“Uh-oh,” said Verne, as his broken wings flailed helplessly in a vain attempt to get him airborne.
“You idiot,” said Scarlett, and the two of them disappeared as the bottom fell out beneath them. Their howls of terror gradually faded as they plummeted into the cavern. The pit continued to widen as large chunks of pavement and earth crumbled from the edges, and shops and houses behind the palace began to slide into the hole.
“Run, Wyngalf!” Evena cried.
Wyngalf ran. Exhausted, his head aching, Wyngalf ran up the cracked and rapidly steepening pavement of the square, holding Evena before him. His legs burned with the effort, and at times the pavement slid out from under his feet, nearly causing him to stumble, but he kept going, urged on by Evena’s terror and the sound of entire buildings collapsing into the gaping hole behind him. Beside and ahead of him, city guards and townspeople ran screaming across the square, radiating outward from the sinkhole. Only one figure stood unmoving near the edge of the square, staring awestruck at the scene.
“Tobalt!” Wyngalf cried as he approached. “Help!” His muscles giving out, Wyngalf let Evena fall from his arms. Tobalt managed to break her fall and then helped her to her feet. She winced and lifted her left foot, leaning heavily on Tobalt’s shoulders. Completely spent, Wyngalf fell to his hands and knees. Venturing a glance behind him, he saw that the abyss continued to grow. The ground here was still level, but beneath his feet, the pavement buckled and cracked as the earth below it gave way.
“Simply Wyngalf!” Tobalt exclaimed. “We can’t stop!”
Wyngalf struggled to his feet, and he and Tobalt helped Evena to stand. The three of them made their way to the street beyond the square, not stopping until they were certain they were on firm ground. Once they were some distance down the street, they paused to rest, turning to see the devastation behind them.
Most of the city square was now a vast chasm. The palace and several other buildings had disappeared completely into the pit. Many structures near the edge were dangerously off-kilter, looking like they might slide into the abyss at any moment. There was no telling how deep the chasm went, but it was obviously gigantic. Wyngalf left Tobalt and Evena resting against the corner of a building and walked a few steps closer to the hole, looking for any sign of the two dragons. But the bottom of the pit was lost in blackness. Somewhere, far below, were the remains of the dragons and every high-ranking official in the Skaal City government.
“There they are!” barked a voice behind him. Wyngalf turned to see the three guards, their swords drawn, coming down the street toward them.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Wyngalf moaned. “A gigantic sinkhole just opened up in the middle of the city, killing both of the dragons that have been terrorizing Dis for hundreds of years, along with the mayor and his flunkies, and all you can think about is arresting us?”
The sergeant at the front of the group shrugged. “Six of my men died chasing you three through those tunnels last week,” he said. “We’re not arresting you. We’re throwing you in that hole.” The two men at his side made approving grunts, and the three moved toward Wyngalf.
Wyngalf held up his hands. “I won’t resist,” he said. “But you have to let my friends go.”
The sergeant shrugged again. “Go ahead and resist,” he said. “Doesn’t make any difference to us. But in the end, you’re all going in the pit.”
Wyngalf groaned, trying to decide if it was even worth it to put up a fight. Surely Xandiss the Auditor wouldn’t hold it against him if he just gave up and let the guard the guards throw him over the edge. On the other hand, if he put up a fight, maybe Tobalt and Evena would have a chance to get away. But as he watched Tobalt slowly help the crippled Evena to her feet, he realized he was kidding himself. There was no way out of this. They had survived two dragons only to fall victim to the petty grudge of the city guard.
As Wyngalf backed away from the swords, stepping closer to the edge of the abyss, he heard a familiar voice from behind the men.
“Let him go, Malleck,” the voice commanded sternly.
The sergeant spun on his heels to face the newcomer. “Orbrecht!” the man gasped.
Wyngalf saw that it was true. The old warrior was limping down the street toward them, flanked by two more of the city guard.
“Lord Popper and his cronies are dead, along with Verne,” said Orbrecht. “Salmon Brigade has taken control of the city guard. This man and his companions are heroes. They are not to be harmed.” Wyngalf saw now that Orbrecht and his companions wore matching salmon-colored armbands.
Malleck laughed. “Salmon Brigade?” he said. “Is that what you and your band of nutters are calling yourselves these days? What does the color mean?”
“It means we ran out of red dye,” grumbled the man at Orbrecht’s left. Orbrecht glared at him, and he bit his lip.
“How many of you are there anyway, a dozen?” Malleck asked, a wry smile on his face.
“Three score in the City Guard alone,” said Orbrecht. “And the number is growing by the minute. By the time the SMASHers and SAURIANs select new leaders to replace Popper and Glindeen, Salmon Brigade will have complete control over the city.”
“A few funny-colored armbands don’t put you in control of nothing,” said Malleck. “I don’t take orders from you, old man,” he said. The men at his side seemed less certain about the matter, but they nodded in agreement.
“I don’t have time for this, Malleck,” said Orbrecht, drawing his sword. “You can fall in line, or you can fall in that pit.”
“After you, old man,” Malleck said.
The two men approached each other, their respective companions standing aside by unspoken agreement. As the men’s swords clashed, Wyngalf scurried away behind Malleck to rejoin Tobalt and Evena, and together they watched the melee unfold.
It didn’t last long. Malleck was younger and stronger, but Orbrecht fought with the fervor of the true believer, delivering a barrage of blows so rapid and fierce that it was all Malleck could do to parry them. Orbrecht gradually pushed him backwards, and Malleck was forced to glance behind him to see how close he was to the edge of the abyss. This was all the opportunity Orbrecht needed: he swung at Malleck’s neck while the man was off balance, and although Malleck succeeded in blocking the attack, he was knocked to the ground, landing on his hip and rolling toward the edge of the pit. The sword fell from his hand as he caught himself, and it disappeared into the abyss.
“Please,” said Malleck, crawling forward and holding up his right hand before Orbrecht. “Don’t kill me. I’ll join Salmon Brigade.” He began staggering to his feet.
Orbrecht caught him in the chest with his boot. “No place in Salmon Brigade for cowards,” he said, and gave the man a kick. Malleck tumbled backwards into the abyss, screaming as he fell. Orbrecht turned to the other two guards, who were watching in horror from the edge of the street. “Anyone else want to question my authority?” he said. The men shook their heads.
“Good!” exclaimed Orbrecht. “What are your names?”
“I’m Javik,” said the man on the left. “He’s Corbel.”
“Welcome to Salmon Brigade, Javik and Corbel,” said Orbrecht. He turned to one of the men who had accompanied him down the street. “Anders, get armbands for Javik and Corbel, please.”
Anders pulled two strips of salmon-colored cloth from a satchel and approached the two men. He tied an armband around each man’s right arm, then shook their hands in turn.
“I’m establishing a perimeter of guards twenty paces from the edge of that hole, all the way around,” said Orbrecht. “No one is to be permitted inside. Javik, you take Fourth Street. Corbel, I want you on Sixth.”
“Yes, sir,” said the men in unison, and headed to their assigned posts.
Evena and Tobalt were still staring at Orbrecht in shock, and Wyngalf decided to speak up before one of them decided to make an issue of the man’s summary execution of Malleck. There would be a time for judgment of
decisions made in the heat of revolution, but this wasn’t it.
“Thank you, Orbrecht,” said Wyngalf. “I thought we were doomed.”
“Not while I’m in charge,” said Orbrecht. He turned to the man on his right. “Garvin, escort these three back to the Battered Goblin. The woman is injured, so you’ll need to carry her.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man.
Orbrecht turned to the man on his left. “Anders, go with them. Make sure no one bothers them. Tell Morten they’re my personal guests.”
“Yes, sir,” said Anders.
“I’d come with you,” said Orbrecht to Wyngalf, “but I’m afraid the revolution requires my attention.” A scuffle had broken out some distance down the street involving several of the city guard, and without another word to them, Orbrecht spun on his heel and headed toward it, barking orders.
“We should get off the street,” said the guard named Anders. The other, Garvin, was attempting to pick up Evena over her protests. “It isn’t safe out here.”
“Is the lack of safety despite Salmon Brigade’s efforts,” Tobalt ventured, getting to his feet next to Garvin, “or because of them?”
Anders stared at the goblin, uncomprehending.
“Don’t mind him,” said Wyngalf. “He babbles when he’s under stress. Let’s get out of here.”
Tobalt frowned and muttered something, but the men paid him no heed. They made their way through the streets, with Anders in the lead and Garvin carrying Evena, who had given up struggling. Wyngalf, nearly overcome with exhaustion, trudged along behind them, and Tobalt tailed behind. Several times Anders led them down a narrow alley or sidetracked to avoid looters or some other disturbance, but eventually they made it back to the Battered Goblin. Anders and Garvin left them in the hands of Merton the innkeeper.
Merton tended to them well, quenching their thirst with beer and their hunger with soup and bread. He provided warm water for them to bathe with and nurse their wounds, and inspected Evena’s ankle, concluding that it was sprained but not broken. He and Wyngalf helped her to the room they had used previously and found her several extra pillows so that she could keep her foot elevated. She fell asleep nearly as soon as she lay down. Wyngalf and Tobalt followed suit not long after.
It was dark when Wyngalf awoke, and the sounds of revelry came from the common room below them. It seemed the people of the city were already celebrating the deaths of the two dragons and the overthrow of the old government. It was hard for Wyngalf to square the celebratory sounds he heard below with his memory of the jeering, bloodthirsty crowd from earlier in the day. Perhaps the group in the tavern was not representative of the city as a whole, but Wyngalf suspected that the façade of respect for Verne had crumbled the instant the dragon fell into the abyss. Wyngalf couldn’t help wondering how the people who had demanded that Verne incinerate him and his friends would greet him now. Would they still be considered enemies of the city? Heroes, as Orbrecht had claimed? Something in between? His curiosity was not enough to get him to leave their room, though; he’d had more than enough excitement for the day. He supposed they would learn their fate soon enough.
When he awoke again, it was quiet except for the sound of someone rapping insistently on the door. “Simply Wyngalf,” a voice murmured quietly from the other side of the door.
His mind still hazy with sleep, Wyngalf shuffled to the door. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“It’s me,” said a familiar voice. “I kept it safe.”
Wyngalf groaned. He opened the door to see the figure of Arbliss, his bald head shining in the moonlight coming through the window. Wyngalf could just make out the oval tattoo on the man’s forehead. “What do you want, Arbliss?” The man’s face was covered with dust and his hands were ragged and bloody. Some part of Wyngalf’s brain was aware that Arbliss should still be in the dungeon, crushed as the caverns under the city collapsed. But the collapse hadn’t been total; Arbliss must have survived and dug his way out of the rubble to the surface.
“It’s time,” said Arbliss, holding something out to Wyngalf with both hands. “I’ve kept it safe. The people are ready.”
Wyngalf reflexively held out his hands, finding himself holding something wrapped in a thick wool blanket. It was about the size and weight of a large cantaloupe.
“What in the…?” Wyngalf began, but Arbliss had already turned away and was hurrying back down the hall.
“Wyngalf?” said Evena’s voice from inside the room. “Is someone there?”
Wyngalf tucked the thing under his arm and closed the door. “Just a drunk,” he said. “Had the wrong room.”
Wyngalf made his way in the near-dark across the room, shoving the blanket-wrapped object underneath his bed. He got back in bed and soon fell asleep, his curiosity giving way to exhaustion.
Twenty-one
Wyngalf awoke the next morning uncertain whether the previous day’s events had been a dream. After a week of fleeing from Verne, Scarlett, and their respective minions, it seemed impossible that they were finally safe. But it was true: both dragons were dead, crushed under tons of rock at the bottom of a pit in the middle of Skaal City. Wyngalf wondered, as the three companions broke fast in the common room of the inn, whether Orbrecht’s organization, Salmon Brigade, had successfully taken over the city government.
He got his answer sooner than he expected. While they were still eating, one of the guards who had escorted them to the inn the previous day, the one named Anders, appeared.
“You’re Wyngalf, right?” said Anders.
“I am,” replied Wyngalf.
“Mayor Orbrecht would like to see you, as soon as is convenient.”
“Regarding what?” asked Wyngalf.
“That I don’t know,” said Anders. “I was just told to fetch you.”
“What about my friends?” asked Wyngalf.
“The mayor only requested you,” Anders said.
Evena, sitting across from Wyngalf, asked, “What do you think he wants?”
Wyngalf shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out. You and Tobalt wait here.”
“Be careful,” said Evena, and Tobalt nodded his agreement.
Wyngalf got to his feet and followed Anders out the door.
The guard escorted him down the street to a stately house not far from the palace. “Temporary offices of the new city government,” Anders explained. Wyngalf nodded, and Anders led him inside to a drawing room where Orbrecht stood, still wearing his soldier’s uniform. He didn’t appear to have slept.
“Simply Wyngalf!” Orbrecht cried enthusiastically as they entered. “That will be all, Anders.” Anders gave a salute and walked out, closing the door behind him.
“The revolution appears to be going well,” Wyngalf ventured.
“So far, so good,” said Orbrecht. “But the SMASHers and SAURIANs are both busily plotting against Salmon Brigade. I suspect they are going to form a coalition to oust me.”
“Would that be so bad?” Wyngalf asked. “I mean, the important thing is that Verne is dead, right?”
“Ridding Dis of dragons was an important step, to be sure,” said Orbrecht, “and the people have you to thank for that. But I can’t allow the city to fall into the hands of the SMASHers or the SAURIANs again. Ultimately, Verne was just a scapegoat for their own destructive policies. With Salmon Brigade in charge, we have an opportunity to make some real changes. But without forming some sort of alliance, we don’t have the political strength to hold the city.”
“Which of the two factions are you thinking of allying with?” asked Wyngalf.
“Neither,” replied Orbrecht.
“Then is there a third political faction in Skaal City?”
“Yes,” said Orbrecht, with a grin. “You.”
“Me?” asked Wyngalf. “The people of this city hate me. Yesterday they were demanding that Verne burn me alive.”
“Public opinion can be fickle,” said Orbrecht. “The Ovaltarians have been a marginalized sect for a long time,
but they’ve been spreading the word that you’re the Ko-Haringu. And now that you’ve slain not one, but two dragons by casting them into the Pit of Darkness, you’ve been pretty well anointed by public opinion.”
“Pit of Darkness?” Wyngalf asked, dubiously.
Orbrecht shrugged. “That’s what they’re calling it.”
“They can call it what they like, I suppose,” said Wyngalf, “but I didn’t kill any dragons.”
“That’s not how the story is being told,” said Orbrecht. “Like it or not, most of the people in this city think you’re the Ko-Haringu.”
“What does that mean, though?” asked Wyngalf. “What does the Ko-Haringu do after he slays the dragons?”
“The prophecy doesn’t say,” said Orbrecht. “Which is to our benefit, as it gives us some wiggle room. Look, lad, you’ve got your objectives, and I’ve got mine. You want to establish a Noninitarian church here in Dis, right? And I want to institute a new regime in Skaal City. I help you, you help me.”
“How so?”
“You make a public statement declaring that you are the Ko-Haringu, the prophet of the one true god, et cetera, et cetera.”
“But I’m a Noninitarian,” said Wyngalf. “I don’t even know anything about Ovaltarianism, except for the prophecy about the Ko-Haringu.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Orbrecht. “You’re the Ko-Haringu. You can say anything you want. Tell people that the rules of Ovaltarian have been supplanted by a new revelation or something. You’re a preacher, right? You can come up with the words.”
“Won’t the Ovaltarians resent me for coopting their religion?”
“Some of them, sure. But they’ve already told the whole city you’re the Ko-Haringu, so I figure it’s gonna be tough for them to cast aspersions on you now. Anyway, all we need to do is ride this initial wave of enthusiasm until order is reestablished. After you make your speech, I’ll declare Noninitarianism the official religion of Skaal City and establish a fund to build you a big cathedral in the middle of the city.”
“Hopefully not on top of a vast abyss,” said Wyngalf.
Distopia (Land of Dis) Page 24
