Distopia (Land of Dis)

by Robert Kroese

  “Thank you,” said Evena.

  Verne lifted his wings as if to fly away, but then paused, lowering them again. “Say,” the dragon said. “I have one question, if you don’t mind.”

  “What is it?” asked Wyngalf.

  “I’m curious,” said the dragon, “how you ended up on that island in the first place. No ships travel that far out from Dis.”

  “We didn’t start out from Dis,” said Wyngalf. “We left five days ago from a town called Skuldred on the far side of the sea. We ran into… unforeseen difficulties.” This wasn’t entirely true, of course. The only one who hadn’t foreseen the difficulties was Wyngalf. But dwelling on that point wouldn’t bring the crew back from the bottom of the sea. “We spent the past two days on that island.”

  Verne cocked his head at Wyngalf. “You’re saying it’s only a three day journey by ship from that island to the far shore of the Sea of Dis?”

  “Most of the mainland is somewhat farther,” replied Wyngalf, “but Skuldred is at the tip of a peninsula that juts two hundred miles or so into the sea.” Wyngalf wasn’t sure what interest Verne had in far-off cities, but after what the dragon had done for them, he thought it only polite to humor his questions.

  “Wyngalf,” said Evena quietly. “If I could talk to you for a moment…”

  “Interesting,” said the dragon, cutting her off. “I am fascinated by the cultures of foreign lands. I’ve visited nearly all the towns in this region, and I have to say, I’ve grown a bit bored. I think I’ve taken in all they have to offer.”

  “Skuldred isn’t exactly what you’d call exotic,” said Wyngalf, “though I suppose it has its charms. I only spent a brief time there myself, but Evena’s family lives there.”

  “Interesting,” said the dragon, glancing at Evena. “And would you say this Skuldred is a rich city? Culturally speaking, I mean.”

  Wyngalf shrugged. “It’s a typical port town,” he said. “A lot of fishermen and dock workers. Although of course there is a small class of merchants who do what they can to keep the arts alive. Evena’s father is actually the town fishmonger. Very agreeable chap, if a bit preoccupied with financial concerns.”

  “Wyngalf!” Evena hissed. “I don’t think you should—”

  “Oh, quite,” said the dragon. “Some people are far too concerned with amassing fortunes of gold, when there are so many more important things. Sadly, it often takes a tragedy for them to realize this.”

  Wyngalf nodded, surprised at the wisdom espoused by the dragon. Clearly he wasn’t the monster Wyngalf had taken him to be. “Speaking of tragedies,” he said, “if you do visit Skuldred, I’m sure Evena would greatly appreciate it if you could stop by her father’s house and let her know Evena made it safely to Dis. She stowed away on the ship without his knowledge, and he must be worried sick about her.”

  Evena had taken to poking Wyngalf in the ribs in an effort to get his attention, but he continued to ignore her. Obviously she had been right about Verne; it wasn’t necessary for her to keep rubbing it in. This is what came of not letting children know their place.

  “I’ll be certain to send my regards,” said Verne. “It is strange, though, that I’ve never heard of this port, if it’s so close. Do the people who live there not trade? Why do no ships from Skuldred ever visit the shores of Dis?”

  “You know,” said Wyngalf, “I wondered that myself. Turns out there’s a gigantic sea monster in the middle of the Sea of Dis. I assumed it was just a superstition, but I can assure you it’s quite real and frankly terrifying. That sort of thing tends to cut down on trade. But of course sea monsters are of no concern to you, as you could fly right over them.”

  “Indeed I could,” said the dragon, thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” Wyngalf went on, “and of course you could probably fly from here to Skuldred in less than a day. Why, the island where you found us couldn’t have been more than 200 miles from Skuldred. You were probably two thirds of the way there. A few more miles and you’d have seen the lighthouse, with your sharp eyes.”

  “Wyngalf!” Evena snapped.

  Wyngalf glared at the girl. “My dear child,” he said, adopting a manner of superiority, “you are being quite rude. You’ve made your point. I was wrong to doubt our friend Verne—” He turned to Verne. “—if I may call you that—” Verne nodded obligingly. “—merely because he is a dragon. He has been nothing but helpful, and it seems to me that satisfying his curiosity about our homeland would be the least we could do to repay him for his assistance.”

  Evena slapped herself on her forehead and stomped away.

  “I apologize for my companion,” said Wyngalf. “I can’t imagine what has gotten into her.”

  “No need,” replied the dragon. “She’s been through quite an ordeal. Obviously suffering from hunger and exhaustion. Speaking of which, I should let you go. Just one last thing: you said there was a lighthouse…?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Wyngalf. “You can’t miss it. Just fly directly west of that island and you’ll see it. It’ll lead you right to Skuldred.”

  “Much obliged,” said Verne. “Again, good luck on your own journeys. Perhaps we will meet again someday.”

  “I look forward to it,” said Wyngalf. “Thank you once again for your help.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said the dragon. “You’ve been a great help to me as well.” The dragon spread its great wings and leapt into the sky, leaving Wyngalf to puzzle over this last remark. At last he shrugged and went after Evena, who stood sulking just down the road.

  “What was that all about?” Wyngalf demanded. “Verne saved our lives, and you can’t humor him with a few moments of conversation?”

  Evena turned to glare at him. “Has it occurred to you to wonder why Verne was so interested in the lands across the sea?”

  “He said it himself,” Wyngalf replied, puzzled at Evena’s tone. “He’s bored. He’s seen everything there is to see in Dis, and he’s interested in learning about new lands and different cultures.”

  Evena stared at him as if he were some peculiar specimen of beetle. “How have you survived this long?” she asked. “I didn’t know it was possible for anyone to be this naïve.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Wyngalf, irritated anew at Evena’s impertinent tone.

  “Back on the island, you were going on about how dragons are irredeemable, vile monsters, and now suddenly Verne is your best friend? It never occurred to you that he was using us?”

  “Using us for what?” Wyngalf asked, puzzled. “We have nothing to offer him.”

  “Except the location of the town where my family lives!” Evena shouted. “He had no idea there were any cities across the sea. We could have told him we were from anywhere. You basically drew him a map to my parents’ house!”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” said Wyngalf. “We have no reason to suspect Verne’s motives were anything but benign.”

  “He’s a dragon!” cried Evena. “You don’t think there’s any reason to question the motives of a dragon?”

  “I’m a bit puzzled by your sudden change of heart,” said Wyngalf. “Where was this skepticism about dragons back on the island?”

  “We were in danger of starving to death!” Evena exclaimed. “It’s not that I trusted Verne. I just couldn’t imagine how taking Verne up on his offer could make our situation worse. But I have to hand it to you, you seem to have found a way.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Wyngalf. “You think Verne flew 300 miles out of his way, rescued us and flew us all the way to Dis just to get us to tell him about Skuldred? So he could, what, go there and burn it down?”

  “I don’t know!” cried Evena. “But you have to admit it’s a possibility. Ships never come here from across the ocean because of the Hafgufa. So Verne just assumed that any cities across the city were too far away for him to fly to. But as you so helpfully pointed out, there’s no reason at all he couldn’t fly to Skuldred in a day. All he’s got to
do is look for the lighthouse!”

  “Alright, alright,” said Wyngalf. “I understand your apprehension. But I think your concern for your family’s wellbeing is clouding your judgment. Yes, Verne is a dragon, and dragons do have a certain reputation for laying waste to cities, but nothing in Verne’s behavior indicates he has any interest in such base activities. Also, it’s a long way across the sea, even for a dragon. He would have to be a particularly cruel and avaricious—not to mention devious and deceitful—dragon to fly all the way to the Jagged Coast in search of new cities to pillage. After all, aren’t there enough cities here in Dis to satisfy a dragon?”

  Evena begrudgingly admitted that Wyngalf had a point.

  “In any case,” Wyngalf said, “there’s nothing we can do about it now, and we need to get some food and find a place to sleep. Verne himself said there was a town called Sybesma just over the hill. If that turns out to be the case, and the townspeople haven’t been harassed recently by a dragon, can we agree that your concerns are misplaced?”

  Evena nodded tiredly. They were both exhausted. The sun was nearing the horizon, and a chill had crept into the air. Without another word, they began walking up the hill toward in the direction Verne had indicated. After some time, Evena stopped, a curious expression on her face. “I smell smoke,” she said.

  Wyngalf nodded. “Supper time,” he said. “If we pick up the pace, we may get there in time to beg for a bowl of stew.” But as he said it, he realized something was wrong. It wasn’t the aroma of cooking fires that he smelled, but rather the stale scent of smoldering charcoal. He pushed down the uneasy feeling in his gut and forced himself to smile. “Come on,” he said to Evena. We don’t want to miss supper.”

  She nodded uncertainly and followed him. Wyngalf came to the crest of the hill, and Evena stopped beside him. They looked down into the valley to see where they would be spending the night. Evena gasped.

  The town of Sybesma was nothing but rubble and piles of smoking ash.

  Seven

  In the dying light Wyngalf could just make out a small cloaked figure moving about the rubble. Without thinking, he ran down the hill to the ruins of the town, leaving Evena to gape in horror at the scene. As he descended the hill, he lost sight of the figure for a minute, but since there were few remnants of any structures over shoulder height still standing, it was not difficult to locate him again. The man was sifting through the ruins, seemingly oblivious to Wyngalf’s approach. For a moment, Wyngalf stood in the gloom studying him. There was something off about the man, but, viewing him only in silhouette, Wyngalf couldn’t pinpoint it. He was short and hunched over, with a large head and weirdly overdeveloped forearms. Eventually it came to him: the creature wasn’t a man at all, but a goblin—one of the race of vile humanoids that were known to plague less civilized lands like Dis. The Jagged Coast had long ago exterminated goblins, as well as ogres and many other species of misbegotten humanoids, but Wyngalf had seen many illustrations from the Dark Ages in the library of the Noninitarian Stronghold, and recognized the form—although this creature was certainly smaller than he’d been led to expect.

  The goblin was sifting through a pile of what appeared to be cookware, and seemed to have no idea Wyngalf was there. It occurred to Wyngalf to simply step quietly away and leave it to its pillaging, but he and Evena would have to spend the night somewhere, and their best chance to find some kind of shelter lay in this ruined town. That meant dealing with the goblin. Wyngalf had noticed a glint of metal among the ashes between him and the goblin, and he realized now that the object was a sword.

  Wyngalf took a deep breath and lunged forward, grabbing the sword by its hilt. He assumed his best swordsman’s crouch (lacking other entertainment options, he had spent many hours sparring with the other Noninitarian devout, albeit with wooden dowels rather than sword), pointing the tip at the goblin.

  “Explain yourself, goblin!” Wyngalf shouted, doing his best to sound intimidating. “What have you done to this town?” The obvious cause of the village’s destruction hadn’t eluded Wyngalf, but his mind had seized on the presence of the goblin as an alternative to admitting that Evena had been right about Verne. Again.

  The goblin stood up straight, peering at Wyngalf in the gloom. After a moment, it shuffled closer to him and bowed deeply. Wyngalf saw that it held a large bag that was presumably filled with spoils it had collected from the ruins. Straightening up again, the goblin began, “I beg your indulgence, kind sir. Your suspicions regarding me are indeed well-founded, as I am a member of an accursed race of subhumanoids whose penchant for pillaging is well-known. However, in this particular instance I must regrettably inform you that the conclusion you’ve reached regarding my culpability in the devastation of this village is erroneous. It was, I’m afraid, quite ruined when I got here.”

  Somewhat taken aback by the goblin’s articulate response, Wyngalf nevertheless pressed on. “Tell the truth, vermin!” he cried, waving the sword at the goblin. “You and your clan razed this town and murdered its inhabitants to sate your rapacious bloodthirst!” Wyngalf knew as well that goblins were cowardly creatures, attacking only when their numbers were sufficient to guarantee a massacre.

  The goblin sighed. “Alas,” it said. “Would that it were true, but my clan has but one member, and he is I. These days my clan, such as it is, occupies itself mainly with efforts to stave off hunger. Our rapacious bloodthirst goes largely unsated.”

  “Lies!” cried Wyngalf. “Admit that you destroyed this town!”

  The goblin shook his head apologetically. “I’m afraid these lands are terrorized by a great green dragon who goes by the name Verne,” said the goblin. “I arrived here some time after catastrophe befell it, but I can only surmise that the devastation you see before you is the work of that very same saurian. He is well known for laying waste to towns that fail to comply with his demands.”

  The point of Wyngalf’s sword wavered.

  “Why are you tormenting this poor goblin?” asked Evena, coming up alongside him. “Can’t you see he’s hungry and frightened?”

  The goblin bowed toward Evena. “I thank you for your concern, Miss,” he said, “but you needn’t worry. Your companion and I were merely engaging in a spirited discussion about the cause of the ruination we find around us. The insightful young gentleman had advanced an intriguing hypothesis which—and I apologize sincerely if I’m mischaracterizing your position, kind sir—posits that I single-handedly undertook the razing of this town and the mass murder of its inhabitants. I reposted with a counterpoint, relying on information to which the perceptive gentleman, whom I take to be a visitor to this land, is undoubtedly not privy: that this region has long been subjected to the scourge of a particularly avaricious and cruel dragon. Building on this premise and certain telltale signs—such as scorched stone, fused metal and the sizeable claw marks you see on the ground before you—I humbly advanced a theory, to wit, that it is that very dragon who is responsible for the devastation of this town. It should go without saying, of course, that I do not claim any sort of epistemic certainty on the matter, and welcome robust discussion of alternative possibilities.”

  “I knew it!” cried Evena. “Verne destroyed this town, and now he’s on his way across the sea to murder my parents!”

  “Ah, so you’ve met Verne,” said the goblin.

  Wyngalf swallowed hard.

  “Yes,” said Evena, glaring at him. “Wyngalf just told him how to find my home town.”

  “Ah,” said the goblin, frowning. “That would seem… inadvisable.”

  “Okay, look,” said Wyngalf, letting the sword drop to his side. “I get it. I shouldn’t have told Verne where we’re from. And now that you’ve pointed out the signs, I’ll admit that it does appear that a dragon was involved in the destruction of this town. But I don’t think there’s any reason to assume the worst. Skuldred is a long distance from here, and however wicked Verne might be, he’s not going to fly across the sea just to visit random vio
lence and destruction on unsuspecting townspeople.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing random about it,” replied the goblin. “That is,” he continued uncertainly, “I’ve been following the exploits of this dragon for some time now, and in fact even came face to face with him once. I thought my doom was assured, but Verne evidently considered me to be beneath his concern. My observations since then have led me to conclude that he is engaged in a very carefully thought-out strategy. If you wouldn’t mind indulging me, I’d be only too happy to outline my thoughts on the matter.”

  Wyngalf wasn’t particularly interested in hearing the opinions of a goblin, but Evena shut him down with a glare. “Please do,” she said to the goblin.

  The goblin bowed slightly to Evena again. “Like all dragons,” he said, “Verne’s primary aim is to amass as much gold and other treasure as possible, and he accomplishes this by demanding tribute from all the towns within several hundred miles of his lair, which lies in the mountains to the northeast. Ordinarily the townspeople comply without question, but occasionally it is necessary for him to make an example of a town whose residents have failed to meet his demands. Hence the devastation you see before you. Verne is not entirely without mercy, however: he seems to have given the denizens some warning of his intentions.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Evena.

  The goblin cocked his head at them curiously, as if he suspected Evena was teasing him. After a moment he explained, “Surely you noticed the complete dearth of corpses, indicating that the townspeople fled in advance of the dragon’s assault.”

  Wyngalf surveyed the rubble in the gathering dark, noticing that the goblin was right: despite the near-total devastation of the town, he hadn’t seen a single corpse. “You see?” Wyngalf said, turning to face Evena. “Verne is a reasonable dragon. Perhaps a bit overly acquisitive, but rational in his application of violence. Worst case scenario, he may shake down the citizens of Skuldred for a few gold pieces.”