Both Bjorn and Erik drew their weapons and closed. The heat from the wyvern caused the air between them to shimmer; the loud rasping of the creature’s breathing made it hard to hear what Injeborg was saying behind him.
Although the lizard was wounded, the flashing blows from its claws were shockingly swift. Cindella was nimble enough to roll beneath the talons, but Bjorn crumpled as he was struck and the monster savagely bit down to grab his shoulder in its teeth. As Bjorn was shaken like a stick in a dog’s mouth, there was no doubt he was dead.
A flash of blue from over his shoulder and the creature paused, stunned by a spell.
“Now!” shouted Injeborg.
Cindella dived forward and, with a flourish, impaled the wyvern’s eye on the end of her rapier, just as the monster was recovering from the spell. It was gruesome, but the creature collapsed at once.
When he unclipped, Erik found that Thorstein was clapping.
“Well done, everyone. To kill a wyvern, that is very clever, very clever indeed. It will make you wealthy and well known if you can hunt a real one.”
“Thank you, Thorstein.” B.E. smiled. “But we do not want casualties next time.”
“No, but that was interesting. I have not seen a wyvern die before, so I did not know they pretended like that.” The librarian was clearly pleased to have had an opportunity to observe such an unusual experience.
As the players left the building, Thorstein tapped Erik on the arm.
“I’m sorry about Harald,” he whispered, looking into Erik’s eyes.
Erik briefly took the outstretched hand. “Thanks, Thorstein.”
All the way home, they argued. It was mainly B.E. against Bjorn. From Bjorn’s point of view, the experience just confirmed that they would be wiped out by something unexpected. There were simply too many unknowns when fighting a dragon. But B.E. was thrilled; the fight had proved that the strategy could work. Even Bjorn admitted that.
A sullen silence had fallen between the two protago nists by the time that they reached the point at which their paths diverged. It had taken most of the long walk for B.E. to exhaust his efforts at persuading Bjorn. The sun was down, and across the valley they could see small pools of lamplight from the windows of their homes. Except that Erik’s farm was in darkness.
“Do you not see?” B.E. attempted for one last time to sway Bjorn. “We are on the verge of being the richest people in the world. Can you honestly live your life and not wonder what would have happened if you had tried?”
“Yes. It would not trouble me at all. For I know what would have happened. I would have died. We all would.”
“Tell me,” said Injeborg. “Everyone, what is it that you would like from life?” She turned to look at Sigrid.
“I would like to be allocated a small farm, somewhere near here.”
“Bjorn?”
“I would like the same.”
“B.E.?”
Slightly embarrassed, B.E. laughed, and then said, “I would like to be a successful Epic player, like Svein Redbeard.”
“Erik?”
“I would like nothing better than to be a librarian.”
“Well, for my own part, I want to be a geologist and travel, see new lands, and help our world find resources.”
This surprised Erik, but before he could decide whether to comment on his admiration for her goal, or his dismay that she intended to leave Hope District, Injeborg continued, “Don’t you think it’s odd that the two people who really need to go to University for their plans are willing to risk the fight? But Bjorn and Sigrid, who are guaranteed to get a farm, are against it? And as for B.E.,” she laughed, “that is every child’s dream from when they first start the game. I’m glad you haven’t lost it.”
Suddenly Bjorn turned to Erik and stared at him, with a fearfully solemn face.
“I trust you, Erik. Tell me, in all truth, can we kill the dragon, or is this all just desperation to see Harald again?”
There was a long pause and Erik felt the pressure of his friends’ attention.
“Yes. We can slay Inry’aat.”
Chapter 13
THE DRAGON’S LAIR
A rapid, irregular patter
of rain falling on the roof of their house accompanied Erik as he went upstairs to clip up. That was for the best; no one could be expected to be out in the fields pruning in weather like this. It would save the others any difficulty with their families. He doubted that Bjorn and Sigrid would admit to their father what they were attempting to do, not when Rolfson had seemed so pleased with the prospect of their going to Mikelgard University.
#smile
He had seen Cindella emerge from her box a hundred times, and yet her appearance still brought with it a feeling of happiness. She looked so lively, and the knowledge that he was about to enter Epic with her agility and daring filled him with pleasure.
Silence. A moment of anticipation, before a giant wave of color and sound roared up to engulf him.
Curiously, it was raining in Newhaven as well; the cobbled streets were damp and shiny, reflecting the colored banners of the shops that leaned over the narrow lanes. Cindella ran, avoiding the larger puddles, until she could dash inside the black-and-white house of the hunting merchant.
Lifting back her hood, Erik was surprised by the variety of equipment in the huge room that he had entered. An enormous metal bear trap was hung from the ceiling. On one of the walls, a large case held a great range of knives. Ropes, tents, clothing, boots and pelts were stacked in large piles here and there on the floor. Around the walls were hung animal and monstrous heads, including a fierce beaked griffon, a one-eyed cyclops, and the three heads of the chimera.
A powerful-looking human came in from a sturdy door at the back of the room.
“Aha. You must be Cindella.”
“How in the name of vengeance did you know that?” Erik was amazed.
“No mystery there, young woman. It is not many who grace my shop who fit your description. Your mother Freya told me to ready some arrows for you.”
“Oh, of course. So are they ready?”
“Oh, they are. There are many arrows. And you are a slender creature. I will have my apprentice assist you.” The hunting merchant disappeared through the door in the back of the building, calling back over his shoulder, “And I bid you good hunting.”
Followed by the apprentice with his awkward load of bundled arrows, Cindella made her way over the wet cobblestones to the main quays, where she was due to meet the others.
As he arrived, Erik saw that B.E., Sigrid, and Injeborg were already waiting under the awning of a boot merchant, whose blue striped tent was now gray with damp.
“Hi, Erik, or Cindella I should say.” Injeborg’s witch waved, the sleeve of her dark green robe falling back as she did so.
“That’s a great load of arrows, Erik.” B.E. was standing beside a similar-sized stack of arrows; Sigrid and Injeborg, however, had not been able to afford many—two small bundles lay beside them.
“My mum has sold all she had to buy them.”
B.E. laughed. “Much as I wish mine would do the same, there is no way I’m telling them about this until it is over. I wonder where Bjorn is. I want to get going. This will take long enough as it is.”
Just then a cart rumbled into the square, led by a donkey. Beside the donkey was the burly gray shape of Bjorn’s character, only it had no armor on whatsoever.
“Bjorn!” Sigrid cried. “What happened to your helmet?”
“I sold everything.”
“Good idea,” said B.E. “This enterprise is all or nothing. In fact”—he turned to Cindella—“why don’t you sell that necklace, Erik? Get us more arrows?”
Cindella reached up and fingered the pendant around her neck. “Oh, I couldn’t, it was a present.”
“There’s no time for sentimentality now.”
“I suppose, if we need to. Let’s see, though.”
They came over to the cart; Cindella rubbed her hand through the coarse fur of the donkey’s nose. Heaped inside were bundles of arrows.
“Great work, Bjorn!” B.E. gave him a slap on the shoulder.
“Well, if we are going to do it at all, we have to do it properly,” Bjorn replied.
“And we have the cart for the gold afterwards.” Even through the blanketing effect of his being in a character, Erik could see that B.E. was becoming excited again.
They loaded the cart with their arrows, until it was heaped so high that there was a danger of spilling the bundles.
“Never mind the necklace, Erik. We can’t take any more arrows. Let’s get started.”
They left through the north gate of the city, the opposite side to the ochre plains in which most players gathered. For a few hours, they could make swift progress along a straight stone road, but then the road veered east, and they were obliged to take a muddy cart track that led away towards the low forested hills to the north.
This close to the city, the environment was relatively safe. Farmers worked the land, and tribes of amiable wood elves lived in the forest. But by the end of the day, they would be into a more severe rocky landscape, which was the habitat of more dangerous creatures, both animal and monstrous.
For most of the day, they trudged along beside the cart without talking. Erik just wished that they were up in the caves, ready to wage battle. So much depended on the outcome, it was hard to turn his thoughts to more trivial matters. Perhaps the others wanted to chat about the farms, the coming planting festival, and other local matters, but were afraid to do so for his sake.
“Bjorn. Where did you plan to leave the donkey and cart when we unclip?” B.E. broke their silence with an important question.
“I don’t know. I hoped that Erik would be able to suggest a farm or someplace.”
“Yes. There is a woodcutter and his family about halfway. That’s where I usually unclip.”
The problem with unclipping in a wild area was that when you returned to Epic, you could find yourself immediately embroiled in a conflict if some monster was at hand and you unexpectedly materialized in its vicinity. And as for leaving anything behind, there was every chance that it would not be there on your return.
There was little sign of any danger as they slogged along the path; they were gradually rising, so that back over their left shoulders they could see the walled town at the point where the River Ayling met the sea in a wide estuary. By sunset, the rain had stopped and the setting sun cast a deep orange light over the water.
The world of Epic ran in exactly the same cycles of day and night as their own. It had been a long, slow day, walking their characters out towards the limestone caves that harbored the dragon. From time to time, they had halted the march and taken it in turns to have a break from the game, but now hunger and stiffness affected them all.
“Is it far to this woodcutter, Erik?” Sigrid sounded plaintive.
“Not far at all. I think it is over the next rise.”
Sure enough, as they came up to the top of the slight hill, the path dipped slightly before rising again, and in the hollow was a thatched wooden house, a welcoming tail of smoke being played with by the slight breeze.
“Good. This is about halfway, right?” asked B.E.
“Actually a little past. If we start early, we will be there well before evening tomorrow.”
They approached the house.
“You do the talking, Erik. People seem to like Cindella.” Injeborg gave him a smile.
Running lightly up to the door, Cindella gave three sharp raps.
“Who is it?” A cautious voice spoke from behind the heavy iron-bound frame.
“Travelers who wish to leave a donkey and cart with you for safekeeping.”
A dark eye glanced at Cindella through the crack of the door, then they could hear the sounds of bolts being drawn aside.
“Yes?” The woodcutter stood in the doorway; behind him, a woman and two children were beside the fire.
“May we leave this cart and donkey with you for the night?”
The woodcutter paused, solid-looking face a blank. It was a typical NPC response to a situation they were not equipped for. Then his features seemed to flow into a more sophisticated shape; he seemed more alive than most characters as he smiled, his eyes welcoming.
“Certainly you may, young adventurers. Your donkey will even get a meal and some shelter in my shack.”
“Thank you. Oh, and here, for your troubles.”
They still had half a sack of bread remaining, so Erik passed it over to the woodcutter.
“Why, thank you, young lady.”
“We will call in the morning to collect them.”
“Very well. Take care. The night can be dangerous here.”
“We will.”
“That’s it, let’s unclip.” B.E. was anxious to finish up.
It must have looked strange to the woodcutter that the five people accompanying the donkey and cart suddenly disappeared.
During the night, Erik had many violent dreams, which melted as he woke up, leaving him with only a residue of feeling—guilt and also, strangely, relish. It was impossible to recover even a fragment of dream to cling to and examine, so he rolled out of bed and washed. With the careful gestures of a ritual, he picked his favorite, most well-worn clothes. Harald used to tell him that superstition was a sign of weakness; but all the same, luck was not to be frightened away by any false steps on his part. In the untidy-looking kitchen Erik patiently peeled four oranges, then washed his sticky fingers. Yesterday’s porridge was still on the stove; it was disturbing that the fire, which was normally kept alive all year round, had gone out. To please his mother, Erik emptied the tray of ashes before rekindling a small fire. It would take some time to heat the porridge.
Outside, their yard was in disarray; washing had been left out to dry the whole night, and was now damp with dew; droppings from the donkey still needed to be shoveled up and thrown on the manure pile. It was hard to run a farm when you were about to leave it.