Distopia (Land of Dis)

by Robert Kroese

  Something crashed loudly into the door behind them. “City guard!” shouted a voice. “Open up!”

  Wyngalf did as instructed. His hand brushed against something that he realized after a moment was a doorknob. He gripped it and turned, pulling the door open, revealing nothing but more blackness.

  “There’s a staircase right in front of you. Take it until you reach a small stone landing. Then stop.”

  Wyngalf once again followed the man’s instructions, keeping his bearings by running his fingertips along the stone wall to his left. When he got to the landing, though, the wall disappeared. The air was cool here and the way the sound of his footsteps was swallowed by the darkness, he got the sense he was had entered a very large space. Evena came up behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder. It was impossible to know how big the landing was or what lay beyond it.

  “Now what?” called Wyngalf to the man, who was still at the top of the staircase, doing something that involved heavy iron chains. Presumably he was securing the door against the invaders. Farther behind them, Wyngalf thought he heard wood splintering.

  “Feel for the edge of the landing with your foot,” yelled the man.

  Wyngalf shuffled forward until the toes of his right foot slid his right foot forward until it reached an edge. As far as he could tell, it was a straight vertical edge that ran the length of the landing. Another staircase?

  “Found it,” Wyngalf called. “Now what?”

  “Jump,” yelled the man. “As far as you can.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Wyngalf. “There’s jumping?”

  “If you want to live,” snapped the voice, “you’ll jump.”

  A crash sounded against the door, and the chains jangled loudly. Wyngalf stepped to the edge with his left foot and dangled his right foot over, feeling for a step. He didn’t find one, but maybe he just wasn’t reaching far enough. As he reached down a little farther, his left knee buckled and he nearly fell forward into the gaping nothingness. Overcorrecting, he threw his weight backwards, collapsing into Evena.

  “Jump!” barked the voice from above.

  With Evena’s help, Wyngalf straightened up and stepped once again toward the edge. His rational mind told him that if the mysterious man had wanted them dead, he’d have left them to be captured by the city guard, but all his instincts told him this was wrong. This had to be another staircase. He could picture it in his mind. If he jumped, he would sail several feet into the air and then plummet to the steps below. He’d be lucky if his injuries only amounted to a few broken bones. On the other hand, breaking his neck would be preferable to being slowly incinerated by Verne.

  Another crash sounded, and the chains jingled again. “Jump, you fool!” hollered the voice again. But still Wyngalf hesitated.

  “Do it, Wyngalf,” urged Evena. “I’m right behind you. If you jump, I jump.”

  Wyngalf inhaled deeply, put his toes just over the edge, and jumped.

  For a sickening moment he was in freefall, then his feet struck wood and he tumbled to a halt, ending spread-eagled on his face. Beneath him was some kind of creaky wooden platform made of spongey wood that smelled of mildew and rot. A second later, Evena slammed into the platform next to him, and he managed to pull her toward himself in time to make way for Tobalt, who followed. He felt Tobalt scrambling past him, and a second later someone else—presumably the man who had rescued them—landed with a thud. The platform groaned and sagged beneath their weight, and Wyngalf wondered how far they would fall if it gave out—and what they what hit at the bottom. Wyngalf started to get to his feet, but the creaking boards under his feet made him think better of it.

  “Stay on your hands and knees,” said the man’s voice. “Keep your weight distributed. No telling how much these old boards can still bear.” He moved past Wyngalf as he spoke. “All right,” he said, once he was in the lead, “Follow me.”

  Just then, they heard another crash followed by the sounds of splintering wood and heavy iron chains spilling down the stone steps. For a moment the silhouette of a man was visible in the dim moonlight coming in through the doorway. The silhouette disappeared and was replaced by another as the man in the lead began to clank rapidly down the stone steps. Guard after guard poured down the steps, raising a horrendous cacophony of clanking. The first man let out a yelp as he reached the edge of the landing and fell, but his cry was all but drowned out by the sound of more men following him down the steps. The men were fearless, Wyngalf had to give them that. One after another they clanked down the steps and across the landing, and then disappeared with a yelp into the yawning abyss below.

  “What the Skaal City Guard lack in foresight, they more than make up for in foolhardiness,” said the man ahead of Wyngalf. “This way.” Wyngalf heard him scuffling away in the dark. Not seeing any alternative, Wyngalf followed. Evena and Tobalt crawled along behind them as guards continued to clank down the step and disappear with terrified yelps. After some time, Wyngalf’s hands hit cold stone.

  “You can stand up here,” said the voice. “Originally a stone bridge went across the whole chasm, but a thousand years ago or so part of it collapsed. Smugglers rebuilt the missing section out of wood a few hundred years ago, but these caverns fell into disuse when the shipping guild loosened trade restrictions, and some of their scaffolding has rotted away.” There was a sound like metal striking stone, and Wyngalf saw the flicker of sparks a few feet ahead of him. The man who had led them down here was kneeling over a pile of dry grass, trying to light it with flint and steel. He couldn’t make out the man’s face in the dim light.

  “Where are we?” asked Wyngalf.

  “Goblin tunnels,” said the man. A small flame had caught the grass, and the man blew gently to stoke it. Once the fire was burning on its own, the man held something over it, and a moment later a torch burst into flame. He held it aloft, and for the first time they saw the face of their rescuer.

  “Orbrecht!” cried Evena, recognizing the old man’s haggard face from the night before.

  “The same,” said Orbrecht.

  “How did you find us?”

  “I’ve been looking for you since I heard about your encounter with Verne this afternoon. Thought you might need some help getting out of town. Should have figured you’d have fallen victim to the recruiting efforts of those SMASH idiots.”

  “We were approached by the SAURIANs before that,” said Evena.

  “Ugh,” said Orbrecht. “Even worse. Did they make you sign a petition?”

  “Tobalt signed it,” said Evena. “Is that bad?”

  “Eh,” Orbrecht shrugged. “It’ll probably get you on some kind of list of agitators, but I wouldn’t expect much else to happen. Anyway, with a little luck you’ll be long gone before Verne returns.” He held the torch in front of him and began walking. “This way.”

  The cavern was too large for them to see the walls, and if not for the rough-hewn stone ceiling overhead, Wyngalf could easily have imagined that they were walking outside on a cloudy, moonless night. The bridge was only about three paces across, so they traversed it single-file. After some distance, though, it widened, and around the same time the walls became visible. The cavern gradually narrowed until they were in a winding tunnel not much taller than a typical goblin. Wyngalf, following closely behind Orbrecht, had to duck to avoid hitting his head on low-hanging rocks.

  “What is this place?” asked Wyngalf.

  “Ooktaank Havask,” said Orbrecht. “The Skaal City authorities sealed off most of the tunnels nearly a century ago. Most Skaalians don’t even realize their city is built on top of an abandoned goblin city.”

  “A goblin city?” asked Wyngalf. “I didn’t realize goblins had cities.” He lost sight of Orbrecht for a moment as the tunnel curved sharply to the right. Tobalt could probably see just fine in the semi-darkness, but Evena could only stumble after Wyngalf’s shadow. Wyngalf reached behind him until he felt Evena’s hand, clasped it tightly, and then hurried to clos
e the gap between him and Orbrecht.

  “They don’t,” said Orbrecht. “Not anymore. But at one point, several thousand of them apparently lived down here in these caverns. Some say the dwarves built it originally and the goblins invaded and took it over. Others say that the ancestors of today’s goblins were smarter and more civilized than the current breed of cowardly thugs. No offense, goblin!”

  “None taken, sir,” said Tobalt, bringing up the rear.

  “How can these caves even exist?” asked Evena. “We can’t be more than half a mile from the harbor. Shouldn’t this whole place be underwater?”

  “It’s a miracle of engineering, for sure,” said Orbrecht. “That’s one of the reasons people think the dwarves may have built it. They’re the only ones who could have pumped the water out of the caves and sealed the rock well enough to keep out the seawater for hundreds of years.”

  “Pardon me for asking, kind sir,” called Tobalt, “but are you certain even the dwarves possess such technology? I’m unaware of any other dwarven cities in coastal areas. I know they have employed steam-powered pumps to remove water from mineshafts, but in my admittedly cursory study of dwarven culture, I found nothing to indicate they are capable of moving water on this scale, to say nothing of keeping it out.”

  “The know-how to build such pumps may have been lost at some point,” said Orbrecht.

  “Quite true,” said Tobalt. “But—and forgive me for my impertinence—is it not true that the technology could just as easily have been lost by goblins as by dwarves?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Orbrecht gruffly, glancing back at Tobalt. The tunnel had widened a bit, and they seemed to be on a mild slope downward.

  “I apologize for my lack of clarity,” said Tobalt. “If I may be permitted another opportunity to explain: you are offering the superior dwarven knowledge of engineering as evidence for the proposition that this city was constructed by dwarves. Yet you yourself admit that the dwarves do not currently possess said knowledge. The obvious answer to this quandary, as you’ve indicated, is to suppose that a race once possessed such knowledge but then lost it somehow. You’ve told us that goblins once lived here. I suspect there is no evidence that dwarves ever did, or you would have mentioned it. Horkuden’s Knife suggests, therefore, that if a race once possessed the knowledge to build such a city and then lost it, that race was goblins.”

  “What in Grovlik’s name is Horkuden’s Knife?” asked Orbrecht, the torchlight revealing a scowl on his face.

  “A rhetorical device,” said Wyngalf. “It’s essentially the principle that when one is attempting to explain a particular phenomenon, one should not unnecessarily introduce extraneous elements. In your explanation for this city, the dwarves are an extraneous element. It’s simpler to assume that the goblins built it.” As much as he hated to admit it, Tobalt was right. It was one thing to parrot answers memorized from some text; it was quite another to demonstrate the appropriate use of Horkuden’s Knife in an analytical discussion. Perhaps Tobalt really did possess something like a human level of intelligence. That hardly proved he possessed a soul, of course, and in the end that was what really mattered. However well Tobalt might understand matters of philosophy and theology intellectually, he would never be able to grasp the sublime nature of the Noninity.

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Orbrecht. “Maybe the goblins used this rhetorical device of yours to pump the water out. Nobody really knows for sure, I guess.” They came to an intersection of four tunnels, and Orbrecht took the one to their right. They were silent for some time as they followed him through the narrow, winding tunnel. Eventually it opened into a cavern about the size of Evena’s house. A stone staircase wound around the edge of the cavern.

  “Take the stairs up,” said Orbrecht, grabbing another torch from a pile in the corner. He lit the torch from the one he was holding and then handed it to Wyngalf. “When the tunnel branches, go left. It will eventually come out at the river, just outside the city walls. Follow the river north until my man finds you. Ugly son-of-an-ogre named Krell. Missing his right ear and three fingers on his left hand. He’ll get you safely away from the city, hopefully before Verne returns.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” asked Evena.

  “I have other matters to attend to, I’m afraid,” said Orbrecht.

  “Why are you helping us?” asked Wyngalf.

  “Anybody who stands up to Verne is a friend of mine,” Orbrecht replied. “I figured you would need some help getting out of the city.”

  “There’s got to be more to it than that,” said Wyngalf. “I don’t believe you take just anyone down into your secret goblin tunnels. You sought us out, first at the inn, and again this evening. What are you up to, Orbrecht? What are these ‘other matters’ you have to attend to?”

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Orbrecht. “Every second we waste is a second that could have been spent getting you farther away from Verne.”

  “I’m with Wyngalf,” said Evena. “As much as we appreciate your help, Orbrecht, we’re getting a little tired of being shuffled about by people who don’t really have our interests at heart. We’re not going anywhere until you tell us why you’re so interested in us.”

  Orbrecht sighed. “The Ovaltarian Prophecy,” he said.

  “The what?” asked Wyngalf.

  “Of course!” cried Tobalt. “How stupid of me. I should have seen it!”

  “What?” said Evena. “What are you talking about, Tobalt?”

  “The Ovaltarians believe that a messiah, known as Ko-Haringu, will arrive from a distant land across the sea,” said Tobalt. “The prophecy states that he will be a traveling philosopher accompanied by a woman and a…” Tobalt hesitated.

  “A what, Tobalt?” asked Evena.

  “A brute that talks like a man,” said Orbrecht.

  Tobalt’s head hung low, his enthusiasm about Orbrecht’s revelation having given way to sullenness as he realized the part he was expected to play in the prophecy.

  Orbrecht went on, “It is said that Ko-Haringu will survive three encounters with a dragon. After the third encounter, he will flee. But ultimately he will rid the land of Dis of the scourge of dragons.”

  Wyngalf’s thoughts drifted to the man with the oval marking on his forehead who had given him directions to the harbor. No wonder he had acted so strangely. “And how does he do that, exactly?” asked Wyngalf.

  “The prophecy is a little unclear on that part,” Orbrecht admitted.

  “So, just to be clear,” said Wyngalf, “the prophecy made sure to insult Tobalt, but it couldn’t be bothered with the specifics of how I’m supposed to kill Verne?”

  Orbrecht shrugged. “I didn’t write it,” he said. “And frankly I never put much stock into it until the three of you wandered into the inn that night. Your timing was perfect.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Evena.

  “I’d rather not go into details,” said Orbrecht. “Suffice it to say that I have many allies in Skaal City, and we have been working in secret for a long time to offer a real alternative to the SAURIANs and the SMASHers. I believe the time has nearly come for us to seize control of our destiny.”

  “After I rid the land of the scourge of dragons,” said Wyngalf.

  “Right,” said Orbrecht.

  “And you’re sure the prophecy doesn’t explain how I’m supposed to do that?”

  “It’s a prophecy, not an instruction manual,” said Orbrecht. “If you’re the Ko-Haringu, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “And if I’m not?”

  “Then you probably won’t figure it out.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “Not my job to be reassuring,” said Orbrecht. “Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

  Somewhere in the distance, they heard the echoes of metal clanking on stone: some of the guards must have figured out they needed to leap across the gap in the scaffolding, and had fol
lowed them through the tunnels.

  “Go!” hissed Orbrecht. “I’ll lead them off in another direction.”

  The three companions whispered their gratitude to Orbrecht and then started up the winding staircase.

  Seventeen

  Wyngalf, Evena and Tobalt emerged from the tunnel at a cave opening in a hillside in the middle of a copse of trees somewhere outside Skaal City. Down below, they heard the Ytrisk River rushing past, and they started through the underbrush toward it. Unable to hold the torch while scrambling through the brush, Wyngalf eventually gave up and tossed it behind him into the cave opening. In any case, it was probably better not to attract the attention of any guards that might be patrolling outside the city.

  The moon had come out, but the partial cover of the trees made it impossible to see where they were going. They had to feel their way through the scrub, earning dozens of scrapes and scratches by the time they emerged onto a narrow path at the edge of the river.

  “This way,” said Tobalt, turning to his left and heading upstream on the path. Wyngalf and Evena followed, trusting the goblin’s superior night vision. They had no idea how far they would have to walk before Orbrecht’s friend Krell found them—if he found them—but they had little choice but to try to put as much distance between them and Verne as possible. It was now nearly midnight, and presumably Verne had already arrived at Skuldred and determined that Evena’s story was pure fabrication. He was probably on his way back across the sea now, seething with rage. Wyngalf couldn’t help but hope that the dragon’s fury didn’t fade during the long journey back to Dis: if Verne were angry enough, he might kill them instantly rather than slowly torture them to death. Even with Tobalt leading them through the darkness, they were traveling so slowly that Wyngalf figured they’d only be a few miles from Skaal City when Verne returned—and the river path would surely be one of the first places he looked. If they didn’t pick up their pace soon, they were doomed, Ovaltarian prophecy or not.