consistent. But if a group of three or four were in the right places, you could get it to keep on retargeting without actually reaching anyone.”

  Harald shook his head. “I understand what you are saying. But Epic is too well designed. They would never leave such a loophole on a dragon. Wishful thinking, son.”

  “If I showed you, you might believe me.”

  His mum banged a cup angrily on the table. “That’s not fair, Erik. You know your dad can’t enter Epic.”

  “You getting at me again, son?” Harald sighed, but he did not seem angry. He reached over and patted Erik’s hand. “Listen. You are a great player. You have been since you first put on a headset. Your reflexes are excellent and you understand the tricks and games that the world throws at you. But you are so far behind now. Look at Bjorn . . .”

  Erik interrupted his dad with a snort of derision.

  Harald scowled. “Bjorn is very solid. Every group needs someone like him. Hardworking. Slow gains, but safe ones. And now a good strong character. The best in the school, perhaps.”

  “In a tiny district agricultural school, perhaps. But he is nothing compared to the Mikelgard players. And that means we will never get anything from Central Allocations Bjorn’s way. I mean, look, we are going to be reallocated. How can we avoid it? We have to aim high.”

  “Well. Erik has a point. When was the last dragon killed?” Harald glanced at his son, then smiled unexpectedly; they both knew the answer.

  “Thirty years ago, a group from Mikelgard University killed M’nan Sorth—the Black Dragon of Snowpeak Mountains.”

  “And where are they now? Mostly employed by Central Allocations, I shouldn’t wonder,” Harald answered his own question.

  Clearly exasperated with the turn in the conversation, Erik’s mum got up. Soon drawers of cutlery were slamming.

  Harald looked at Erik with a steady, blue-eyed gaze that seemed to be taking his measure. He whispered, “Listen well, Erik. Your mum is ill. She cannot sleep at night.” Then his dad spoke loud enough that Freya could hear too. “Seriously though, Erik. If you clip up every night after work, you might still get somewhere in time for the graduation competition.”

  “We could even give him more time during the day,” added Freya, turning to face the table. “There’s no point even trying to meet our targets now.”

  “True,” agreed Harald. “So how about it, son? No more deaths. No more dragon.”

  “Very well.” Erik’s heart sank at the thought of the hours and hours of boring accumulation ahead of him, so that he could acquire enough copper bits for his character to have even the minimum of basic equipment.

  “Promise?” Freya’s eyes narrowed, detecting the reluctance in Erik’s voice.

  “Promise,” he answered.

  Chapter 3

  A NOTE, A MAP, AND SOME ADVICE

  It was raining outside, turning the soil too muddy for the transfer of the delicate olive shoots from their clay pots to the fields. So Erik had been sent inside by Freya to start his new character in Epic. He was resentful at having to promise to go nowhere near Inry’aat, the Red Dragon, but when he clipped up he remembered with pleasure that he had defied convention. His new persona was a woman with no significant attributes other than beauty.

  Erik harmonized with the equipment and a small music box chimed, unwinding its colorful sides and raising a platform on which stood his red-haired selection.

  #wave

  She waved cheerfully, making Erik smile.

  Before he could enter the world as this woman, he still had several decisions to make. Lacking all attributes but beauty, she would not perform well in any of the major disciplines. Therefore he looked through the less common options: footpad, swashbuckler, chevalier, gambler, tumbler, drifter—the list went on into the hundreds. Patiently Erik read through the summaries of the disciplines that interested him, returning to the one that stood out by its unusual description.

  Swashbuckler

  The swashbuckler is similar to the pirate, a warrior whose true home is on the high seas. However, the swashbuckler has the manners and style to make an impression in urban environmen
ts. They combine a lightly armored fighting skill with much of the knowledge of a thief and the je ne sais quoi of a court dandy. When it comes to swinging on a chandelier across a hall full of enemies and fending off sword-cuts from below, because one has the jewels from a crown, swashbuckling is the only discipline to have.

  Erik couldn’t imagine that this discipline would be particularly good, as in all his hours of playing Epic he had never come across another swashbuckler. But then again that could be because no one ever experimented as the game’s designers had intended. It was thought that centuries ago the game had been designed to amuse colonists traveling in a half-frozen state through the vast distances of space. It was not supposed to be about the slow accumulation of pennies, nor even for conflict resolution—although that made more sense to Erik. No, the designers had created the game for fun. And his newly discovered, lighthearted description of the swashbuckler discipline was further evidence that the designers had not created the world for the dour professionals of Central Allocations.

  So, she was a swashbuckler, and Erik would find out shortly the wisdom of that decision. Now the final choice. Always a tricky one. What would his new name be? For once it could not be his own name, as was conventional. Perhaps Freya then, after his mum? No. Too many Freyas already. Something with je ne sais quoi, whatever that was. Cinderella. That was nearly right, but maybe he should not use an exact copy of the fairy-story name. Sinbad the sailor. There were a few of those around already and of course they were male. How about Cindella the sailor? Now that sounded right.

  Erik confirmed his decisions. A moment of silence and darkness then a rushing sound that grew rapidly in volume to a shout, accompanied by an explosion of light.

  He was back in the world of Epic.

  Where was he? This felt like the day he was introduced to Epic. As you looked around for the first time, you just could not help being amazed by how stunningly detailed and lifelike were the sights and sounds.

  An attic, cobwebs, simple furniture, a window—with a little broken pane. Outside a seagull, tucked up on the ledge. A bed, with someone? Beyond the room the wind gusted and rattled the loose window frame. Inside a heavy breathing, like a snore.

  One step towards the window, then another. Cindella moved well; Erik could feel a nimble response to his slightest command. It would take some practice not to oversteer with her. Erik reached out a hand towards the window. It was amusing that instead of a big muscled fist from a fighting character, he had a slender woman’s finger. A breeze was blowing through the broken pane. He let it wash over his fingers and arms. Touching the glass, he left a slight mark in the grime. On the ledge outside the window, the seagull shifted. It turned a bright eye to look at him through wind-ruffled feathers. With a shriek of discontent, the seagull leapt into the air and, suddenly veering, was thrown out of view by the wind.

  How long would his mark last on the window? If he went away for years would it still be there? Just how sophisticated was Epic?

  The view from where he was standing allowed Erik to make sense of his location. The street outside was narrow and dark, but there was enough of a gap between the grimy buildings to see the masts of a tall ship in the distance. He was high up in an attic in the seedy dockside area of Newhaven, one of the great Epic towns. For a moment he felt slightly disappointed. Newhaven was very familiar to Erik, while the unknown was always thrilling. But on the positive side it meant he could meet up with his friends easily. Like the vast majority of newer players, they were to the north of the city, hunting kobolds, goblins, and wild animals.

  Time to check his inventory. Weapons: throwing dagger, rapier.

  Magic:

  Food: loaf of bread, two apples.

  Drink: flask of water.

  Armor:

  Pouch:

  Purse: four silver ducats, eighteen pennies.

  Fairly disappointing. The money was not bad, but with no armor at all, he would be extremely vulnerable in a fight. He would have to buy a shield and that would take up most of the money.

  Next Erik called up the skills menu.

  Combat: Fence, throw dagger, dodge, parry, riposte, mock.

  Thieves: Move silently, pick locks, appraise jewelry, climb.

  Others: Sail, swim, ride, sing, dance.

  Now that was excellent. The swashbuckler description had not let him down. No wonder they hadn’t listed all the skills. He’d never had this many for a new character; nearly all the start-up thief skills, and some great fighting skills. Plus there were two skills listed that Erik had never seen before: mock and dance. Dance was fairly self-evident, although who could say when it would ever be used? Mock, though, as a combat skill? Curious. He would have to ask Bjorn—or try it out and see what happened.

  Looking again at the combat skills, it was clear that he should not buy a shield or even much armor. Dodge, parry, and riposte were all abilities whose effectiveness was reduced by too much weight. Instead he was going to have to rely on swiftness of movement.

  Well, time to move on. Perhaps some shopping first, before going to the fighting grounds—the incredibly boring fighting grounds. There was a massive and complex world to explore, but he had promised his mum he was going to survive this time. And that meant hacking away at the same creatures, again and again, taking pennies from their purses or selling their skins if they were wild animals.

  Partly to put off having to go to familiar territory, and partly out of genuine curiosity, Erik looked again around the room. Ah, of course, the sleeping person. Approaching the bed, Erik could see a white-bearded, elderly man, wrapped in his blanket, facing the wall. He could tell at once from the extraordinary detail in the man’s face that it was an NPC. One of the hundreds of thousands of people controlled by the computer that was at the heart of Epic. He reached out a slender hand and touched the man’s shoulder.

  “Huh? What?” The harsh breathing stopped. His eyes opened.

  #smile

  “Oh, it’s you, Cindella.” The bearded man suddenly smiled back. “It is always a pleasure to look at you, my daughter. You are so beautiful.”

  There was a pause.

  “The pleasure is mine,” tried Erik.

  No response. The old man remained paused, broad smile on his face.

  “Daughter?” offered Erik. Usually the conversation of an NPC was extremely limited and tended to follow certain key words in the previous sentence.

  “Ah, you have been like a daughter to me, ever since I found you and brought you up aboard the ship. You remember the Black Falcon?”

  “I remember the Black Falcon.” Erik went along with the storyline.

  The old man suddenly scowled. “A curse on Duke Raymond. When he betrayed us and sank the Black Falcon, he condemned us to this life of poverty. I am too old to begin the pirate life again, but you, you will go far. And you will avenge us all, myself and the crew.”

  “I will avenge us all,” Erik replied dutifully.

  The old man smiled with satisfaction. “I know you will. Sadly I have nothing I can give you apart from a note, a map, and some advice.”

  “What advice?”

  No response.

  “What note?”

  “This is a letter of introduction. Just give it to the captain of any ship and there is no doubt that you will be taken on as a member of the crew. It tells of your sailing skills and has my seal: Captain Sharky of the Black Falcon.”

  A scroll with a red wax seal appeared in his hand, which he promptly reallocated to his pouch. This was fun, thought Erik. Much more interesting than his previous characters. None of them had a quest of their own from the beginning. Or perhaps they had, he suddenly realized, but he had never noticed because he hadn’t taken the time to talk to the nearby NPCs.

  “What map?”

  “Aha, young Cindella. I have guarded this map for years in the hope of gaining a ship once more, but now it is getting too late for me. This map shows the location of the treasure we buried after capturing the Queen�
�s Messenger.”

  Another scroll appeared in Erik’s hand. He opened it. It was a nautical map of a group of islands—the Skull Islands. Two long lines were drawn that crossed at a point marked “!”.

  “Where are the Skull Islands?”

  “The Skull Islands are a long way to the west. You will have to sail to Cassinopia and get detailed information from there.”

  “What treasure?”

  “There are hundreds of gold pieces hidden there and much more besides.”

  “What else is hidden there?”

  No response.

  “What was the Queen’s Messenger?”

  The old man remained silent, staring up at Cindella.

  Putting the map away in his pouch, Erik tried another question.

  “What advice?”

  This time, the old man grabbed Cindella’s hand and held it earnestly.

  “Trust no one. There is no captain I know who would share the treasure with you. If they knew you had the map, they would steal it from you, or worse. To get the treasure, you will have to get your own ship. And it will need to be a well-protected ship. Many dangerous creatures reside in the Skull Islands.” He fell back with a sigh.

  “What creatures? What protection?”

  With a mental shrug, Erik prepared to leave.

  #bye

  “Good-bye, my daughter. Fare well on your voyages. And come to visit me from time to time.”

  “I will visit you from time to time.”

  “Thank you, Cindella. I will miss your beauty. But it is time for you to make your own way in the world.”

  #bye

  Captain Sharky gave a tired wave from his bed and turned over.

  Erik almost skipped from the room. This really was enjoyable. This was a proper adventure. If you had plenty of time, you could gradually earn the money to make a voyage to Cassinopia, hire a ship, and get the treasure. The only problem was, Erik did not have a lot of time. The Epic graduation championships were to take place in less than two months.