“Did you get your tooth fixed yet, with all your new money?”
That proved he was Harald and Cindella gave a cheer of delight. Erik’s dad laughed, throwing back his hood, to reveal long golden hair and, at his hips, two short blades.
They hugged clumsily, restricted by the maneuverability of the characters.
“Erik, we don’t have long. One day I will talk to you about how you were successful in the slaying of the dragon. But now we must make plans. Can you guess how I’m talking to you?”
“You have got away from exile?”
“Alas, not yet. But they have a machine here, like the one you used in hospital. Anonemuss owns it. I told him that if he arranged this meeting, you would give him a thousand gold pieces.”
“Ah. He got five thousand.”
“Well, you can afford that?”
“Of course, Dad, you have no idea. We have . . .”
“Sorry, Erik, I don’t have long. Listen. Go to Thorstein, and offer him a huge amount for the portable machine in the library. He won’t want to part with it; he will be afraid of trouble—but I can’t see him turning down fifty thousand bezants. Then tell your mum to volunteer for exile with me. She can bring the machine to the island and I will be able to play again and communicate with you properly. After that we can plan together how to be reunited.”
“Yes, I see.” Erik was flattered by the pattern of his dad’s words, treating him as an equal and as being capable of difficult tasks. “And when we are reunited, I was thinking of the Osterfjord Players using our money to buy the equipment that would allow us to pass a law for a general amnesty, whatever opposition C.A. tried to use against us, we could defeat them now.”
“Interesting,” the elf said. “Yes, that’s an option, but please listen. Central Allocations are extraordinarily possessive of their power; you cannot really appreciate it unless you have known them. And I am told by some of those here in exile that they have a means of killing players in the game—outside of the arena.”
“Isn’t that impossible?”
“I don’t know. But be on guard. We can talk more when we are alone and there’s nobody prodding me in the back, saying that my time is up. And Erik, don’t do anything to make them come after you until we have made our plans. If you try to change the law now, they will find a way of stopping you. In fact, it might already be too late; they might be out to kill your characters. Don’t trust anyone; try to get the Osterfjord Players all away to safety somewhere. I’m sure that they are all in terrible danger; if I was in authority, I would not let you control such a fortune for long.”
“I see.” Erik paused. “And what about this Anonemuss—is he a friend?”
“Thunder and lightning! No. In a sense, he is more dangerous than Central Allocations. Erik, I have to go, sorry. Give Mum my love.”
“I will. Dad, here.”
“What?”
“Your boots.”
“Keep them.”
“No, I’ve bought myself a pair. Here, please.”
“Thank you.”
Harald took the boots and an instant later disappeared.
“Well, kid.” Anonemuss returned directly in front of Erik. “Get on with your dad, don’t you?”
“We love each other.”
“Nice. Very nice.” He sounded sarcastic and the slight admiration Eric had felt for Anonemuss’s choice of character immediately dissolved into a strong dislike of the dark elf. “Now, I think you and I should have a conversation.”
“What about?” asked Erik guardedly, thinking of his dad’s recent warning.
“About how to change the system.” The dark elf glanced down at the road where occasional evening travelers were hurrying towards Newhaven. “Mind stepping a little farther into the woods? I can’t help feeling that we might be seen here.”
“I will talk to you. But you go first.” Cindella waited, hand on the hilt of her rapier.
“Don’t trust me, eh? Very wise. But you and I both have reason to want to see changes. We are natural allies.” Anonemuss stepped back several paces, until the trees fully screened him from the road. Cindella followed, standing at the alert.
“Well?”
“Well, young Erik. Have you thought about how to bring about the changes you desire?”
“All I desire is for my dad to rejoin us in Osterfjord.”
“Yes, but from such an understandable and fundamental wish stems an entire political philosophy of change. Under the present setup of the society of Epic, what are your possible paths of obtaining the return of Harald Goldenhair?”
Erik said nothing.
“One, the legal route: you could take a case against the central authorities. But the problem there is that the system is rigged. For centuries the wealth created in Epic has been centralized into the hands of a small number of people through purchases of the resources that they control. The result? The Epic characters of C.A. are unassailable by the vast majority. Right?”
“Except that now we might have a chance, with the new equipment we can obtain from the dragon hoard,” Erik interjected.
“True. But it is a risk. A big risk. What if, even with all your new items, they still defeat you? That’s it. Wipeout. No happy family for you. A rather all-or-nothing strategy in my opinion, although I shall be cheering you on if you do try it.”
“Yes, I was going to fight for a general amnesty for all exiles.”
“Are you mad? All exiles? Some of the people here are dangerous.” He laughed, in a slightly sinister and mocking way. “Anyway, where was I? Two: you could buy him back. I would imagine that if you offered up your share of the dragon hoard to C.A., they might allow Harald’s return.”
“But what about the law?”
“They make and change the law; after all, who can challenge them?”
It had not occurred to Erik that he could offer money for his dad’s return. That was an interesting new possibility.
“But,” continued Anonemuss, “can you trust them? Your dad returns; you give them your money. What’s to stop them reneging upon their side of the agreement? You are surrendering your potential for action. And while they might tolerate the return of Harald Goldenhair if he avoids playing Epic, they might not. There would be nothing you could do if they later made moves against you all.
“So, three: you blackmail them. A dragon hoard such as yours could completely destabilize the world economy. You probably have enough wealth, for example, to buy every tractor ever built. You could either sell them at a profit, or keep a squeeze on them until the world’s population is sending unending pleas to C.A.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t do that.”
“That’s a laudable expression of your morality. But even if you did not intend to behave in that way, you could threaten to. The advantage of this route is that you keep your potential for action. You get Harald, and you get to keep your wealth. Happiness all around and all the marsh-mallows you can eat.”
“What?”
“Sorry, just an expression. Meaning you can live in luxury. But what’s the flaw?”
“I don’t know.” Erik felt that he was being rushed towards some destination that he had no control over.
“The flaw is that C.A. will hate being blackmailed and will never stop trying to end your hold over them. Eventually they will find a way to kill you.”
“My dad said that they can kill characters, and not just in the amphitheater,” Erik replied to show that he was aware that this could happen.
“Of course they can. But I’m not necessarily talking about characters.”
It took a moment for this to sink in.
“No!” Erik was appalled and sickened. “They would never resort to violence, let alone murder.”
“Well, kid, I’m not going to spell it all out to you now. I see that your conceptual frame of reference is still bounded by your schooling.” The dark elf was sneering. “But even if the world runs according to the principles and use of Epic that you believe in, there is one, no there are two,” he corrected himself, “important questions that I shall leave you with. Ask yourself how did the people currently on the Central Allocations committee get there? And how could you take over if you wanted to?”
Before Erik could even begin to formulate a reply, the elf was gone.
Cindella rode swiftly back to town, the setting sun in her eyes. Erik did not want to unclip in the wilderness, but was there greater safety in the city? Perhaps not. Perhaps even now he was being followed by an invisible assailant from C.A. Pulling up the mount, Cindella removed the glove from her right hand.
Blue-green waves of light flowed from her, showing the world as it truly was: the fox eagerly trotting through the scrub, the trail of grouse that it followed; the distant sweeping dives of swallows. Far off to the right, snaking through the forest, a curious silvery path leading to a shimmering mirrored doorway. But no enemies.
He must see the others at once and make sure that they took precautions for their safety.
Chapter 16
A BRIBE
It was a
merry gathering of families that made its way along the coast paths from Osterfjord to Hope. The Rolfsons were traveling by cart, Rolfson and his wife Siggida up front, Bjorn and Injeborg in the open back. Beside them, Freya and Erik led Leban, who was carrying their finest clothes, wrapped up in the saddle bags that were balanced over his back. Just behind them on the path, B.E. and his sister Sigrid were sharing a horse, while their parents walked alongside. Even the elderly Irnsvig was making the journey, being carried in a cart driven by his sons.
As they traveled, the older generation sang, and although it was early in the day, an ornate drinking horn of mead was being passed up and down the line.
The last few miles to Hope were up the rocky slopes of the hill that the town was built on. The sun, which had gleamed with a dark brightness from the solar panels on the roof of the Agricultural School and the Library, was suddenly lost in the shadows that the upper town cast over the lower. Children from the yellow, dry-stone houses on the outskirts ran to see them, either looking on shyly, wide-eyed, or the bolder ones calling out and tugging at the strangers’ clothing.
“Hey, mister. Did you really kill a dragon?”
Erik smiled at being called “mister.” Although to a seven-year-old he must seem very adult.
By the time they reached the main road that entered the town, they had quite a procession. The horses and donkeys all had garlands of flowers around their necks, roses carefully stripped of thorns, daisy chains thick with thousands of small flowers.
Tied across two buildings as they arrived among the oldest and proudest part of the town was a great banner: “Welcome, dragonslayers!” The paint had run slightly on the sheet, so that the bottom of each letter had trails coming from it, making the letters look as if they were bleeding.
The villicus of Hope District was there to greet them. He waved enthusiastically and took the bridles of Rolfson’s horses, as though he was pulling the whole procession to the town square. Great cheers met them as they arrived in the district’s plaza. The wooden stage that was brought out for special festivals had been erected and was thronged with people—who up until now had been entertained by a juggler of firebrands.
“I have never seen so many people in one place before,” Erik said, turning to look up at his mum.
“They must have traveled from all over, not just our district,” Freya answered with a hint of awe in her voice.
A path was cleared so that the five dragonslayers could join the villicus, Thorstein, the headmistress of the school, and a powerful-looking mature man on the stage. B.E. was enjoying himself and was laughing and joking with his school friends who were pressed right up against the stage. The rest of them felt uncomfortable, but it was impossible not to smile with so many cheerful, friendly faces around them.
“Hello. Does this still work? Hello?” The villicus was speaking into a small handheld device, which caused his voice to echo around the square from speakers fastened to the library roof.
“Good men and women of the Hope District, and indeed our neighbors. Never has a small district like ours been so fortunate. We have amongst us five dragonslayers! A most memorable event, which augurs a new period of prosperity for us all!” The cheers that punctuated his sentences were muted; he was the unpopular person responsible for keeping the pressure on the farmers to deliver their production targets. “But let me hand over the celebrations to one more fitting than I, from Bluevale, one of the last great dragonslayers, Svein Redbeard!”
Now the cheers were warm and generous.
“Greetings on this celebratory day!” The older man on the stage walked confidently around as he talked, so that he could take in the entire crowd. “Only twice in the history of Epic has a dragon been slain. And it seems like it must be a task for young people. Since you all know the history so well, I cannot hide the fact that it was forty years ago that my friends and I braved the Black Dragon. And, I have to admit, that even with all my progress since then, if I was asked to challenge a dragon now, I would make my excuses.” The audience laughed good-naturedly. “But the young are bold, and thus fortune favors them. Not only are they brave, though—they are cunning. It is impossible to defeat a dragon unless you have studied it, unless you understand where its weakness lies, and unless you are thoroughly conversant with the ways of Epic. These young people deserve more congratulations for this than for their daring.”
Great cheers met this praise. That Svein Redbeard should honor their own players made everyone in the district proud.
“I’m sure that the teacher of the two most senior players must also deserve some credit. No other school has taught two dragonslayers.” More fervent cheers from the students of the Agricultural School, the headmistress bowing her head, embarrassed. “I saw in the records that your school once wanted a second tractor. A modest, used, small engined tractor. Well, you were turned down at the time.” A few boos, but not meant seriously. “Clearly that was a mistake, given the good work that you do, and will continue to do in producing graduates who will go on to help our society. And so I am happy to present you with this!”