Epic

by Connor Kostick

  The first sign of the hoard had been a few coins, gold and silver; then they had come across a brooch with skillful filigree work, which Sigrid had fastened to her cape; next a leather pouch, with a gold fastening, and two small sapphires on the clasp.

  “This alone would mean a tractor for the district.” B.E. had picked it up, examining it closely.

  More and more immensely valuable items could be seen scattered along the cave floor, each of which caused them to stop and eagerly admire their fortune. Then they turned a corner, and the sight that greeted them suddenly halted their excited chatter. Before them were the results of a thousand years of accumulation by the monster that lay dead outside.

  In a wide chamber, hung with slender milky stalactites, a flood of coins carpeted the floor, rising and falling in piles several feet thick—motionless waves of gold. Immersed in the coin hoard, everywhere the eye paused, were precious items: horn drinking vessels bedecked with beaten silver, swords with delicate gem-laden scabbards, great tomes with gold-leaf work on the covers and heavy silver clasps, silver and gold cups, caskets, jewelry, pieces of armor, glittering blades on axes and swords. It was as though a sea of gold had recently washed over a beach of precious jewels, leaving them uncovered to glimmer in the torchlight.

  Only after a few moments of shock at the size of the hoard could B.E. throw himself onto the coins and begin singing.

  Bjorn sat down, hardly able to contemplate the scene. “How much wealth is this?” He reached down and grabbed a handful of coins. With them came a silver chain on which was strung a large iridescent amethyst. “In my hand I have more money than I could have earned in my whole life, and how many handfuls are here?” He shook his head.

  “I know.” B.E. turned over to dig into the coins beneath him. “Great, isn’t it!”

  They each went their own way amongst the treasure, beachcombers shouting with pleasure and excitement at the discoveries that they found beneath the easily overthrown mounds of coin. This joyful exercise probably lasted for hours, though no one was monitoring the time; eventually, when they tired of showing each other new marvels, the Osterfjord Dragonslayers gathered together again.

  “How can we get this all to Newhaven?” asked Sigrid, bringing a note of practicality to their giddy revels.

  “Good question. You should have brought a lot more carts.” B.E. smiled at Bjorn.

  “How about I take some treasure and hurry back there, buy six more carts, and return as quickly as I can?” Erik proposed.

  “You will be all right traveling alone?” asked Injeborg.

  “Oh yes, I’ve done the journey lots of times, and without the benefit of Cindella’s natural speed and these boots.”

  “Good. In the meantime, we will fill the one cart we have.” B.E. laughed. “What a demanding and yet pleasant task.”

  It was almost a day later that they walked into Newhaven, each leading horses, who were straining to pull heavily laden carts; the treasure was concealed as well as they could manage it, under rope-bound canvas covers.

  The city was decked out as if for a holiday. From all the walls and towers flew bright flags—the raven of the Earl of Snowpeak predominant among many other coats-of-arms; garlands of flowers hung around the gateway.

  “Is it a special day?” Injeborg looked around curiously.

  “I think it’s for us,” replied Erik, slightly sheepishly.

  “What? You told someone?” Sigrid sounded angry that Erik had let their secret slip before they had secured ownership of the treasure.

  “Well, just the hunting merchant.”

  “It’s better.” B.E. broke in before they could quarrel. “This is how it should be.”

  As the team entered the city, it seemed that the entire population had gathered to cheer them: the merchants and traders, the master craftsmen and apprentices, the city guard, the street urchins. They all lined the roads or waved from their windows. Entertaining them were jugglers, puppet masters, troubadours, and poets—all of whom paused to join the shouts of acclaim and the happy attempts to throw flowers onto the procession of carts moving over the cobbles.

  B.E. was in his element, waving back and acknowledging the cheers; he was wearing a garland of flowers that had been raised up to him by a young woman who ran out of the crowd. The rest of them felt slightly uncomfortable at the public scrutiny. Here and there, gray faces of other players could be seen in the colorful assembly of NPCs; no doubt, back at home, they were looking on at this parade with some amazement. This was the first time in a generation that something unusual had happened in the game, and they could hardly be expected to take seriously the crowd’s excited cry of “dragonslayers.”

  The master of the bank, a serious and ancient high elf, was there to meet them when they pulled up into the large square before the bank; he acted calmly, as if he dealt with dragon hoards every day. A gesture to his staff and they began to empty the carts, several clerks with leather-bound books making entries as they did so.

  “Please, come with me.”

  Again, unusually, as with Antilo the jeweler, and the woodcutter before, Erik detected in the character the presence of intelligence and vibrant expression. With a few anxious glances at their treasure, which glittered far too prominently in the sunlight as its covers were thrown back, they followed the high elf.

  The master’s office was discreetly and tastefully decorated. A beautiful slender vase contained exotic vivid blue flowers with long stems. This was the only ornamentation, although the carved oak chairs and desk were themselves works of such delicacy that they all tentatively lowered themselves as they sat.

  “Congratulations, a most remarkable achievement, and one that will earn you all an undying reputation. Perhaps I might be the first to know your names?” He smiled at them, bright eyes under bushy eyebrows.

  As they spoke, he acknowledged each name with a small nod.

  “For such immensely wealthy clients as yourselves, carrying even a fraction of your treasure would be most cumbersome. Not to mention the irksome attention that it is liable to attract.” He looked around them for expressions of agreement, and then continued, “So, we suggest to our most chivalrous clients that they might find it most advantageous to invoke the services of a soulbound djinn.”

  Detecting no sign of understanding, the master rang a tiny silver bell that was on his desk. At once, another, slightly younger elf entered with a silver tray on which were five crystal bottles and five stiletto daggers.

  “I took the liberty of having these prepared.”

  The tray was set down on the desk and the other elf left.

  “In each of these is a djinn from the ethereal planes.” Seeing their blank looks, the high elf made a sweeping gesture. “The ethereal planes, a magical dimension that surrounds our own, constantly present, but invisible to all but a very few. Now, these are geased creatures who travel via the planes, which gives them great swiftness. All civilized merchants understand that the instructions that are given to them will be carried out by this bank.” Since they still looked confused, the master continued, “When you open your bottles, the djinn will appear; you explain to it your desires, and the creatures will immediately come to me, or my deputy, and we will act upon them.”

  “I see,” said Injeborg. “So, if I wanted to buy an expensive item from a merchant, I would call up my djinn and tell it to let you know the merchant could obtain such and such an amount from the bank.”

  “Exactly so, mistress witch.” He nodded approvingly.

  “What are the knives for?” Bjorn was more interested than concerned.

  “The djinn will obey only you, but to be soulbound to you, we require you to drip some blood into the vessels.”

  “Do you have any idea of the value of our treasure?” asked Injeborg.

  “My staff will present you with a total value and a list of all your rare and precious magical items. No doubt, being veteran adventurers, unlike myself, you will have recognized many important artifacts�
�such as Neowthla’s Bell of Summoning, missing for five hundred years but now, thanks to your noble efforts, returned to the light of day. But in case you should have overlooked something in the undoubted confusion of such a hoard, we have experts who can identify many obscure items of arcana. When they have so done, I will have the loremaster general himself discuss each one with you.”

  “That’s most kind of you,” said Erik.

  “Not at all, my lady.” He gave a slight smile, the first that Erik had seen on his austere face. “We cannot perform too many services for the people who have made this the richest and thus the most famous bank in the whole of the world.”

  “Sorry, friends, but I have to go,” B.E. cut in.

  “Me too,” added Sigrid.

  “We can return to this,” said Injeborg, “and give them time to write up our items. Shall we just do the djinn thing first?”

  “If it’s not some sort of trick,” B.E. said aloud. The master of the bank looked so offended that he quickly continued, “Just the musings of an adventurer. Please forgive me.”

  B.E. jabbed his thumb with the dagger and, lifting the stopper of the bottle, let his blood run inside. “Is that enough?”

  “Yes indeed. That is plenty.”

  They all followed suit.

  “Shall we test one now?” suggested Erik.

  “You may if you wish,” said the master. “But since each djinn will perform only nine tasks before it is released, you may wish to wait until you need them.”

  “Yeah, let’s wait. Gotta run, see you later.” B.E. disappeared, followed by Sigrid.

  “It’s nearly time for dinner; we’d better go too,” Injeborg explained.

  “And then there was one,” said the master, after Bjorn and Injeborg had gone. “I’m glad. I wanted to speak with you alone.”

  “Oh, really?” Erik was curious.

  “Please come with me.” They both stood up. Then the master paused. “Wait. No. Not yet.” Suddenly the animation of his expression and intelligence of his eye departed like clouds covering the sun. He stood unmoving.

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, hello, Cindella. How may I help?”

  “I’m not sure really. Were you about to speak with me?”

  But like an NPC who is not given the right trigger, the master simply stood, looking blank.

  “Odd,” said Erik aloud. Then he unclipped.

  High above the city, the committee had reconvened. Godmund was apoplectic with fury—so red in the face that Svein feared that the old man would suffer a heart attack. His wrinkled translucent fingers shook with impatience and suppressed fury.

  “Good morning.” Hleid began the meeting. “We have just one item to discuss, the slaying of Inry’aat, the Red Dragon, by five people from Hope; the same five who, as the Osterfjord Players, recently performed well in the graduation championships. I believe Svein has the most information.” Hleid looked up at him expectantly.

  “I do not have much more to add. They arrived in Newhaven about six hours ago, with seven carts full of the dragon hoard. The town put on a celebration for them, which every player in the game cannot have failed to see. They deposited the treasure in the bank.”

  “How on earth did they kill a dragon?” exclaimed Brynhild. “They are only children.”

  “Yes, the obvious question. I have spoken to the Hope librarian, and he tells me that they were practicing against wyverns. They seem to have exploited a loophole in the attack pattern of some creatures, including dragons, which causes them when struck by roughly equivalent amounts of damage to change targets, to the person who most recently struck. Presumably they fired arrows, keeping the dragon turning from side to side.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Godmund, when he did speak, was surprisingly restrained, given the intensity of the feeling shown in his tense frame and frighteningly bulging eyes. “How is it a coincidence that Hope District supplies a team that defies us? Then we find a rogue assassin of ours living there. Now his son kills a dragon. It is my conviction that they are getting aid to subvert this committee and this society.”

  “That’s just speculation,” commented Halfdan, brooding sullenly in his chair.

  “Allow me to make a philosophical diversion.” Godmund heaved himself up and, with the aid of his stick, walked over to where the great windows looked out over the slate and wooden rooftops of Mikelgard. “We preside over a planet of what, five million souls? A peaceful society, a stable society. And what keeps it so? Epic. The law is solid, the economy is solid, and people work hard at the tasks allocated to them. Admittedly we have a drain of time into Epic and a problem matching the original colonists’ level of technology, but one day, many generations from now, we will work our way back to being able to manufacture sophisticated materials. In the meantime, it is the duty of those on this committee to prevent the collapse of the economy or the emergence of crime. Epic is not, I repeat not, a game.” Godmund turned around and glared at them and Svein, in particular, felt that he was the subject of the stare. “Nor is it a vehicle for gaining the adulation of the mob.” The old man worked his way back to the table and leaned, gripping the back of his chair. “Or a mechanism for the enjoyment of power. It is our economic and legal system. We cannot allow it to become unstable. Yet what do we have here? The worst news since some of you killed the Black Dragon. And worse than that, at least you were of our own. Now we have farmers’ children, with absolutely no loyalty to the system—in fact, since we exiled the boy’s father, they probably hate the system—and they are in command of a fortune that is probably bigger than that of Central Allocations. Do you realize what they could do? They could purchase the planet’s entire resources and distribute them as they pleased. This Harald has been a hidden enemy of ours for some time; now he has the means to wreak havoc. And that is only the economy. What about the law? If these young people have found half the items that we have obtained over the years, then they can defy all the law enforcers in the world. They can propose . . . for example . . . a change in this committee, and win it in the arena.” He paused, watching them, letting the point sink in. “For generations our forebears have evolved a system that is in balance. The people earn copper pieces; they spend them on resources that we have gathered from around the world. The coins, therefore, come to our bank account, and we fund the equipment of the central teams. A better system of government has rarely been achieved. Certainly the warfare that our ancestors fled has no possibility of appearing. But now. Now the system has never faced a greater threat and we will have to take decisive measures.”

  “With all due respect, Godmund.” It was Bekka. Svein smiled to himself; she really had no idea of the dynamics of the situation. It was political suicide to cross Godmund right now; drastic proposals were coming and she was making herself a target. “We know very little about these people. Perhaps if we give them University places, they will come and help us administer the system? Perhaps that is all they want? The boy, for example, might just want his father back. We can accommodate that.”

  “Actually,” Godmund said, smiling dangerously, “that is a possibility. It was always the inherent weakness of relying upon Epic that the game itself can introduce instability. Unfortunately it runs to its own rules and not to ours. But let us guard against the worst-case scenario—that they do want our ruin.”

  “Are you making a proposal?” asked Hleid.

  Godmund lifted a visibly shaking hand. “In due course. First of all, I want to hear from you that you all understand what I am saying. Ever since your generation came onto this committee, I have felt that it has become flabby. I have tolerated your indulgences, because it did not matter. But now I have to insist. No more games!”

  With a slight blush, Svein wondered if Godmund was particularly directing his remarks against his own efforts to solve the Epicus Ultima.

  “Now, let me hear from each of you. Do you understand the seriousness of the crisis? The potential for the utter ruin of our society?”

/>   “Old man!” Wolf leaned back in his chair, apparently lazy, but his voice was quivering with the effort to keep it under control. “Don’t try to bully us.”

  Bekka gasped aloud at his temerity and Wolf smiled. “You are entitled to your view, of course, and to make your proposals, but don’t think that you command this committee.”

  “You are the arrogant one, puppy. It is you who likes to impress the crowds with your wolf form. But to lead is to foresee, not to perform circus tricks.”

  “Now, careful,” interjected Hleid, seeing Wolf sit up ready with an angry reply. “We have to be united in our approach to this situation.”

  “It would perhaps help matters if we had some proposals before us.” Svein thought the time had come to intervene.

  “I agree,” Hleid quickly responded.

  “Well, I have one,” offered Bekka.

  “Go ahead.”

  “That Svein go to Hope District and find out what they want. Find out what kind of people they are.” Godmund snorted, and she continued with a frown. “See if we can bring them into our structures.”

  “And I have an alternative,” Godmund said contemptuously.

  “Yes?”

  “That we unleash the Executioner upon them before they become too powerful or misuse their treasure.”

  Having been indolent with apparent boredom, Ragnok suddenly looked up to nod with approval.

  “Well, that’s clear enough,” said Hleid. “The choice is between Bekka’s approach or that of Godmund. All those in favor of Bekka’s proposal, please show.”

  “Just a moment, Chair,” Svein broke in hurriedly, but not before he saw that Hleid, Wolf, and Bekka were about to raise their hands. “We have not discussed the implications of using the Executioner. I, for one, am concerned that the world will conclude that we are responsible for their deaths. Perhaps they will discover our weapon.”

  “Not if we do it right,” Ragnok muttered. “Wait for them to go exploring. Or when they try out their new toys. Accidents happen.”