Epic Page 4

  Harald shrugged. “First things first. Are you well, Erik?”

  “I’m thine, Dad. It dothen’t hurt a bit.”

  Harald crouched in front of his tiny son and, pushing Erik’s lip to one side with his thumb, stared for a while at the broken tooth. “Hmm. It might function all right. But you are going to have a crooked smile for a long time.”

  “There is no way of capping it?” asked Rolfson.

  “Maybe in Mikelgard.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What about the violation? Can we say it was an accident that occurred while shaking for olives?” Rolfson was pale and stuttered.

  “We could.” Harald gave a severe glance to the children. He scowled at Injeborg. “You do understand that people never, ever fight or hurt each other.”

  The little girl gave a violent nod.

  “Our ancestors left their home planet centuries ago because of violence, and for all we know that planet was destroyed by war, as we have been on our own ever since. Those first settlers brought with them one rule, a rule that we have obeyed ever since. There is never any reason for violence.”

  The children had heard this lecture a hundred times, but suddenly it sounded far more important than ever before.

  “We weren’t fighting, sir,” interjected B.E. “We were just playing Epic.”

  “Epic? How?” asked Rolfson.

  “We were being knights,” replied B.E.

  Harald gave a wry grimace. “The whole point of the game is to provide an alternative to fighting—not to cause it.” He squatted so that he was eye level with Injeborg. “Now, children. Can you all keep a secret?”

  They nodded earnestly as his gaze moved from one to the other, assessing them.

  “What you did might be considered fighting. And if that’s so, Bjorn is old enough to get into a lot of trouble. A judge could even exile him, taking into consideration that Erik was hurt.”

  “I’m noth hurt, Dad.”

  “Listen. If you are asked, you must say Erik broke his tooth getting olives. Understand?”

  They all nodded again, impressed by the seriousness in Harald’s voice.

  “Let’s hope for the best,” Harald sighed, and glanced at Rolfson.

  “Do you have to tell Freya?” Rolfson asked him, still sounding anxious.

  “Yes. I tell her everything. But don’t worry. Neither of us will say anything more on the matter.”

  Rolfson nodded several times, trying to reassure himself.

  Later, as a treat, Erik was riding Leban the donkey as it walked around and around, forcing the press down on the olives, their juice running thick and lumpy into clay pots. His dad led the donkey by the halter.

  “Of everybody involved, you are the one who is most likely to forget our secret.” Harald looked solemn.

  “Why, Dad?”

  “Because everyone else will soon no longer need to talk about it, but you, you will have that broken tooth and people will always ask.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  “Good boy. You understand why it is important?”

  “Not really. We were only playing.”

  “I know. I know. That’s why I’m not cross with Bjorn or Big Erik. But it’s the judges. They can be very, very strict about fighting. You know the only rule of our society.”

  “Yeth. Never harm anyone.”

  “They might think Bjorn harmed you deliberately.”

  Erik laughed, “It wathn’t him. It was Injeborg!”

  “I’m not blaming anyone. And don’t you either, or when you are older you will feel bitter about your looks.”

  “No. Anyway,” Erik said, giving his dad a broken smile, “I broke it jumping for olives.”

  Harald smiled back with the same proud expression he had worn when Erik had unclipped after his first Epic session.

  Chapter 5

  A GLITTER OF METAL PANELS

  “Olives again?” Erik groaned as he joined his mum at the table.

  “With bread and cheese, it’s a very good diet. You will live a long time if you eat like this every day,” his mum lectured him, cutting the bread as she did so.

  “Hello, hello.” Freshly scrubbed, Harald came into the room.

  For a while, there was silence as they all ate, Erik making a pattern from his olive stones.

  “I think that we have to ask to be reallocated to coal mining,” Harald said without looking up. Freya stopped eating.

  “You want to work in a mine?”

  “It’s the only guarantee we can stay together as a family.” Harald paused, still looking at his plate. “Rolfson says it’s not too bad.”

  “But he only did it for a year.” Freya sounded resigned rather than seriously opposed to the idea.

  Harald tore apart a great piece of bread in his hands. “There is another option, though.” Erik caught them exchanging a serious look.

  “I was thinking of a district-based appeals procedure,” Harald continued.

  “We need to explain to Erik exactly how a team challenge works.” Freya rested her hand lightly on Erik’s arm and looked intently at Harald.

  “Hope District lodges a complaint that it is being discriminated against in the allocation of the remaining solar panels. Five players each; Hope against a team fielded by Central Allocations. In other words, the best on the planet.”

  “And so we would have no more chance than I did alone?”

  “Hmmm.” Harald shrugged. “We might have a chance, a slim one, but only if I was to play.”

  Erik paused, fork halfway to his mouth. Astonished, he held his breath and tried to avoid being noticed. So many questions, but he knew better than to pry. They would stop talking and send him away.

  “How much of a chance?” Freya continued her line of thought.

  “About one in five. We need a melee-based environment. Foggy weather would be good.”

  “Do it,” Freya said firmly.

  Harald nodded, his eyes glistening with energy. “The rest of the district suggested we try it. They will be pleased.” Hope was built on a dry, rocky plateau; it could be seen for miles, far beyond the limit of the district for which it acted as a regional center. Strangely, considering theirs was a world without violence, the original settlers had built a ring of white stone houses around the perimeter of the hilltop, like a defensive wall. Presumably the idea was to mark a boundary, inside which lay the heart of the town. Over the centuries, Hope had grown, with the lower slopes of the hill being occupied by smaller, less well-constructed, two-room houses. The color of the stone told the story. Whereas the higher houses were made of machine-cut, deep-quarried limestone, the lower ones were of an inferior, more easily obtained yellow sandstone. Visible above all the residences, on the highest point of the hill, was one great building of metal and glass, whose dark translucent roof glittered with the violet rays of sunlight reflected from a hundred solar panels.

  A subtle excitement in his dad’s manner encouraged Erik to think that their visit to the town of Hope was concerned with more than submitting their much-reduced olive crop. But not until they approached the outskirts of the town did Harald say anything out of the ordinary.

  “Son, your story of Cindella and the pirate treasure is exciting. But you need to obtain more information.”

  “I know.”

  “Hope has a library. Where all the information ever learned about Epic has been stored. It is our right to be able to consult that information. So we are going to pay the librarian a visit.”

  Erik had just taken the last turn on the donkey, uncomfortably squeezed between four large barrels of olives. So it was with physical pleasure, as well as to guard himself from the mocking looks of the city dwellers, that Erik dismounted and walked alongside the donkey. He rubbed the soft hair on Leban’s long nose with some affection; they had grown up together and, for Erik, Leban was more than a farmyard animal—he was a much-loved companion.

  As the path rose through the more humble house
s to the older, prouder buildings, so the nature of life on the street changed. The long lines of washing gave way to ornamental gardens and fruit trees already showing the lemons and figs that would eventually ripen on them. No longer did stray dogs bark on the hot, broken-paved streets, half angry, half friendly. The upper part of the town was the domain of well-fed cats, which could be spotted stalking carefully through the shadows, or leaping gracefully from windowsill to the narrow cat walkways of garden walls.

  Then, past the outer ring of sturdy white residences, was the town square, busy with people bringing their harvest for accounting and communal storage. Each time that Erik had come to Hope he had struggled through the same narrow paths left between the closely packed tents and stalls, so that he believed them to be a permanent feature of the town. But his dad insisted that after dark the tents were taken down and the square emptied, becoming a place of quiet unless disturbed by the near-human shrieks of cats using it as their battleground.

  And the people. It seemed impossible that so many people should live together, whether the innumerable families in the rough, dry stone shanties, or the throngs that traded in the market. Impossible but exciting. So many people in comparison to their small village that Erik always felt shy on coming to Hope. Not least because there were many more girls his own age. In Osterfjord there was only Injeborg, and since they had grown up side by side as neighbors, she was more like a sister than anything else.

  Even from a distance it was evident that the library was a very different building from the rest of the town. Its roof glittered with the reflections from hundreds of metal panels—all tipped slightly towards a bright sun. Several tall metal posts stood up from the roof. There were more glass windows in the walls of the building than in the whole of Osterfjord.

  Close up it was stranger still. For a start it was cool inside, despite the heat of the day. Also peculiar was a soft humming. Like the sea but quieter and less rhythmic. At the center was a pit with a large circular table, around which were placed twenty chairs. They were all occupied, with people of differing ages clipped up and in the world of Epic. It was strange to see them, silent, moving only their hands, while in Epic they would be running, shouting, and fighting.

  “Harald, and this must be Erik Haraldson?” a cheerful, balding man greeted them.

  “Hello, Thorstein. You are right. This is Thorstein, Erik. He is the Hope librarian.”

  Erik shook hands with the librarian.

  “Oh, the poor lad. How did he do that?” Thorstein was looking at Erik’s face.

  Erik momentarily looked up at his dad’s impassive face. “I fell over when shaking the olive tree.”

  “Tut, tut,” sympathized Thorstein. “Still, perhaps one day we will get a visit from the Mikelgard dentist and she can fix you up with a new tooth.”

  Harald laughed cynically. “We’ve been waiting seven years for that.”

  Thorstein nodded, admitting defeat on the point. “So, Harald, Erik, how can I help?”

  “Erik needs information.”

  Thorstein waited attentively.

  “You tell him, Erik,” urged his dad. “It’s all right,” he added, noticing Erik’s hesitation. “Whatever you tell Thorstein will be completely confidential.”

  As Erik told the story of Cindella and the pirate’s treasure, an eager gleam appeared in the librarian’s deep-sunk eyes.

  “Interesting, very interesting. Follow me.” Thorstein lumbered swiftly to his desk and clipped himself up. “I will just be a moment.”

  “That’s a good sign, son.” Harald patted Erik on the arm.

  As Thorstein silently worked his fingers and turned his head back and forth, Erik looked around the library. It was decorated with scenes that had somehow been taken from the world of Epic and mounted as pictures. Many of the scenes were familiar, pictures of Newhaven, the cathedral, the amphitheater. But also there were strange scenes. Erik walked over to where he could see a warrior in a red cape standing on a glacier. In the distance, austere mountain peaks formed row after row of jagged white teeth. It seemed as though the dark heavy sky had forced open the jaws of the world and was resting on the sharp points of its fangs.

  The caption read: Olaf the Red exploring the Mountains of Hate.

  “Dad, who was Olaf the Red?”

  Harald shrugged. “I do not know. He must have existed a long time ago. Nobody explores anymore.”

  “Here.” Thorstein was back with them. He smiled at Erik’s eager face. “Good news.” The librarian glanced around to check that no one could hear. “As far as I know, unless it has gone unreported—which is most unlikely—your quest has not been undertaken before.”

  “So the treasure could still be there?” Erik looked to the librarian for confirmation.

  “Oh indeed, it could. Your Captain Sharky is a listed character, who was a pirate some fifty years ago. The Queen’s Messenger was a royal ship based in Cassinopia around the same time. It is a very, very promising quest, young man.” Thorstein’s face wrinkled with lines around the eyes that showed he was accustomed to smiling.

  “Great, after the graduation tournament, I’ll sail to Cassinopia then.”

  A large hand reached out to touch Erik on the shoulder as if to check him. Thorstein looked somber again. “Not so fast, young one. This is a quest that you need preparation for. The Skull Islands are somewhat explored and they are home to very dangerous predators. The sea is full of sharks, but worse, Rocs have a nest in a mountain of one of the islands. You, and whoever comes with you, will need to have excellent skill levels and equipment.”

  Erik let out a long sigh.

  Harald glanced at Thorstein, who rolled his eyes up, as if to share a slight amusement at the impetuous nature of youth.

  “Take your time, young man,” said the librarian. “A quest like this will make you rich, but not if you hurry. Then you will be dead and it will be lost to you forever.”

  “Well, now that we are without a solar panel, we do not have time on our side,” Erik muttered bitterly in reply.

  “You also.” Thorstein looked down. “Times are getting hard.”

  “That brings up my reason for being here.” Harald cast a shrewd look at the librarian. “I have a team of five who are willing to challenge Central Allocations. We wish to lodge a complaint that the Hope District is facing discrimination in the distribution of solar panels.”

  “That is your right, of course, but I would urge against it. You cannot defeat their teams. You will die for no gain.” Thorstein shook his head solemnly.

  “Enter the complaint, please.” Harald said no more. So, after a pause, Thorstein lumbered back to his chair and sank heavily back into it. With one last somber look their way, he clipped himself up.

  Soon he stood up again. “The complaint is registered. There will be a trial in the amphitheater in two weeks’ time, eight o’clock our time.”

  “Thank you, Thorstein.”

  The librarian shrugged. “I sympathize with you. But I am sorry that you are spending your lives so uselessly.”

  Chapter 6

  DUELS IN THE ARENA

  The arenas of Epic’s great cities were intended to be practice grounds. You took your character along and you could practice combat in an environment where it did not matter if you died—you simply reappeared at the arena entrance. It was a chance to discover how effective your weapons and spells were, and to improve your skills. Over the years, public battle in the amphitheater had become the method of conflict resolution.

  The arena at Newhaven was enormous, a massive stone structure with steps rising from the wide circular theater at the center to dizzying heights at the back. Statues of warriors lined the perimeter facing the amphitheater—silent and unresponsive witnesses to the centuries of battle that had taken place on the sandy floor far below them.

  Today the amphitheater seats were about a third full, mostly with the dull gray figures which represented people watching the game via their characters. Here and th
ere, standing out in their color and definition, NPCs were also in attendance. Erik was present in his persona as Cindella. Beside him were Bjorn, Injeborg, B.E., and B.E.’s younger sister, Sigrid, all in their characters—a warrior, a witch, another warrior, and a healer, respectively. Many families in Hope District had stopped work and were clipped up to Epic to watch the duel—it was an occasion that justified a break in their labor. For a huge national event, such as the final rounds of the annual graduation, the amphitheater would be near full. For a small district appealing against Central Allocations they had done well to fill even a fifth of the seats, especially as none of the other cases due that day had any planetary significance.

  It was with some impatience that Erik heard an announcement across the amphitheater.

  “Case number 133, year 1124. Snorri the warrior versus Central Allocations. Snorri the warrior from Estvam accuses Central Allocations of unfairly denying his wife a hip operation. The contest will be to the death. Random terrain.”

  A warrior entered the amphitheater, half covered in chain-mail armor and carrying an ax. A few cheers went up for him and he waved to the loudest part of the crowd.

  “Poor man,” Injeborg said, and her tone reflected the genuine pity in her real voice. “What chance has he got?”

  “What chance has any of us got?” uttered Bjorn glumly.

  From that uncharacteristic remark, Erik realized that Injeborg and Bjorn were as nervous as he was—they were just better at not showing it. After all, both their parents were going into the amphitheater, and with them a life’s savings of arms, armor, and spells. All week, people from the district had been visiting their characters in the world of Epic and giving them presents—such as healing potions or pieces of armor. But it was going to be nearly as difficult for a district team as an individual to beat Central Allocations.

  Jeers and boos alerted Erik to the arrival of the Central Allocations warrior, Ragnok Strongarm.

  “I know why I hate him—for killing my mum. But why does all the crowd shout out against him?” Erik found the stadium’s response to the C.A. warrior bemusing, although he was glad to add his voice to the catcalls.