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  “I had no protection.” Thorkell shrugged off any responsibility for the disaster and folded his arms, aged pudgy fingers drumming slowly on a light blue velvet jacket that echoed the colors of his character’s rune-inscribed cape.

  “Thorkell the Spellcaster! You were more use dead than alive.” Brynhild laughed, a surprisingly young, if bitter laugh, from such an elderly woman. She also resembled her character, insofar as her long silver hair was combed into two braids. “What must it have looked like to the spectators: Thorkell the all-knowing as a zombie floating over the sand?”

  To judge by the other mocking expressions in the room, the valkyrie was not the only member of the committee to enjoy the memory of its most pompous and arrogant member being a brainless tool of Hleid the Necromancer.

  “Now, enough.” The chairperson, Hleid, was less forceful sounding than usual. She had aged since the battle, thought Svein, and her wrinkles looked tired rather than lending her face its usual authoritative aura. “Let us deal with the matter in an orderly way. We all of us have things to do.”

  “Agreed.” The last thing that Svein wanted to do was to spend all day wrangling over the mistakes of the Central Allocations team. He had a good lead on his own personal quest that had been sent to him by the librarian at Fiveways and he wished to spend the afternoon looking into it.

  “Firstly we have to reappraise the allocation of solar panels to Hope District. Proposals?”

  “Give them ten more?” suggested Bekka. Svein smiled at her; she was always the most generous of the Central Allocations committee.

  “Five.” It was obvious that Ragnok hated to give the rustics anything at all, but even he knew it could not be helped.

  “Seven,” said Wolf.

  “Seven. How about seven?” Hleid looked around the table to passive faces and shrugs. “Seven it is.”

  “What a nightmare.” Halfdan shuddered. “There is going to be a flood of claims now.”

  “Indeed.” Svein scowled frostily to remind Halfdan that for all his fanciful black garb, Halfdan’s supposedly invincible warrior was one of those responsible for the mess.

  “Next,” Hleid hurried on, “battle analysis—and let us try to be constructive.” She sighed. “Perhaps a non-combatant’s view would be useful to begin with.” Hleid slowly looked around, peering over her glasses. “Bekka, what did you think?”

  “Me?” Bekka was surprised. As the committee’s druidess she was more usually called upon to help make potions and cast spells involving animals than to discuss battles. “Well, let me think.” She paused, looking intently at her hands for a while in concentration. She was taking the responsibility of the question very seriously. At the very moment that Ragnok let loose an exaggerated yawn, Bekka continued, “What I think is that our side did not fight as a team. Wolf is too used to fighting opponents without silver or magic weapons and wasted his life trying to win the fight on his own. I think that the team should perhaps have defensive or warding spells up first, not Thorkell’s dramatic attempt to wipe out all our opponents with one lightning bolt. I think that they should have discussed a plan before commencing battle. Basically, I think our team was racing to see who would get the glory of killing the opposition and failed to work together or take the other team seriously.”

  “I got the healer.” Wolf spoke up, angrily, arms behind his head; he had one foot up on the table, his chair tipped back as far as it could safely go.

  “Yes, but that’s all. You are worth more than a fifth-rate healer.” Brynhild seemed particularly ready for an argument today. Voices began to rise all around the table.

  “Members of the committee, please. Let’s respect the desire of the chair to keep matters constructive,” Svein called out above them all, then dropped his voice. “I believe that Bekka has analyzed the battle accurately and that all we need to do on this item is to adopt a resolution that in the future all teams will meet before the conflict is due to start and discuss tactics. We used to do that without fail, but we have grown complacent.”

  “Is that a formal proposal?” Hleid asked.

  “It is.”

  “I second it,” Ragnok spoke up.

  “In that case, a vote please. All those in favor of Svein’s proposal, please show.” Hleid peered around the table. “Unanimous. Good.” Her gaze dropped back to the sheet in front of her. “In which case the next item is the character belonging to Harald Erikson. Comment.”

  “His poison was powerful. Really powerful. I can normally take five or six strong hits before dying.” For once casting aside his persona as a great scholar and the ultimate wizard, Thorkell sounded apologetic; his permanently quivering hands were visible above the table, wrinkled and translucent.

  “Agreed,” added Wolf. “I have never been drained of life so quickly. Not even from a spell.”

  “Why did we not know of the existence of a master thief?” Halfdan the Black interjected angrily, round face flushing red.

  “Because Harald Erikson, if that is his true name, has not played Epic for twenty years,” Svein answered firmly.

  “That was no thief,” a quiet voice said. Godmund was the most elderly of them all and rarely spoke at meetings, but when he did they listened carefully. He knew more about Epic than anyone alive, including Svein. With a surprisingly firm voice, considering his age, Godmund continued, “That was a master assassin we saw at work in the Newhaven amphitheater yesterday.”

  “An assassin? Death and destruction! Of course.” Halfdan shook his head, loudest among those who gave murmurs of surprise at Godmund’s statement. “But who outside the University ever trains an assassin?”

  “No one.” Godmund smiled. It was a smile that Svein had learned meant danger, and he leaned back, to watch rather than intervene.

  “He is one of us?” Bekka was confused.

  “Correction. He was one of us. Twenty years ago,” Godmund said, scowling. “Another renegade, but one who seems to have slipped away from us.”

  “Until now,” said Ragnok.

  “I can remember some young assassins we were training.” Godmund closed his eyes. “I think perhaps the University librarian should go over all the disputes of twenty to thirty years ago.”

  “Seconded.” Svein was always quick to show support for Godmund.

  “Agreed?” Hleid looked around the table. “Agreed unanimously.”

  “I propose we activate the Executioner.” Ragnok could not hide the note of eagerness that crept into his voice.

  “Seconded.” Godmund nodded his approval. “But remember, this man waited twenty years before playing Epic—at least in public. It might be hard to find him. Great patience will be needed.”

  “We will do shifts until we have him.” Ragnok spoke decisively. No one loved playing the Executioner more than Ragnok.

  “It is the only way,” Godmund agreed.

  Inwardly Svein heaved a sigh of dismay. Normally it was not possible for one player to harm another in any way; the game did not allow it. Unknown to the vast majority of the planet’s inhabitants, it was in fact possible to create characters who could kill—and be killed by—other players. Only the nine members of the highest committee in the land had the code to get into the options menu that allowed for the creation of such characters. Central Allocations had used its collective wealth to equip a warrior with all the most powerful magic, arms, and armor that money could buy. This was the Executioner and over the years he had been brought out to eliminate destabilizing opponents. The victims, of course, had no idea that they had met another player; they assumed it was a rare and aggressive NPC.

  Svein had no scruples about using the Executioner, but so few people knew the secret of the killer character that those who did would have to take hours of their time playing him, to keep a constant search up for his target.

  “So, all those in favor of directing the Executioner against the character of Harald Erikson, please show?” Hleid asked for the vote. “One against.” Everyone looked disdainfully at
Bekka.

  “It’s too suspicious. People are not stupid,” she offered as her defense. But Svein guessed that she was putting her own moral objection into a language the rest of them could understand. Still, she would take her turn with the rest of them on the shifts; she always did acquiesce.

  “Ragnok can draw up the rota. We begin the search at Newhaven.”

  Hleid returned to the checklist of items for the agenda. “Finally, we have this.” She indicated the printouts in her hand. “Found in several places, left on the amphitheater seating.”

  They passed the sheaf of papers around, taking one and passing them on. When each had one in front of them, and was studying it, head bowed, Hleid continued. “Comments?”

  Svein was looking at a copy of a small news sheet entitled the New Leviathan. “Just a moment, Chair. May we have time to read it?”

  “Certainly.”

  There was a period of studious silence. High above them the rain made a faint murmur against the dome, as though pleading to get in.

  MORE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENT

  Today we will witness Central Allocations destroy the hopes and dreams of a seventy-year-old couple and the Hope District. The argument that is used to justify this is that resources are scarce and somebody has to manage them. Agreed. But this is not democratic management; this is the dictatorship of a small, self-selected elite, a new Casiocracy as we call them, the new Leviathan that sits bloated above society while the rest of us work hard for the community. Over the years the members of this new Leviathan have accumulated the wealth to ensure that their characters are indestructible. How can Epic be fair?

  We are told that any other system of administration would lead to a breakdown in society and the return of violence between people. But is that necessarily the case? In Ancient Greece they had a democracy where people were elected to administer the cities, and these people could do the job for only one year before making way for the next administration. We could use the technology of Epic to unite the people in mass, popular discussions at the amphitheater and decide allocations by voting not by game-based conflict.

  The times demand change. Our system is not working. Overthrow the Casiocracy!

  The paper contained other articles detailing the declining state of the economy with surprising accuracy.

  “Comments?” Hleid asked again.

  “Please don’t misunderstand me. I know this is dangerous material. But why exactly is it wrong? I mean, how would you answer these claims?” Bekka was hesitant.

  “Bloody vengeance, woman! Isn’t it obvious? This is a recipe for utter chaos!” Halfdan had even more of a reason to be angry than the others. One of the other articles in the paper listed in detail his black equipment as an example of how much more powerful the Central Allocations Committee characters were than the average character.

  “Bekka asks an important question,” Svein intervened, and she looked grateful. “I propose that I draw up a discussion document for us all, which answers the arguments in this paper. In the meantime, I would simply say to her that our system is not above criticism, but that to think we could manage affairs by voting is naïve. Voting blocs would quickly form, so that, for example, the South would unite together to obtain resources from the North and so on. Also, the example from Ancient Greece is ill informed. Those people had slaves and they had wars. For all our faults, we are a peaceful society.”

  Bekka nodded thoughtfully and smiled back as Svein caught her eye with what he hoped was his most charming expression.

  “Good,” said Hleid. “So, a seconder for Svein’s proposal.”

  “Seconded,” said Bekka at once.

  “All those in favor?” Hleid looked up to check. “Unani mous.”

  “I will bring the document to next week’s meeting,” Svein told them.

  “That’s it.” Hleid promptly stood up and left, leaning on a skull-topped walking stick that a student had made her, modeled on the staff possessed by her character.

  Much as Svein wanted to hurry back to Epic, he thought better of rushing out with her. Instead he helped Godmund rise from his chair.

  “That was an astute observation about the assassin,” Svein said, offering him an arm, which Godmund pushed away, preferring his stick.

  “It’s not that assassin that worries me. We’ve had renegades before and we’ll have ’em again. It’s that newspaper. We have to stop that newspaper.” Godmund turned a fierce gaze onto Svein. “You should stop your foolish expenditure of time on the Epicus Ultima quest—which is not solvable—and find out who is behind that paper. It is someone close to us, who has access to our data.”

  Shocked by the ferocity of Godmund’s voice, Svein could only nod. “You are right, you are right,” he said, but in his heart he answered back, “Old man, you would not believe how close I have come to solving it.”

  Chapter 8

  BEHOLD, THE EXECUTIONER

  There were few pleasures in life greater than entering the world of Epic as the Executioner. He walked among the players like an unworshiped god. They could all see the figure, but they had no idea of the fact that a human consciousness was in control of it, and that at the slightest whim he could take the life of any of them.

  Having entered the password known only to members of the Central Allocations Committee, Ragnok relaxed into his seat, relishing every moment as the Executioner rose on his platform from the box, and slowly rotated.

  The Executioner was a tall human male, nondescript features covered by a great war helm. The bulk of the body was covered in rune-carved plate-metal armor—the best armor that money could buy, every piece enchanted by a dwarven master craftsman to make it resilient yet light. His golden-edged shield showed the screaming face of a demon. That shield was unique and had been bought from the Prince of Al’Karak, a realm of nomads deep in the desert. There really was a demon in the shield, whose resistance to magic meant that no player, and very few NPCs or monsters, could cast a spell that could harm the Executioner. The warrior had a variety of weapons, including an ornate longbow and quiver full of magic arrows. Among the swords at his disposal was Acutus, a vorpal blade that randomly, at a rate of about one in twenty blows, cut through any substance. But Ragnok’s weapon of choice was the Bastard Sword of the Moon; this elegant silver weapon was swift for its size, and sent shivers of fear through opponents, causing them to freeze in their actions.

  To dwell carefully on his accessory lists of additional magic items was never tedious despite their length. The Executioner was equipped with the maximum complement of rings, jewelry, potions, scrolls, ointments, and a miscellany of helpful implements—for example, the rope of climbing. The full cost of equipping this character was more than ten years of the combined accumulation of bezants by the entire population of the world. And it was worth it.

  Enough. Ragnok triggered the entrance button. All was intensely black and still. Then a rushing sound grew rapidly in volume to a roar of sound accompanied by an explosion of light.

  Hate and vengeance strode once more in the world of Epic.

  It was evening, and the first of Epic’s moons, Sylvania, was already bright in the deepening blue of the sky. Aridia, the smaller moon, was yet to rise. Ragnok turned around slowly to gain his bearings. He was still at the place of the last execution—clearly none of the other committee members had used the character since then. Nearby, a black warhorse stood patiently and looked at him with an intelligent gaze. So, they were some sixty miles from Newhaven, where the hunt must begin.

  “Hello, old fellow.” Ragnok patted the flank of his mount, then, grabbing the saddle, hoisted himself up. Glancing at the moon again to calculate north, Ragnok urged his steed forward at a canter. The sooner they got to Newhaven, the sooner the real hunt could begin.

  As he clipped his way through the fields, Ragnok felt a surge of joy. Right now, he was the most lethal player in the whole of Epic. Not one of the other committee members could match the Executioner. The idea of stalking one o
f the others had, of course, occurred to him. And if any of them dared get out of line with Ragnok, he would do it. After all, what could they say? They could hardly admit the truth of the incident to the world. And they could not risk expelling him, exposing themselves to the threat that he might reveal all he knew. Not that any of them came close to deliberately antagonizing him. They found him useful—and perhaps they feared him. Such had been his plan ever since University, to become indispensable to the authorities. He had volunteered for every ugly assignment, every arena battle that he could, no matter how unpopular the issue or controversial the decision that he was being asked to champion. His strategy had worked. Whereas all the other committee members saw themselves as heroes of some sort—as legendary figures—Ragnok refused to cover his deeds with such fanciful notions. He was a villain, so what? Right now, at this moment, he was the greatest power in the land. It has been a hard, twenty-year slog. But every hour of his youth spent in Epic accumulating strength had proven to be well spent.

  The Executioner raised his sword to the moon and roared aloud with the pleasure of being alive.

  It would be quite something to be the sole person able to use the Executioner. Government of the world necessitated a committee; after all, you needed at least five players for a team. Plus there were sufficient demands on the authorities that a committee of nine made sense. But what if you were the only person with access to the Executioner? How the other members of the committee would bow and scrape to please you. The others were getting old. There were younger players awaiting their chance, people he was cultivating, including the sons and daughters of the present leadership. He had waited twenty years to get on the committee; it would not take him so long again to command it.

  A cart track came into view and Ragnok turned to ride along it. This would take him to the old stone road that ran straight to Newhaven. He had covered half the distance to the road when he saw a movement on the track. Some brave player was journeying in a wild place, very late in the day. The figure had his back towards the Executioner and was running, obviously wanting to reach the relative safety of the stone road before dark. Silently Ragnok drew the Bastard Sword of the Moon. His left hand on the reins, right raising the sword high, the rider of death thundered down on the traveler. A mocking glance over his shoulder showed Ragnok that the person he had struck was an elf. Then he was galloping on, laughing aloud, having neatly sliced the head from his target. Somewhere on the planet, some farmer or student was unclipping, probably in a tearful daze, with no idea as to why their character’s life had suddenly ended.