Distopia (Land of Dis)

by Robert Kroese

  As Tobalt explained the complex system by which the Shipping Guild ensured payment to its members, making it possible for ship owners to profit from being a link in a long chain of transactions without having to worry about where their cargo was coming from or where it was going, he began to suspect that the goblin was spinning a yarn to deceive them. At first Wyngalf thought Tobalt was saying that all the ship captains worked for the Guild, which dictated where they would go and when, but the goblin insisted that was not the case. The ship captains were free to go wherever they wanted and to accept or refuse cargo as they saw fit; all the Guild did was give them options and information. If, for example, a shipment of Peraltian wool was due at Brobdingdon on a certain date, and it needed to be transported to Skaal City by a certain date, the Guild clerk in Brobdingdon would issue a bulletin which got handed out to any captains passing through the port. A small bounty was offered to the captain who first delivered this bulletin to any participating Guild port, so information about pending shipments tended to spread quickly along the coast. Captains who were Guild members (which was essentially all of them, as far as Wyngalf could tell) would review the bulletins posted at the Guild office whenever they came into port, and if a certain captain was going to be unloading cargo at Brobdingdon around the time that the Peraltian wool was due to arrive, he might inform the local Guild clerk of his willingness to pick up the wool at Brobdingdon and deliver it to Skaal City. That information would then be passed along to the clerk in Brobdingdon, who would accept the offer and issue an updated bulletin indicating that the wool shipment was no longer available. The whole thing was such a chaotic mess that Wyngalf was certain the goblin had misunderstood it.

  “And how do you happen to know so much about how goods are shipped along the coast of Dis?” he asked.

  “It’s one of my interests,” said Tobalt sheepishly, slightly embarrassed of his lengthy discourse on the matter. This was a habit of Tobalt’s that Wyngalf hadn’t yet decided was endearing or irritating: he would expound at length on the most obscure details of some issue and then apologize, as if ashamed of his encyclopedic knowledge. As with his discourses on religion, of course, it was unclear whether Tobalt was evincing actual knowledge or simply parroting notions he’d come across at some point without any real understanding. Wyngalf tended to think it was the latter. And yet, it wasn’t in his interest to argue with the goblin: if Skaal City really was the bustling port that Tobalt made it out to be, then it was most likely his best prospect in the area for making converts and founding a church. If he could get Evena to agree to accompany him there, it would allow him to look after her for a bit longer and perhaps talk her out of trying to return to Skaal City until they had a better understanding of their options. After all, what could she hope to accomplish by returning home now? Even if she got on a ship tomorrow, it would be weeks before she got to Skuldred—and if Verne really wanted to destroy the town, she wouldn’t be able to stop him. Her parents would be worried sick about her, of course, but she had known that when she decided to stow away on this adventure.

  Evena reluctantly agreed that traveling to Skaal City sounded like their best bet, and Tobalt offered his own services as a guide and scavenger for the journey. “Perhaps too,” he added, “I might offer some measure of protection against others of my kind. Goblins, as you no doubt are aware, have a penchant for waylaying innocent travelers, and my presence among your party might give them pause regarding the pursuit of such endeavors in your case.”

  Wyngalf didn’t particularly like the idea of traveling with a goblin, as he suspected it would reflect poorly on his cause to potential converts, but he couldn’t deny the sense of Tobalt’s words. According to Tobalt, Skaal city was two day’s journey if they took the meandering road along the coast, but he claimed to know a shortcut through the hills to the northeast. Assuming Tobalt was telling the truth, it would save them another night sleeping in the cold, and that alone was worth enduring his company. In any case, Tobalt was unlikely to be permitted to travel inside the confines of a human city, so it would be easy enough to ditch him once they got to their destination.

  They spend the morning trudging north along the poorly maintained road that ran along the rocky coast. They met no other travelers; Tobalt explained that there were several towns along the road further to the south, but a few of these had suffered the same fate as Sybesma, and the most of the residents of the remaining towns had fled to Skaal City, which was deemed to be safe from the dragon’s attacks. Whether this was because the city militia was somehow capable of repelling Verne’s aggression or because the city’s rulers met the dragon’s demands was unclear. Fortunately, they were spared the sight of any more ruined towns; just after noon, they stopped for lunch, finishing off the contents of Tobalt’s sack, and then turned east toward a low ridge, beyond which Tobalt promised there lay a long valley that snaked through the hills for several miles. Eventually, he said, they would come out onto a flat plain just south of Skaal City.

  As Tobalt promised, after they scaled the ridge, the found themselves looking down on a valley that snaked through the hills. It wended vaguely northeast, the direction in which Tobalt claimed Skaal City lay. They made their way down to the valley floor and followed it through the hills. As the valley took a turn to the east, a suspicion crept into Wyngalf’s mind that this was all some sort of elaborate plan to lure them to a goblin lair. It was hard to imagine how waylaying two destitute travelers could be worth all this trouble, though, and ultimately they had little choice but to trust Tobalt; without him they’d likely starve or be killed by bandits or goblins anyway.

  Wyngalf was still reflecting on this when the afternoon sun, which had been beating down hard on their backs, was suddenly blotted out. Evena and Tobalt instinctively turned to see what could have plunged them into shadow so quickly, but Wyngalf simply stopped in his tracks and sighed. He had a feeling he knew precisely what that shadow portended. For a moment he was able to maintain the belief that it had simply been a fast-moving and very dark cloud, but that illusion was spoiled almost immediately by a familiar gusting wind.

  “Run!” cried Tobalt, and Wyngalf was vaguely aware of Evena and the goblin rushing past him to take shelter among some nearby boulders. The idea of trying to hide from a dragon in this sparse landscape struck him as so absurd it was almost humorous. If Verne wanted to kill them, hiding behind rocks wasn’t going to help. For that matter, if he had wanted to kill them, they’d never have made it off the island. Reluctantly Wyngalf turned to face the dragon.

  “Hello again!” Verne exclaimed, alighting on the ground just in front of Wyngalf. In his clutches was a great wooden chest. “I thought that was you, Simply Wyngalf.”

  “Hello, Verne,” said Wyngalf, without emotion.

  “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” said the dragon, a tone of exaggerated offense in his voice. “What happened to your gratitude for saving you from that island? And why are your friends hiding in the rocks over there? A little rude, don’t you think?”

  “I believe we’ve repaid you for that bit of kindness,” said Wyngalf, eyeing the chest. Despite his hopes to the contrary, he was afraid he knew where the chest had come from.

  The dragon grinned at him, revealing rows of knife-like teeth. “Fair enough,” he said. “Admittedly, it is due to your thoughtful assistance that I was able to locate the town of Skuldred and apply the appropriate pressure to extract a considerable amount of gold from its citizenry—more than enough to make the trip across the sea worthwhile. Ordinarily it’s such a bother to convince the townspeople to ante up. You’d think it would be a simple matter: show up, raze a few buildings, demand ten thousand gold pieces, and wait for people to shower you with gold. But the logistics are surprisingly challenging. Most of the time the townspeople just run around in a panic, and it’s difficult to get them to calm down to the point where I can even explain to them what I’m after.”

  “Perhaps,” said Wyngalf through gritted teeth, “
if you didn’t start off by razing buildings.”

  “I’ve tried that approach as well,” said Verne with a thoughtful nod. “But then they don’t take you seriously. Sometimes I get shot at with arrows, which is irritating. So these days I usually start off by torching a few barns on the periphery of the town. That lets them know I mean business. Of course, occasionally the fire gets out of control and burns down the rest of the town, which is counterproductive. If people get the idea that I’m just arbitrarily razing towns, they’re less likely to meet my demands. It’s a delicate balance.”

  “I can imagine,” said Wyngalf humorlessly.

  “Fortunately, everything seems to be working out with Skuldred. I arrived yesterday evening and incinerated a few storehouses on the edge of town. Perfect timing; the whole town could see the fire. Then I landed in the town square and asked to speak to Bulgar the fish merchant. I may have implied that I’d abducted Bulgar’s daughter, Evena; it seemed a harmless lie under the circumstances. The fire was still burning when Bulgar appeared, begging for me to return his daughter. An hour later, I was on my way back here with a chest full of gold. Easy-peasy.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Wyngalf caught Evena peeking around the boulder.

  Wyngalf’s hand fell to the sword at his side. He’d found a matching scabbard in the ruins and had attached it to his belt. “And now you’ve come to collect her?”

  Verne laughed. “Oh, goodness no. This is just the down payment.” He patted the chest with his right claw. “I don’t plan on returning her for some time. Frankly, I might never bring her back, depending on how things go. But I did want to stop by and make sure she’s still alive, just in case. And to thank you for your help, of course.” He craned his head to peer at Evena, crouched beside the boulder. “Hello, dear,” he said with a smile. “I see you’ve made a new friend.” His gaze fell to Tobalt the goblin was cowering behind Evena. “Take good care of her, goblin,” he said. “I may need her back one of these days.”

  Tobalt nodded dumbly, shaking with fear.

  Evena stood, her fists clenched at her sides, staring at the dragon. “What have you done to my home?” she demanded.

  “As I was telling my friend Simply Wyngalf,” Verne said, “I’ve harmed no one in your fair town. So far, anyway. I’ll return once a month, and as long as they provide me with the gold I ask for, the town will remain unharmed.”

  “I demand that you take me back there,” said Evena, standing to face the dragon. “Immediately!”

  Verne laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh like furnace bellows stoking a coal fire. “Oh, you demand it?” he said. “I’m afraid, my dear, you’re in no position to demand anything. You know, you were much politer when you thought you were going to die on that island.”

  Evena bit her lip. “Please, Verne,” she said. “Take me back to Skuldred.”

  The dragon paused, seeming to give the matter some thought. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that just yet. It’s better to let your parents worry for a while. If it becomes necessary to make a show of goodwill, I’ll be back for you.”

  “How will you find me?” asked Evena.

  Verne chuckled. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You couldn’t hide from me if you tried.” He pulled his long neck back and faced Wyngalf once again. “Anyway, I should get this gold back to the lair. Just wanted to stop by and make sure you’re all okay. Wouldn’t do to rescue you and then have you fall victim to the local monsters. But you’re almost to Skaal City now, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “Assuming you’ve left Skaal City in better shape than Sybesma,” said Wyngalf.

  “Ah yes,” said Verne, with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that. I’d actually forgotten I’d razed that town. They got behind on payments, and I had to make an example of them. Understand that’s a relatively rare occurrence; generally the townspeople in this region are pretty good about meeting their commitments. I’ve never had a problem with Skaal City, for example. The mayor is a fine man, very responsible. Collects taxes from his citizens and passes on the bulk of what he collects to me. He skims off the top, of course, but I look the other way as long as my demands are met. And I help him out on occasion as well. It’s what you might call a mutually beneficial arrangement. Well, I won’t keep you from your important mission any longer.” He spread his wings, wrapped his claws around the chest, and launched himself into the sky. “Goodbye for now!” he cried.

  Wyngalf watched Verne recede in the eastern sky. The dragon was just disappearing behind the hills when suddenly Wyngalf was thrown to the ground. The back of his head struck the ground, and for a moment he was dazed. Eventually he became aware of a dull thudding against his chest. Evena had tackled him and was now straddling his midsection and pummeling him with her tiny fists. She didn’t have the strength to do any real damage, and Wyngalf almost burst out laughing at the feebleness of her attack—and then he saw that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “It’s your fault!” she cried. “Verne is going to kill my parents, and it’s your fault!”

  Wyngalf resisted the urge to seize her wrists, figuring it was better to allow her to take out her anger on him. The cumulative effect of her bony fists striking his rib cage was only a mild discomfort, and already her blows were becoming softer and less frequent. “I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but it came out as a series of syllables broken by the percussion of her fists: “I-I-I-I’m So-o-orr-ee-ee-ee-ee.”

  “Sorry isn’t good enough!” Evena screamed. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done? It’s not just Skuldred. A dragon’s greed knows no limits. He’ll move on to Truiska, then Purivel and all the other towns along the coast. Eventually he’ll probably even reach your beloved Svalbraakrat!”

  Wyngalf winced, thinking of the precious relics the bishop kept in the catacombs beneath the Noninitarian Stronghold, among them the silver Chalice of Illias, the jewel-encrusted tibia of Saint Roscow, and the miraculous bronze Statue of Ontenogon, the ears of which provided the Holy Wax used by the bishop for the seal on official church documents. Verne would no doubt have no compunction about razing the Stronghold itself for such treasures.

  “I-I-I-I’m S-s-s-o-o-o-orr-ee-ee-ee-ee,” he said again. “I-I-I-I d-di-i-i-i-d-nt kn-n-n-o-o-o-o-w-w-w w-w-w-wha-a-a-a-a-t I-I-I-I w-w-wa-a-a-as-s-s d-do-o-o-o-o-i-i-i-ing.”

  “What?” Evena asked, pausing with her fists clenched in the air.

  “I didn’t know what I was doing,” said Wyngalf. “I wasn’t thinking. I was hungry and exhausted and not thinking clearly. I’m sorry I told Verne where your parents lived. I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to you. I’ll help you get back home.”

  Renewed anger swept over Evena’s face for a moment, and Wyngalf braced himself as she raised her right fist over her head. But then she collapsed with a defeated sigh, rolling onto the dirt next to him. Tobalt watched this scene unfold with mute interest.

  “It’s no use,” Evena groaned, lying flat on the ground, her fists clenched against her eyes. “There’s no stopping him now. He’ll take every piece of gold my father ever earned. And when that’s gone, he’ll burn the town down.”

  Wyngalf sat up, putting his hand on Evena’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure her, but she pulled away. At a loss, he looked to Tobalt, imagining that the goblin might have a suggestion. But for once, the garrulous goblin was silent. He simply stared back at Wyngalf and shrugged. There was nothing any of them could do about a dragon.

  Nine

  Wyngalf, Evena and Tobalt arrived at Skaal City just after dark. The guard was dubious at first regarding Wyngalf’s claim to be a traveling missionary, but when Wyngalf launched into a recitation of the first of the Fourteen Points, he threw open the gate and hurried them inside, presumably so he wouldn’t have to listen to any more of Wyngalf’s stultifying spiel. The guard cast a puzzled glance at Tobalt, who had thrown his hood over his head to conceal his features, but didn’t try to stop him. Wyngalf had actually expec
ted Tobalt to be refused entry to the city, which would forestall the need to ditch him later on, but either the guard didn’t realize Tobalt was a goblin or figured that he was such a miserable specimen of the race that he was no real threat.

  “You’ll need to surrender your sword,” the guard said to Wyngalf. “No swords over thirty-two and a quarter inches allowed in Skaal City without a permit.”

  “We have good reason to believe our lives are in danger,” said Evena.

  “In that case,” the guard said, “we should be able to expedite the permit process.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Thirty days.”

  “Thirty days!” cried Wyngalf. “We could be dead by then!”

  “I don’t make the laws,” said the guard. “You should have anticipated being in grave danger thirty days ago.”

  “I didn’t even know I was going to be on this continent thirty days ago!”

  “Sounds like a lack of planning all around,” said the guard. “Look, you didn’t hear it from me, but you might be able to pick up a black market sword somewhere, if you’re really desperate.”

  Wyngalf sighed. He unbuckled the sword and handed it to the guard. “Do you know where we could find lodging tonight?”

  “Sure,” said the guard, taking the sword. “There’s an inn just down the street on the right.”

  “Thanks,” Wyngalf muttered. They turned to leave.

  “Hey, buddy,” said the guard. Wyngalf stopped and turned to face him.

  The guard grinned at him. “Want to buy a black market sword?”

  It was probably just as well that Wyngalf was unarmed at that point, or he might have done something he later regretted. While he silently fumed, Evena handed the guard ten gold pieces and he gave her the sword. “Let’s go,” Evena said, taking Wyngalf’s arm.

  They made their way down the street in the direction the guard had indicated, Wyngalf muttering the whole way about the injustice of the having to pay for a sword he already owned. Neither the fact that it was Evena’s money they’d spent nor Tobalt’s reminder that he had essentially stolen the sword in the first place soothed his resentment.