Epic Read online

  “Well, he is new to Central Allocations. He has achieved very little in the game of Epic outside of the arena. But Hope District dislikes him because he killed the agricultural school headmistress when she fought for the school to have another tractor,” B.E. replied.

  “And he led a team that defeated Greenrocks when they objected to the changing of their crops to rapeseed,” Bjorn added grimly.

  “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten that,” B.E. said, nodding.

  Bowing to the crowd, Ragnok Strongarm seemed to be enjoying the jeers. He waved repeatedly, although not to his opponent. When his cloak was cast aside, it was evident that Ragnok was a Sidhe elf, tall and slender, with long silver hair in several braids to keep it from his face. His armor glittered with blue and gold light.

  B.E. whistled in appreciation. “That chain mail alone has got to be worth ten thousand bezants.”

  “Combatants ready. Three, two, one, begin!”

  In a blink, the floor of the amphitheater had changed. Suddenly it was a pool of clear, deep blue water; platforms were moving around upon its surface as though they were performing a highly ritualized dance. There were cheers and laughter from the crowd. This was a rare terrain.

  “I love having practice on this,” said Erik, his appreciation of the unusual duel conditions lifting him out of his nervous silence for a moment. “Did you ever try it? The trick is to pick a route across. It actually is harder than it looks. If you get the wrong platform first, you’ll go well astray.”

  “This is the terrain that mages must dream of,” B.E. mused aloud. “Imagine being a fighter and having to make your way across while spells are coming down around your ears.”

  With a loud shriek, an arrow flew through the air and struck the Estvam warrior. Ragnok Strongarm was making no effort to cross to his opponent, but had calmly strung his bow and was watchfully preparing his next shot. The Estvam warrior, without a bow, was desperately trying to pick a path across the pool, jumping from island to island, trying to predict the motion of the platforms. Another shrieking missile. The warrior was struck in mid-leap and spun into the water. He disappeared and did not come up—the water was clear enough for the spectators to be able to see him struggling to remove his heavy boots as he sank. His last convulsions silenced the crowd.

  “The conflict has been resolved in favor of Central Allocations.”

  Ragnok bowed and departed as the amphitheater reset itself.

  “Ugh. What a horrible way to die. His armor must have dragged him down.” Even from the limited expression available to the gray polygons of her healer, Erik could see the wince of young Sigrid.

  Erik felt sick. It was their turn next, and he could not see how they would avoid being butchered with similar ease.

  “Case number 134, year 1124. Hope District versus Central Allocations. Hope District accuses Central Allocations of discrimination in the allocations of solar panels. The contest will be to the death. Survivors of the winning team will be resurrected. Random terrain.”

  Huge cheers filled the amphitheater as the Hope team entered. Even the normally placid Bjorn was shouting himself hoarse. It brought tears to Erik’s eyes to see his friend bellowing for all his worth. While Bjorn’s character remained gray, Erik knew that across in the Rolfsons’ house he would be flushed bright red from his efforts to spur on their team.

  The Hope challenge was taken up by those families with most to gain from any new panels, who in the first instance were the residents of Osterfjord. It was strange to see his lifelong neighbors in the amphitheater. How difficult it was to believe the heroic-looking figures crossing the sand were the olive-growers who lived just a few hundred yards away.

  One of the Hope team was wrapped deep in a cloak, with his hood drawn right over his head; the others were waving back to the crowd.

  Erik felt a nudge. With a nod of her head, Injeborg indicated the hooded figure. “That must be your dad.”

  “It must be.”

  “I wonder why he is covered up?” B.E. wondered aloud.

  “So do I.” An unexpected rush of unhappiness filled Erik’s eyes with tears. He did not have his parents’ trust. They had told him nothing of the mystery of Harald’s character. But he could be trusted. After all, hadn’t he kept the story of his broken tooth a secret?

  “It must be to keep a surprise for the Central Allocations team,” Injeborg suggested. Even though the medium of the game masked his tearful eyes, Injeborg’s sympathetic glance at Erik suggested she understood something of his feelings.

  The Central Allocations team entered and the crowd grew silent.

  “Bloody vengeance!” B.E. put his face in his hands.

  “What?” Sigrid was jittery as she turned to her brother.

  “They’ve brought out their best team, I would say.” B.E. peeked between his fingers. “Halfdan the Black, Wolf, Hleid the Necromancer, Thorkell the Spellcaster, and Brynhild the Valkyrie. That’s four dragonslayers amongst them.”

  The Hope team, whose brave appearance had lifted the crowd, now appeared shabby beside the scintillating garments and powerful magical appearance of its opponents. Around Halfdan light itself seemed diminished, apart from a black glow from his boots. The strange shadows cast from his armor caused those who stood near him to appear to be just the human form for enormous and distorted-shaped demons lying on the ground. The level of noise from the audience dropped, conversations becoming subdued.

  “We don’t have a chance, do we, B.E.?” Sigrid looked up at her brother, who just gave an unhappy shrug.

  “Combatants ready. Three, two, one, begin!”

  The amphitheater flowed in an instant, to form a rocky area, with some stacks of boulders reaching shoulder height. The Hope team hesitated then, having said something to each other, ran for cover. Only four of them reached the rocks they were aiming for.

  Erik could see no sign of his dad.

  “Where’s Harald?” asked Bjorn.

  “Invisibility?” suggested B.E.

  “Ohhh, how wonderful! Let’s hope so!” Injeborg clapped, her enthusiasm encouraging them all to be more hopeful.

  The Central Allocations team was in no hurry to close on its opponents. Its spellcasters were chanting, while Halfdan and Brynhild—the two warriors—stood confidently before them, on guard. Wolf strode out and shouted a command in a strange guttural language. With a gasp from the crowd, he transformed himself into a large, fierce-looking, black wolf and began to howl.

  In contrast with the last fight, the crowd was absolutely attentive and the few voices that called out were very distinct. Erik desperately wished he was down there with the Hope team—but with a character powerful enough to withstand these legendary opponents.

  Above the amphitheater, the clouds rumbled and gathered. A great shadow fell over them all and Erik could feel the pressure of the sky.

  “Oh no,” groaned B.E. “It’s Thorkell the Spellcaster. He’s going to cast a lightning strike.”

  Almost as one, the thousands of people in the crowd were cowering in anticipation of the terrible crack in the sky as a blast of lightning was wrenched from it by the spell; some had their hands over their ears. Then they were on their feet cheering. The dark skies dissolved and sun broke through to gleam on the white silicate of the boulders in the arena floor.

  “What? What?” Erik leapt up to see Thorkell writhing on the ground, his pale blue, sigil-covered robe becoming covered in dirt, white foam around his lips. A slender elf was retreating, whirling two short swords before him in a glittering, mesmerizing pattern. Then, with a cheeky bow to the crowd, the elf stepped into a shadow and disappeared.

  Injeborg leapt up beside Erik, bright eyes searching for his.

  “Erik, it’s your dad! It’s your dad!”

  His friends were around him now, slapping his back and cheering.

  “He has to be a master thief.” B.E. shook his head. “Who would have believed that in Hope we had a master thief.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Pus
hing aside his friends, Erik leapt to his feet, fists clenched. “That’s for my mum!” He did a little jig and punched the air. “Die, all of you, die!” He shouted as loudly as he could at the remaining four members of the Central Allocations team.

  The crowd was on its feet still, cheering on the Hope team. B.E. shook his head with disbelief. “I had no idea so many people would take our side. They must feel the same way about Central Allocations.”

  Wolf gave a great howl and raced towards the Hope team. But Halfdan the Black was looking around as though panicked. He swung his great two-handed sword back and forth, nervously looking for his enemy. Brynhild, acting with a confidence more in keeping with her winged-helmeted valkyrie, grabbed him and said something in his ear. They then stood back to back, with Hleid between them, astride the dead body of Thorkell.

  The crowd was roaring on the team. The cry of “Hope! Hope!” was taken up around the amphitheater, even by those who had no relationship to the district. Without a word being said, they shared a feeling that this moment could be a piece of history. It was impossible to believe it yet, but perhaps the team from a small district could beat the mighty Mikelgard team—after all, the great mage Thorkell was down—unheard of! Could this day mark the end of the careers of four legendary dragonslayers?

  Wolf leapt from rock to rock, tongue lolling. As he approached the four other Hope players, Rolfson and his warrior companion lifted their swords and shields. But Wolf was not seeking to fight them. His charge swerved at the last moment and from a boulder he launched himself over the fighters to land on Siggida, Bjorn and Injeborg’s mother, the healer of their team. Ignoring the blows of the fighters, which did not seem to be making any impression on his thick hide, Wolf savaged at Siggida’s throat until she was dead. Snarling, he then turned towards the two warriors, mouth a bloody grin.

  “Silver weapons. We need silver, or magic,” B.E. said anxiously.

  From the shadows behind the wolf, a motion. A flashing of blades. The wolf howled and swirled about to see the source of the blows that had unexpectedly pierced him. The mysterious elf stood before him, slowly rotating his two short swords, parrying lunges from the snarling fangs of the wolf. Again the crowd was on its feet, cheering. Erik took the opportunity to examine more closely his dad’s character. It was a wood elf, smaller than a Sidhe, but stronger looking. His armor was mainly leather, but it was beautifully scrolled, suggesting it might be magic. From beneath the elf’s cape Erik could see the glimmer of golden hair—an unusual indulgence and the only clue that the character was indeed that of his father.

  The wolf was clearly slowing down, and from its panting mouth long trails of saliva full of foam hung to the ground.

  “Those swords must be poisoned,” observed Bjorn.

  “Agreed.” B.E. was raptly attentive to the battle.

  While Wolf panted in a more and more labored fashion, Erik looked back to the Central Allocations team. The remaining members were not idle. Hleid had planted her skull-capped staff in the chest of the body that she stood over. With a flourish, she gestured towards the two-blade-wielding wood elf, who was causing them so much consternation. Thorkell’s reanimated body slowly rose from the ground, then turned to face its target and flew towards him.

  “Death and destruction, what is that?” whispered Injeborg.

  “I have no idea.” B.E. clenched his hands together, conveying his dismay, despite wearing a stock expression on the gray, slabbed face of his warrior.

  Harald was glancing up from the dying Wolf from time to time, and had seen the incoming undead creature. He ran back into the shadows and disappeared once more, but the zombie version of Thorkell was not misled by the concealment; it constantly altered its flight, indicating the route of Harald’s movements.

  A flock of ravens cawed and screamed as it suddenly flew over the sides of the amphitheater and dived towards the conflict. Hleid had thrown back her purple robe and was screaming, arms aloft, white hair streaming into the sky, as she directed the birds down onto the other Hope team members. The Hope mage managed to point and direct a burst of fire at the birds, many of which fell and flopped to the ground. But there were thousands of ravens in the cloud and soon they had surrounded the three visible Hope players. Rolfson and his companions were able only to thrash around, running into rocks to dislodge the wicked stabs of the dark flapping creatures. The mage, the least well armored and without a helm, fell, hands wrapped around his eyes. In an instant, he was completely engulfed in a writhing black carpet of birds that shortly afterwards stopped moving. The two warriors fought on, heads ducked, swinging sword and shield at the ravens that were crowing and pecking at them.

  The zombie indicated by its remorseless chase that Harald was moving swiftly around and around the perimeter.

  “Where’s he going?” wondered B.E.

  “Well, what can he do?” answered Erik bitterly. “He’s stuck. If he stops, he’ll be killed. If he attacks Halfdan and Brynhild, he can’t possibly win, and the zombie will be on him in no time.”

  With a lurch, the zombie directed itself towards the Central Allocations team.

  “There he goes!” said Injeborg.

  Halfdan and Brynhild braced themselves, weapons raised, and were ready as Harald materialized before them. But, ducking their blows, he did not stop to fight. His swords were not even in his hands. Instead, with a tumble, he rolled through their thrusts and seized the staff of Hleid with both hands. With a great yank he twisted her off balance and, although Halfdan slashed down a blow onto his shoulder that caused him to stagger, Harald recovered to sprint away, holding the staff above him like a trophy, to the pleasure of the crowd, which redoubled its volume of cheers.

  In fact, as Erik looked around the stadium, he could see considerably more people in the arena than when the fighting had begun. Somehow the word was spreading and more and more people were clipping up to Epic in order to see the duel.

  Once clear of his opponents, Harald pointed the staff back at Hleid, manipulating the skull. She looked aghast and turned to see the zombie Thorkell abruptly halt in his flight, and then start moving towards her with arms raised. Hleid shouted out panicked spells, but the zombie came on. Halfdan and Brynhild struck the creature with mighty blows, and although it shuddered, it knocked them aside to grasp Hleid by the throat and squeeze the life out of her. With her death, Thorkell fell to the ground, once more a fleshy bag of bones.

  “Hope! Hope!” It was the giant-killing of the century. A great roar of approval rang out, as Harald brandished his swords again, saluting the four directions of the compass before once more stepping into the shadows and disappearing. Three down!

  “Your dad is incredible!” Injeborg gave Erik a hug.

  Erik was immobile, shivering all over, his body basking in the release of a deep tension that he had not realized it had contained. There was a strange taste in his mouth, which he understood to be the taste of vengeance fulfilled.

  “I’ll never underestimate a thief again,” Bjorn muttered to himself.

  Down on the floor of the amphitheater there was a lull. Rolfson and his comrade had killed the last of the ravens, and were drinking healing potions to restore themselves. The mage, however, had died under the assault of the birds.

  At the other end of the rocky fighting area, Halfdan and Brynhild stood back to back, alert for the thief.

  An announcement came over the amphitheater.

  “Hope team offer a tie. Full resurrection to all; all equipment restored. Providing a reappraisal is taken of the solar-panel allocation.”

  A warm ripple of applause greeted the statement.

  “That’s sensible.” B.E. explained. “It’s a good result for us. And they will find it difficult to refuse. If they try to carry on but end up losing their lives, there is no coming back for any of them.”

  The announcement had clearly divided Halfdan and Brynhild, who while remaining back to back were anima tedly turning their heads over their shoulders and gesturi
ng—their weapons exaggerating the sweeping arm movements. After some time, the crowd began a slow hand-clap. Erik joined in with a sense of extraordinary liberation. The gods of the game were being humbled and the crowd, being quick to sense it, added to their humiliation.

  As the noise of the clapping built up to resound around the amphitheater, Brynhild shrugged and sheathed her weapon. Halfdan raised his sword and waved acceptance.

  “The conflict has resulted in a tie and the matter will be reviewed.”

  Great cheers were raised for Rolfson and the remaining Hope warrior as they walked, waving joyfully, from the amphitheater. The crowd would have loved another glimpse of their master thief, but he did not reappear, which—as the amateur tacticians explained at the party in Hope that night—was a wise move.

  Last to leave were Halfdan and Brynhild, still brandishing their weapons in vehement disagreement.

  Chapter 7

  THE FIRST SIGNS OF DISCORD

  The tower in which the Central Allocations meetings took place was surrounded by raincloud, making the emergency session unusually claustrophobic. Streams of rain were running like tears down the glass. It was so dark within the dome that lamps had been brought to the table. Legend had it that they were sitting inside what had once been the nose cone of a spacecraft. The body of the space-ship, if it ever existed, had long since gone, its valuable metal being replaced by stone and mortar.

  “What a shambles,” Ragnok sneered. “The famous and powerful Central Allocations team humiliated by a town of rustics.”

  Of all the members of the highest committee in the planet Ragnok was the only one to emerge from the previous day’s fighting with any real credit; he could afford to gloat. His Sidhe warrior had dispatched Snorri the warrior with just two bow shots. Nevertheless, Svein Redbeard thought his cocky manner unwise; it would win him no friends. Of course, it was amusing to see the legendary aura slip from his fellow dragonslayers, but that enjoyment should be kept private. Fortunately, Svein himself had not been selected for the team that had suffered such humiliation, and his own reputation as one of the most powerful players in the game was inviolate.