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  “Mum, Mum!” Erik burst into a yard that was now strewn with thick black slabs of glass, the bigger pieces cracking and sliding as he made his way precariously over them, feeling them slide beneath his feet, grinding down into the stone.

  “Mum! What is it?” Erik gasped out, a hand clutching his side, his head craning back to look up to his mother.

  “I hate it. If only I hadn’t wanted a new one,” she called out, crying. “It’s your dad. They’ve taken him into exile. I knew it. I should never have told him to play for us. I knew it was too risky.”

  The horse and cart arrived. Everyone was silent, looking slowly up to the roof and down to where Erik stood as though at the edge of a sea of black ice that had been compressed and shattered, blocks sliding over one another. He could not bear their expressions of concern and confusion, so, without a gesture or word to them, Erik fled inside.

  Much later, his mother joined him in the kitchen, her eyes red. Both of them watched the small flames inside the stove, neither looking at the other.

  “What’s happened, Mum? Where’s Dad?”

  “On his way to the Isle of Roftig.”

  “The island for exiles.” Erik was bewildered. “But why?”

  “A long time ago, when we were both in University, he hit somebody.”

  “Dad? Hit someone? Never.”

  “Yes, he did.” Freya heaved a big sigh, the only sign that it was a struggle for her to keep her voice level. “Another student called Ragnok Ygvigson. Harald punched him in the face until his nose broke and blood flowed everywhere.”

  A little dizzy, Erik risked a glance at his mum; she caught it.

  “You have to understand, your dad is not a bad man at all. Ragnok is the criminal. He is sick.”

  “Why? Why did Dad hit him? Didn’t he know the penalty?”

  “Of course he did, but . . .” She paused, then shakily poured water from a pitcher into a clay mug and drank it. “Ragnok had been drinking with me, drinking far too much mead, until my head was reeling and I was nearly unconscious. Then he tried to do something . . . but Harald came and when he understood that I was distressed, he hit Ragnok.”

  “But the solar panel—what were you doing?”

  “I hate it. I could not live with it. Just think, if we had left it alone, we would be happy. Your dad would be with us still.”

  For a while they sat in the dark room; Erik’s mind was whirling. He came to when Freya lit a lantern.

  “So, you think Dad was right to use violence?” He was genuinely confused. All through school and in every aspect of life it was agreed, there should never be recourse to violence—not when they had Epic to manage conflict. It was thought that once society allowed violent actions it would devolve to the same disastrous society that had supposedly driven their pacifist ancestors into space millennia ago.

  “No, violence is never right. But I understood him and I forgave him. Alas, our rules allow no exceptions.”

  “So . . . Dad was exiled?”

  “Yes. Only he escaped and found me, and I agreed to marry him, to make a new life far from Mikelgard, where no one would know us.”

  Now it was Erik’s turn to pour a drink of water, while he gave this thought.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m old enough.”

  “Yes. Your dad thought we should. But it was to protect you. Anyone who knowingly harbors an exile is subject to exile themselves—depending on the ruling of a judge. At least you have the choice. If you want, you can stay here with your friends—or go to University.”

  “Stay? Without you and Dad? No. I’ll come with you.”

  “I don’t even know what I’m doing myself yet. It has all been so sudden. The judge was here today. I told her you knew nothing, but she will probably want to ask you herself.”

  They sat still, not looking at each other, silent and alone with their thoughts.

  “Mum, I’m tired. I must lie down and think about all this.” All desire for food had gone; he just wanted to lie in the dark and try to understand.

  “I know, Erik. I’m so very tired too.”

  Looking back at the still figure of his mother, you would hardly have known that anything was wrong but for the tears that were silently running down her cheeks to fall onto the table.

  Erik was tired, but not able to sleep. It was as though his mind was torn in two and bleeding thoughts uncontrollably: never to see his dad again; to struggle on with the farm; for Harald to live an unhappy and lonely life. That dark thought could not be put aside and as it welled up, so did his tears, forming hot and salty trails at the corners of his mouth. Yet there had to be a way to overcome this catastrophe. For a moment he could master his misery, channel the deluge of mental activity into thinking about the measures he could take to get his dad back. Unbidden, the deeply distressing image of his mother on the roof of the house interfered with his attempt to make plans. She hacked away at the cables of the solar panel. That outburst of apparent insanity was understandable; they would only be reminded of the disaster every time they used it. His dad, a violent man. The worst that anyone could be accused of: horrific, criminal and obscene. Society agreed; Erik had agreed. Those who committed acts of violence should be shunned. Exiled. It had not seemed so unreasonable. Exile, a place where they could be as perverse as they pleased, without harming any law-abiding person. But now his dad was on his way back to Roftig Island. What was it like? Did you live in fear of being attacked? Not in a game but for real. Real wounds. Real blades parting the skin and blood pouring out. Did it feel like burning? Or icy cold? To have a knife thrust into your ribs? It was tiring, lying in the dark, trying not to think of a future without his dad, trying to marshal his thoughts.

  When the moon had risen and turned the olive trees a creamy silver, his mother climbed heavily up the stairs, her footfall so uncharacteristically slow that it had a nightmar ish quality. Erik did not call out, nor did his door swing open. They each had enough to bear without trying to manage the sorrows of the other.

  The next morning, Erik felt steadier. Despite the catastrophe that had enveloped their lives, he was strengthened by one thought—that the secret his dad had been keeping was one that did not reflect any lack of confidence in Erik. Harald had not been evasive when he had said that there was something worse than reallocation; it was the truth. Exile was far worse. Now, at least, everything made sense; by keeping Erik in ignorance they had hoped to protect him from the punishment of exile. Overnight, Erik had grown stronger and he knew why. The only doubts about his own trustworthiness, his own loyalty, were gone. This day was the start of the Agricultural School holidays, traditionally the day for the olive farmers to start pruning. It was hard and laborious work, but Erik envied those who were rising early to make a start on it. In all the farmhouses around Osterfjord this morning, they would be going through their usual routines of work—normal, life-affirming routines. The cutters would be brought and whet and, perhaps with a meal wrapped in a satchel, the olive-growers would go out to the fields.

  Downstairs, the kitchen was tidy; his mother was up, her eyes red, but otherwise she looked composed.

  “Mum, I’ve some more questions.”

  She smiled. “Ask. There is no reason now why you should not know everything.”

  “Did Dad ever say how he got away from Roftig?”

  “I believe that he bribed the captain of the ferry. Before he was exiled, your father was one of the most successful characters in Epic. But ever since his return, he has not had a gold bezant to his name.”

  “I wonder then. Perhaps we can do it again?”

  “Perhaps. But where are we going to get thousands of bezants? None of our friends are rich.”

  Biting back a reply, Erik continued through the questions that had filled his thoughts that night.

  “Is it that bad in exile? What did Dad say about it?”

  “Yes, it is bad. They have no Epic, no rules. It is barbaric. People fight and people starve because their food is s
tolen. They do not have proper homes, just what they have made for themselves. No one there lives to old age.”

  “We have to get him back.”

  Freya smiled again. It was good to see, even if the smile held no hope.

  “What happened to Ragnok?”

  His mother shuddered. “You’ve seen him. He is the player Ragnok Strongarm—he has become a member of Central Allocations.”

  A surge of anger momentarily rocked Erik. “How could they?”

  “I don’t know. After what I told them, I really don’t know. I suppose it was my word against his and they needed him too much, what with Harald going into exile.” She looked up. “Erik, have you thought about what you will do if I am sent into exile or if I choose to join him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I will come with you. Except . . .”

  She waited for him to continue.

  “Except that I will have one last try on the Red Dragon before I go.”

  He was surprised to see his mother nod. “Why not? We have nothing to lose. What do you need? I will sell all the items on my character for you.”

  “Arrows mostly, barrels and barrels of arrows.”

  “Very well.” She sounded tired and resigned rather than hopeful.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes, Erik?”

  “Do you want me to start pruning the trees?”

  That brought a bitter smile to her face. “No, there’s no point now. Whoever moves in here after us can do it.”

  Chapter 12

  NOBODY KILLS DRAGONS

  Earlier in the day, a strong wind had disturbed the sea. Far out on the horizon, white-topped waves were still rolling determinedly towards the shore, and, all along the line of the water’s edge, stones and boulders were gray and slick with the spill of seawater. A distant faint growl sounded regularly as the restless sea heaved and sucked at a bay full of pebbles.

  “Well?” asked Erik defiantly.

  B.E. was sitting on a rock, unconsciously flicking small stones with his thumb, trying to land them in a rock pool. “I am stunned. Harald in exile for violence. Why did he do it?”

  “Listen, you oaf!” snapped Injeborg. “Erik said that was private.”

  “True.” B.E. looked slightly chastised. “But it’s hard to understand.”

  “I’m not excusing violence. All I can say is that he lost his temper in circumstances that would have tested anybody,” Erik offered.

  “Erik,” interrupted Injeborg, “you don’t have to answer to us. We’re your friends; we’re on your side, right?” She glared at B.E. “And we want Harald back. So . . .” She relaxed a little. “You said you had a plan. Tell us about it.”

  “I don’t like this. You know what the penalty is for harboring an exile.” Bjorn looked unhappy.

  “I think I can get around that.”

  “All right, Erik, let’s hear it.” B.E. reached down and closed his fist around another pile of tiny smooth stones.

  “I think we should force Central Allocations into drawing up a law offering amnesty to everyone on Roftig Island.”

  “Erik, that’s brilliant.” Injeborg leapt up at once, waving her arms. “See, Bjorn. Nothing illegal. Harald will be back with us and we can live as normal.”

  “Apart from one small problem,” sneered B.E.

  “You mean Central Allocations will never allow it.” Erik knew the next step of the argument was the crucial one. “That’s why we have to kill the Red Dragon first.” He had been ready with this answer.

  B.E. accidentally let all the stones run through his hand as he looked up in surprise. “Say that again?”

  “We have to kill Inry’aat, the Red Dragon, first. Then we use the wealth to become an unbeatable team. After which we propose the amnesty.”

  “Well, you have to admire the audacity.” B.E. broke into his characteristic wide smile, which always seemed to be more cynical than good humored.

  “The dragon. That’s not possible.” Sigrid spoke for them all. Even Injeborg looked skeptical.

  “Yes, it’s possible. I’ve spent hours up there, and I’m convinced it can be done.” Erik stood up so that he could see everyone and measure their response. I honestly believe there is a flaw in the logic of the dragon’s strategy.”

  “Go on.” B.E. was interested.

  Picking up a large rock, Erik walked over to a patch of damp sand. “This is the dragon’s cave.” He dropped the rock. “Here is Bjorn, here is Injeborg, this is Sigrid, and this you, B.E.”

  The four crosses in the sand formed a rough semicircle facing the stone, with a gap between the top and bottom pairs.

  “Now I trigger Inry’aat and run back to here.” Erik placed a cross in the gap, so that they were now all about equal distance from one another. “Meanwhile, Bjorn shoots, or, if he misses, Injeborg.” He looked up to see them all attentive. “The point is that the dragon changes target to the last person to hit it. So it turns. But before it can get into range to pour firebreath onto Bjorn, B.E. fires, or Sigrid, from the opposite side. So then it turns again. Get it?”

  “I see. So we keep it turning. Never letting it come too close to someone.” B.E. looked seriously at the marks. “Blood and vengeance, Erik. This might work if your research is right!”

  “What about you, Erik? What does Cindella do?” asked Injeborg.

  “I am ready in case we get two misses. That brings Inry’aat my way until you can get the dragon back into the position you need.”

  “And if you miss as well?” asked Bjorn slowly.

  “Then we will all die very quickly.”

  Bjorn scowled, but B.E. was interested. “What about the ranges? Have you studied them?”

  “Oh, yes. I know exactly where to stand, and the length of its firebreath.”

  “All right. I’m in.” B.E. stood up and brushed his hands free of the clinging pieces of pebble. “Bjorn, what do you think?”

  “I’m sorry, but I think it’s a bad idea. I know Erik wants his dad back, but I think we’ll all be killed.” Bjorn looked down at the rocks, his face heavy with discontent. He hated to disagree with his friends.

  “But Bjorn, think of the wealth. Imagine, thousands and thousands of bezants’ worth of treasure. If Erik is right, we won’t even need to go to Mikelgard; we will be rich, and famous!”

  “If . . .” Bjorn shook his head, frowning. “If Erik is right about this, why hasn’t someone else done it already?”

  “I agree with Bjorn,” Sigrid interjected. “Farmers’ children just don’t kill dragons. Nobody kills dragons these days. But if they did, it would be the people in Mikelgard, with all their magic and expensive gear.”

  “But nobody even thinks about fighting dragons anymore.” Injeborg spoke up. Erik had known that he could count on her. “Only our Erik. That’s why he has seen something that they have missed.” She turned to her brother, “Come on, Bjorn. Let’s try it.”

  “No. It’s hopeless.”

  Injeborg stamped her foot in frustration. “You are always waiting for something to happen to you. But that’s not how life is. You have to be creative, set out to change the situation. They know how to do that in Central Allocations. Why can’t we be the same?”

  As Erik knew well, Bjorn could be extremely stubborn, and his expression was forming the determined scowl that meant he would not be moved.

  “Bjorn, please,” he broke in before his friend could say something that he would never retract. “Don’t make up your mind just now. At least think about it, and join us all in the amphitheater. We can practice.”

  “The library cannot generate dragons,” Bjorn pointed out.

  “No, but it can give us wyverns to practice on, and they follow the same strategy.”

  Erik understood Bjorn only too well. A part of him, a sad-sounding voice that spoke when he was alone with his thoughts at night, had voiced these objections, and more. It was a struggle not to admit that Bjorn was right, that it was wiser to keep the
gains that had brought them so near to University than throw it all away in a vain effort to kill the dragon. He was roused from his growing mood of self-defeat by unexpected support.

  “Well, I think Erik is onto something!” B.E. clapped his hands together, enthusiasm visibly filling his body with energy. “You can’t refuse to practice in the arena, can you, Bjorn? And I bet it works, you know.” The fire in B.E.’s eyes was a fire of jewels, gold, and glory.

  “Very well. Let us see what happens in the arena.” Bjorn respected B.E. As the oldest and most experienced player among them, he was to be taken seriously.

  As he ran home to gather up some fruit and water, the darkness that had been coloring his thoughts for the last day began to lift, and Erik was almost cheerful as he passed Freya in the kitchen.

  “We are going to Hope Library to practice for the dragon!”

  “Good, Erik dear. Good.” She sounded listless, but he could not stop to talk to her now.

  #smile

  Cindella looked sprightly, especially in the knee-length Boots of the Lupine Lord, which Harald had lent her for the graduation tournament and which she might now never get a chance to return.

  Howling sound and color whirled all around him, then he was inside Epic.

  Cindella ran quickly through the streets of Newhaven until she turned into the wide street that ran to the amphitheater. An impressive stone arch lined the entrance, four times the height of a person. Way up in the stonework, nearly out of sight, pigeons were walking to and fro, the wall stained from their mess. The arena was quiet. Very few people spent time practicing when they could be earning pennies. The towering layers of seats were all silent and empty; they stretched away, row after row mounting dizzyingly to the barely discernible statues around the rim of the amphitheater.

  The others appeared: Bjorn as his pot-headed, sturdy-looking warrior; B.E. a slender elven fighter, carrying a steel longsword; Sigrid a healer in a simple woollen robe; and Injeborg, a young witch.

  “Osterfjord Players, are you ready?” The librarian’s voice cut sharply through the air, echoing throughout the stadium.