Distopia (Land of Dis)

by Robert Kroese

  Fourteen

  “Are you crazy?” asked Wyngalf. Now that Verne was gone, he was suddenly aware of the pounding in his head and the queasiness in his stomach. “You lied to Verne about the treasure in Skuldred? Do you have any idea what he’ll do to us when he finds out?”

  “You’re welcome!” snapped Evena. “If I hadn’t made up that story, we’d be dead already.”

  “At least he’d have killed us quickly!” cried Wyngalf. “When he gets back, he’s going to slowly roast us to death, probably over several days, if not weeks. There’s no place to hide from him. We might as well swim out into the bay and drown ourselves. And have you thought about what he’s going to do to your hometown when he finds out this jewel of inestimable value doesn’t exist?”

  “Of course I’ve thought about it!” said Evena. “I’ve been thinking about nothing but Verne razing my home ever since you told him where it was. But unlike you, I refuse to give in to my fears. Verne can kill everyone I love, anytime he feels like it. If I let my fear of what Verne will do control my actions, then I may as well be dead already. At least now I’ve bought us some time.”

  “Time to do what?” asked Wyngalf. “Sit here and wait for our inevitable doom?”

  “So much for your faith in the all-powerful Nonentity,” Evena sneered.

  “Even Saint Roscow despaired in the face of abject stupidity!” Wyngalf snapped. Evena stared daggers at him.

  “If I may be so bold,” Tobalt said, “while I certainly sympathize with Wyngalf’s concerns, and while I enjoy a hearty philosophical debate, particularly one that highlights the differences between a consequentialist view of ethics and a deontological perspective, the exigent manner of our current circumstances would seem to demand that proportionately more attention be given to determinations yet to be made.”

  “He’s saying we should stop arguing and focus on what to do next,” said Evena.

  “I know what he’s saying!” Wyngalf snapped.

  “Excuse me,” said a fourth voice, and they turned as one to face a small, gray-haired woman who had come up behind them. “I couldn’t help but overhear your exchange with Verne. That was extremely brave of you.”

  “Thank you,” said Wyngalf and Evena in unison, then turned to glare at each other.

  “Both of you,” said the woman. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone stand up to Verne like that. Makes me nostalgic for the days of my youth. I was part of the resistance to the dragon’s takeover of Skaal City. My name is Glindeen.”

  “Nice to meet you, Glindeen,” said Evena. “I’m Evena. These are my friends, Tobalt and Wyngalf. Wyngalf is the ugly one.”

  Tobalt smiled sheepishly at her remark, while Wyngalf did his best to ignore it.

  Glindeen nodded at Wyngalf and then turned to face Tobalt, her eyes wide with interest. “A goblin!” she cried. “How wonderful!” Addressing Tobalt in a loud and excessively enunciated manner, she said, “Hello, dear! How are you!”

  “I’m quite well, given the circumstances, Madam,” said Tobalt, “and might I add that I’m gratified by your—”

  “Oh my, he’s adorable!” said Glindeen. “I love subhumanoid races. They have so much to offer, don’t you think?” She was now back to addressing Wyngalf and Evena. Forgotten, Tobalt folded his arms glumly in front of him.

  “You were one of those who fought with Orbrecht against Verne?” Wyngalf asked.

  “That old nut?” said the woman with a scowl. “No, Orbrecht’s methods were a bit extreme for me. My friends and I hoped to find a peaceful resolution to the dragon problem.”

  “A peaceful resolution?” asked Wyngalf. “What do you mean?”

  “We focused mostly on demonstrations and marches. One of our burn-ins had over three hundred participants.”

  “Burn-ins?”

  “We rubbed red dye on our skin to make it look like we had been burned by dragon fire,” Glindeen explained. “Then we lay down in the street and pretended to be dead for three hours.”

  “And this… helped somehow?” asked Wyngalf, puzzled.

  “It was a generational thing,” said Glindeen. “You kind of had to be there.”

  Wyngalf smiled politely and nodded.

  “Anyway, these days we’re a bit more practical in our means of resistance.”

  “We?” asked Evena. “Who is ‘we’?”

  “That’s actually why I approached you,” Glindeen said. “I’m one of the leaders of a group that is opposed to Verne’s needless violence and provocation. We’re about to have an emergency meeting in the wake of today’s events, and I wanted to invite you.”

  Wyngalf glanced around at the survivors on the beach. Many were still lying on the sand, moaning in pain.

  “A meeting?” Wyngalf asked. “Right now? It seems like your efforts might be better spent helping the survivors of the attack.”

  “We all have our jobs to do,” said Glindeen curtly.

  “And whose job is it to help these men?” asked Evena. She glanced at Wyngalf—a glance that said I’m still mad at you, but you’re right about this one thing.

  Glindeen shrugged. “The meeting will start shortly, in the back room of the Alewives Tavern. It would be good to have you there.” She turned and walked away. The breeze picked up, carrying with it moans and screams of the injured.

  “It seems kind of horrible to leave these men here like this,” said Evena.

  “Yes,” said Wyngalf. “We should try to help them, as best we can.”

  “If I may interject,” said Tobalt, “there is very little we can do for a single burn victim, let alone a score of them, given our lack of resources and medical supplies. Furthermore, we have perhaps one full day at our disposal before Verne returns, intent on ending our lives in the most agonizing way possible. Perhaps, given these facts, our time might be best spent attempting to resolve this quandary. If there truly is some sort of underground resistance movement afoot, attending this meeting might be our best chance for assuring our long-term survival.”

  Wyngalf and Evena took another look around and reluctantly agreed. There wasn’t much they could do for these men, and if they were going to live for more than another day, they needed to find some leverage to use against Verne—or at least find a way to get out of town without him finding out about it.

  Wyngalf turned to see Glindeen making her way up the seaside road toward a dilapidated building they took to be the Alewives Tavern. “All right,” he said, “let’s see what this meeting is all about.”

  By the time they got to the tavern, Glindeen was already inside. On the door to the back room of the tavern a sign had been tacked up that read:

  Emergency meeting of the Society Against Unnecessary Reptilian Invasions And Negligence

  “SAURIAN,” said Wyngalf, sounding out the acronym. “That seems like an ill-advised choice.”

  “It’s just a name, Wyngalf,” said Evena. “Not everybody is obsessed with finding hidden meanings in texts.”

  “I confess to being a bit puzzled at the inclusion of ‘Negligence,’” Tobalt added.

  “They probably just needed another word to make the acronym work,” said Evena.

  “So they deliberately made it spell SAURIAN?” said Wyngalf.

  “Stop overthinking it, you guys,” said Evena. “We’re late.” She opened the door.

  The meeting was just coming to order. It consisted of roughly two dozen men and women seated in chairs in a rough circle. Glindeen smiled as they stepped inside, and then she introduced a gaunt young man with short hair and a long, scraggly beard named Dwalen. Dwalen stood up in the center of the room and launched into a lengthy tirade about the unnecessary death and suffering Verne had caused. Wyngalf had to admire the man’s skill at oration, but the speech seemed a little too polished to have been written in the wake of the afternoon’s tragedy. Wyngalf got the sense he had delivered the speech many times before, and simply updated certain sections with references to recent events to keep it sounding
somewhat fresh. Those in attendance seemed to be faking enthusiasm with varying degrees of success. While he talked, Wyngalf and his companions helped themselves to hors d’oeuvres from a table at the back of the room.

  When Dwalen finally sat down, Glindeen thanked him and then directed the group’s attention to the newcomers. “Everyone, this is Wyngalf and Evena,” she said. “They come from across the sea!” Impressed and—Wyngalf thought—possibly dubious murmurs arose from the crowd. “And look,” Glindeen added, “they’ve brought a goblin with them!”

  Several of the attendees made approving sounds. Those near Wyngalf and Evena greeted them cordially, doing their best to pretend not to notice their seawater-drenched clothes. Several of them smiled uncertainly at Tobalt, as if he were some sort of exotic but harmless animal. “Hello there,” said one man, reaching out to pat Tobalt on the head.

  “I’d be much obliged,” said Tobalt, “if you would refrain from doing that.”

  The man chuckled. “Feisty little guy, aren’t you?”

  Tobalt glared at him.

  “I think the subhumanoid races have so much to offer,” Glindeen gushed to a group of onlookers to her left. “Don’t you?”

  Murmurs of enthusiastic agreement were heard. “So much to offer,” echoed another woman.

  “Yes, well,” said Tobalt. “I suppose each race has its respective fortes, and without resorting to stereotypes, I can confirm that goblins, generally speaking, are—”

  “Wyngalf, dear,” said Glindeen, with a smile, “Could you please instruct your goblin to be quiet during the proceedings? We have to maintain a certain level of decorum, after all.”

  “You can tell him yourself,” said Wyngalf. “He’s standing right in front of you.”

  “Of course!” exclaimed Glindeen. She turned somewhat uncertainly toward Tobalt. “Be quiet, goblin,” she instructed. “The humans are talking.”

  Tobalt opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He fumed silently, his fists clutched at his sides.

  “You’ll have to forgive their somewhat disheveled appearance,” said Glindeen to the group. “Wyngalf and Evena were present during the tragic events that occurred this evening.” Tobalt, forgotten, slinked away to a corner.

  “Goodness,” said the man who had patted Tobalt. “That must have been terrifying. Were you on the Numinda Fae?”

  “I was,” said Evena. “Wyngalf swam out to rescue me.” She glanced at Wyngalf, and he acknowledged the ambiguity in her words with an appreciative nod.

  “How terrible,” said the head-patter.

  “So you know first-hand how bad it’s gotten,” said Dwalen, the scruffy-bearded man who had spoken earlier.

  “Yes, we do,” said Wyngalf. “And that wasn’t our first encounter with Verne. We saw what he did to the town of Sybesma.”

  Sympathetic murmurs arose. “We’ve heard about what he did to Sybesma,” said Glindeen. “A clear case of negligence, if ever there was one.”

  “Negligence?” asked Evena. “It seemed like a lot more than negligence. He razed the entire town.”

  “Well, yes,” said Glindeen. “But I doubt that was Verne’s intention. Sometimes he gets a little over-exuberant. And that brings us to our next matter of business. Hendrick, could you make sure the door is locked?”

  The head-patter nodded and went to the door, securing a small deadbolt lock.

  “Dwalen,” said Glindeen, “do you have it?”

  Dwalen regarded her uncertainly. “Are you sure we can trust them, Glindeen?” He turned to face Wyngalf. “No offense, but we just met you, and we know that Verne has spies throughout this town.”

  “I saw them stand up to Verne,” Glindeen said. “I’ll vouch for them. Wyngalf, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  Wyngalf did his best to explain what had occurred at the harbor, without going into too much detail about their history with Verne.

  “It’s all true,” Glindeen said. “I saw it myself.”

  “They could have staged that whole scene,” said Dwalen. “We can’t risk letting it fall into his hands at this point.”

  “We have no choice,” said Glindeen. “The time for caution has passed. We can’t allow another incident like this. We must act!”

  Dwalen nodded. “All right,” he said. “But let’s make it official. Glindeen, do you nominate Evena and Wyngalf for full membership in the Society Against Unnecessary Reptilian Invasions And Negligence?

  “I do,” said Glindeen.

  “I’ll second the nomination,” said Hendrick.

  “Hold on,” said Evena. “What does that mean exactly? What are the obligations of membership?”

  “It’s just a formality, dear,” said Glindeen. “It extends to you the protection of the Society and allows us to share with you—” She glanced at Dwalen. “—certain sensitive documents that are crucial to our resistance against Verne’s aggressions.”

  “Can we have a moment to talk it over?” Wyngalf asked.

  “Of course,” said Glindeen. “But please be quick about it. Time is of the essence.”

  Wyngalf and Evena retreated to the corner, where Tobalt had been glumly observing the proceedings.

  “Allow me to apologize in advance for my admittedly goblin-centric appraisal of what is clearly a uniquely human sort of gathering,” said Tobalt as they approached, “but I think these people are assholes.”

  “I don’t like them either,” said Evena. “There’s something off about them.”

  “I agree,” said Wyngalf. “But I don’t see that we have much choice. Without some help from the Society, we’ll all be at Verne’s mercy by tomorrow night. They seem to be plotting something pretty big. Maybe they can actually stop Verne, or at least help us get out of town before he returns.”

  “So we accept their offer?” asked Evena.

  “On one condition,” said Wyngalf. “They accept all of us.”

  Tobalt nodded appreciatively. “While I have my misgivings about this group, I am in agreement that joining them offers our best chance for survival past the morrow. Further, it seems to me that our chances are augmented by acting in concert, and I’m gratified that my subhumanoid status has not blinded you to that fact.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Wyngalf. “Okay, let’s tell them.”

  The three of them walked back to Glindeen, who was conferring quietly with several of the other members. “Have you made a decision?” she asked as they approached.

  “Yes,” said Wyngalf. “We’d like to be part of your group. But you have to accept Tobalt as well.”

  “Tobalt?” asked Glindeen, puzzled.

  “Our goblin,” said Wyngalf.

  “Oh, it has a name!” cried Glindeen. “How delightful. Of course your goblin can join. The subhumanoid races have—”

  “So much to offer, yes,” said Evena. Glindeen beamed at her.

  “Okay,” said Dwalen. “Let’s vote. All in favor of inducting Wyngalf, Evena and their goblin into the Society Against Unnecessary Reptilian Invasions And Negligence?”

  Over a dozen hands went up, including Glindeen’s and Dwalen’s.

  “All opposed?”

  A few hands went up in the back.

  “Congratulations!” Glindeen exclaimed. “Welcome to the Society!”

  Several of the members went forward to congratulate Evena and Wyngalf, and to pat Tobalt on the head.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to save the rest of the introductions and congratulations for later,” said Glindeen. “We’ve got pressing business to attend to. Dwalen?”

  Dwalen nodded solemnly and pulled a leather binder from inside his coat. He handed it to Glindeen, who opened it to reveal a sheet of paper with several lines of writing at the top. Below the writing was a list of signatures. She held it out for Wyngalf and Evena to see.

  “What’s this?” asked Evena, studying the text.

  “It’s a petition of grievances,” said Glindeen proudly.

  Wyngal
f squinted at the text at the top of the page. It was written in a flowery script that was difficult to read, but he could make out several phrases, including “extremely disappointed,” “a thorough review of these events,” and “appropriate safeguards be adopted.” Below this were two columns of horizontal lines, numbered from one to 100. Someone had signed his or her name next to every line through 87.

  “I don’t understand,” said Wyngalf. “What is the point of this?”

  “You have to sign it,” said Glindeen, motioning toward another woman, who was approaching with a quill and a jar of ink. “You and Evena, I mean. Your goblin can dip one of his fingers in the ink and make a smudge on the line if he wants.” She smiled at Tobalt, and he glared back at her. “When we get to 100 signatures,” she continued, “we’re going to present it to Verne.”

  “And then what?” asked Evena.

  “What do you mean?” asked Glindeen, furrowing her brow. She pulled the petition away and folded the binder under her arm.

  “I mean, what happens after you present it to Verne?”

  “That’s up to Verne,” said Glindeen. Dwalen and several of the others nodded in assent.

  “Right,” said Wyngalf, “but what happens if he doesn’t meet your demands? What are the consequences for failing to comply?”

  Nervous chuckles arose from the group.

  Glindeen smiled. “I think you have a somewhat naïve idea of how things work here,” she said. “When Verne set up this system—”

  “Verne set up the system?” exclaimed Evena.

  “Of course,” said Glindeen. “As I was saying, when Verne set up this system, he wisely provided a means for the citizens of Skaal to express any concerns they have about his rule. He promised that if a petition reaches 100 signatures he would read it, consider it very seriously, and respond publicly.”

  Wyngalf and Evena simply stared at her, dumbstruck. Eventually, Tobalt spoke up.

  “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, “but if I might make an inquiry: if Verne is cognizant of this process, what is the rationale for the clandestine nature of these proceedings?”