Distopia (Land of Dis)

by Robert Kroese

  “Saurians appear to be distant relatives of avians, and share with certain waterfowl an instinctual tendency to form a bond with a maternal figure.”

  “Tobalt, get to the point.”

  “When a dragon hatches, it forms a bond with the first creature it sees. It’s called imprinting. Generally the creature on which it imprints is the dragon’s mother. But if it hatches in captivity….”

  “It will imprint on its captor,” said Wyngalf, seeing what Tobalt was getting at.

  “I assumed that it was still in your possession, which would have been an undesirable but comparatively benign situation,” said Tobalt. “But if he has it….”

  “His name is Orbrecht,” said Wyngalf. “And he’s not the bogeyman you make him out to be. He probably doesn’t even know about the imprinting.”

  “Oh, he knows,” said Tobalt, sitting up on the floor. “Why do you think he took it from you? Now I will grant you that my knowledge of the concept friendship is largely theoretical. That is, I had thought….” Tobalt broke off, momentarily unable to speak. He continued, “Orbrecht is not your friend. You should not trust him.”

  “It’s not a matter of trusting him,” said Wyngalf. “We’re partners, working together to improve Skaal City.”

  “You may be partners now,” said Tobalt, “but how long do you think that will last once he has a dragon on his side?”

  “A baby dragon,” said Wyngalf. “Smaller than your head.”

  “The time to stop it is now,” said Tobalt. “After it hatches, it will be too late. My research indicates—”

  “I don’t want to hear about your research!” Wyngalf snapped. “Who knows if that stuff you’re reading in those old manuscripts is even accurate? Are you even doing your actual job? How do you think it’s going to reflect on me if they find out you’re spending all your time researching dragons?”

  “How it reflects on you,” echoed Tobalt, getting to his feet. Wyngalf couldn’t see his face in the near-darkness, but he heard the tone of disappointment in the goblin’s voice. “Simply Wyngalf, I realize that I am merely a goblin and therefore unable to appreciate the sublime beauties of human religion. Despite this defect, I have always respected your faith, and I am saddened to see that you have placed the opinions of mobs and murderers above your principles.”

  “Oh, like you know anything,” Wyngalf said lamely.

  “Goodbye, Simply Wyngalf,” said Tobalt. “As much as I would like to remain here, I do not want to become so enamored of my position in this city that I someday am tempted to bow to a dragon in order to keep it.” With that, Tobalt slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Wyngalf sighed and lay back down in his bed, but he was unable to sleep. He realized now that he should never have taken up with a goblin in the first place. The problem was that if you spent any time with a goblin, you started thinking about them as if they were people. And once you did that, you couldn’t help but start to take their stupid goblin-opinions seriously.

  When the sun rose, Wyngalf got out of bed and went to Orbrecht’s office. Orbrecht was already up, barking orders at underlings and signing official decrees. As far as Wyngalf could tell, he never slept.

  “What can I do for you, Wyngalf?” asked Orbrecht pleasantly. “You look exhausted.”

  “Didn’t sleep well,” said Wyngalf. “I’ve been thinking about that dragon—”

  “Hold on,” said Orbrecht. “Anders, could you leave us, please?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Anders, who had been standing at attention next to Orbrecht’s desk, apparently waiting for orders. He marched out the door, closing it behind him.

  “Trying to keep the existence of our secret weapon on the down-low,” said Orbrecht.

  “I’m sorry,” said Wyngalf. “I assumed Anders knew. You must have men guarding it…?”

  “It’s safe,” said Orbrecht curtly. “What’s on your mind, Wyngalf?”

  “I was thinking that perhaps we should do some research on training dragons,” said Wyngalf. “So that we’re ready when it hatches.”

  “Good thinking,” said Orbrecht. “If you want to bone up on dragon training, I can hand him over to you when he’s old enough to train. I understand there are some old manuscripts on saurianology in the library. Maybe your goblin friend can help you locate them.” Orbrecht’s eyes met Wyngalf’s. His gaze was unreadable.

  “Yes,” said Wyngalf uncertainly. “I will… look into that.”

  “Excellent. Now if there’s nothing else, perhaps you could let Anders back in.”

  Wyngalf nodded and went to the door, passing Anders on his way out. He continued down the hall, taking the stairs down to the foyer. Passing another pair of guards at the entryway to the mansion, he walked out into the dazzling sunlight of the morning and continued down the street, with no clear goal in mind.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Orbrecht’s response to his mention of the dragon egg seemed to confirm Tobalt’s suspicions: Orbrecht knew about the imprinting process and was guarding the egg closely to make certain he was the first person the hatchling saw. He couldn’t blame Orbrecht for being cautious, but it made Wyngalf wonder what else Orbrecht wasn’t telling him.

  Wyngalf strolled down the streets of Skaal City, stopping occasionally to return the greeting of a peasant or shopkeeper who bade him a “Good morning, Bishop Wyngalf.” Technically, being named the Noninitarian bishop of a city required a formal decree by the bishop at Svalbraakrat, but Orbrecht had convinced him that Skaal City’s need for spiritual leadership outweighed any procedural concerns. Once the immediate crisis had passed and Noninitarianism had been firmly established in Skaal City, Wyngalf could send word to the Stronghold formally requesting Elevation. As there would be no competition for the bishopric in Dis, the Bishop of Svalbraakrat would have little choice but to assign Wyngalf to the position, at least on an interim basis. And by the time a more experienced replacement could be found and sent across the Sea of Dis, Wyngalf would have weeks, if not months, on the job. Yes, there was very little that could interrupt his meteoric rise in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Perhaps he would someday be the bishop at Svalbraakrat—although the potential for the church’s growth in Skaal City and the rest of Dis made him wonder if he’d even take the position if it were offered to him. What a change in circumstances he had seen since being thrown overboard from the Erdis Evena! It was clear evidence, Wyngalf thought, of what a little faith could do.

  Wyngalf was marveling at how quiet the streets were when he came across a group of five young men, their hands bound, being prodded down the street by three of the city guard. He watched as the group passed, his curiosity growing as the guards directed the men down a narrow alley. Somewhat concerned that the guards intended to execute the men, Wyngalf followed quietly. To his surprise, one of the guards pulled open a grate at the end of the alley and stepped into the hole. Wyngalf realized that the man was walking down a steep stone stairway that led somewhere below the street.

  “Where are you taking those men?” Wyngalf asked, and everyone in the group, including the man who was already a few steps into the hole, turned to look at him.

  “None o’ your business,” grunted one of the guards, who seemed to be the sergeant in charge of the group. “Get lost.”

  One of the other guards whispered something into the ear of the sergeant, and Wyngalf saw the man’s face go pale.

  “Er, sorry, Bishop,” said the man. “Didn’t recognize you. We’re just taking some troublemakers to one of the underground prisons.”

  “Underground prisons?” asked Wyngalf, stunned.

  “Sure,” the sergeant said. “Orbrecht set up prisons all over town to deal with the likes of these. The old dungeon under the palace is mostly collapsed, but there are tunnels all over the city. Orbrecht had us block off some of the tunnels to make them into prisons.”

  “What happens to the people after you put them in one of the prisons?”

  The guard simply stared at
Wyngalf, seemingly confused by the question.

  Wyngalf tried again. “What crime did these men commit?”

  “Like I said,” the guard replied, “They’re troublemakers.”

  “Okay,” said Wyngalf, “But what does that mean, exactly?”

  “They was asking a lot of questions about the underground prisons,” the guard said, meeting Wyngalf’s stare.

  “I see,” said Wyngalf. The guards were now all regarding him suspiciously, and Wyngalf decided it was a good time to change tacks. “Very good!” he exclaimed. “I was a bit worried that Orbrecht was being a little too lenient with these sorts of agitators. Are you keeping the political prisoners separate from the ordinary thugs and ruffians?”

  The sergeant frowned at him. “It’s all the same to us,” he said. “You cause trouble, you end up in one of the prisons.”

  “Hmm,” said Wyngalf. “You think that’s a good idea? Putting these sorts of agitators in with the petty criminals is a good way to breed an insurgency.”

  “Huh,” said the sergeant. “Never thought of that. But we ain’t had much time to sort them.”

  “I see,” said Wyngalf. “Well, I don’t think Orbrecht is going to be very pleased when he hears about it, but I suppose it’s too late to do anything about it now.”

  “I guess we could try to sort them by their crimes,” said the sergeant. “I don’t know how anybody’d tell which ones are political, though.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Wyngalf. “You are keeping a record of what you’re charging them with, right?”

  “Uh,” said the sergeant. “Not exactly. Like I said, we ain’t had a lot of time. Mostly we just round up anybody making trouble and throw them in prison. They all start to look the same after a while. Except for that guy with the big O on his head, of course.”

  “Arbliss?” asked Wyngalf. “You’ve got Arbliss the preacher in this prison?”

  “Don’t know his name,” said the sergeant. “But yeah, he’s that crazy street preacher that used to scream at people as they passed. He’s one of the first people Orbrecht had us round up. In fact, Orbrecht’s even been down to see him a few times.”

  “Really,” said Wyngalf. “You know, it occurs to me that I might be able to help you sort through your prisoners and determine which of them are political agitators. Then I could report to Orbrecht that you’re keeping the prisoners properly segregated.”

  “Wow, that would be fantastic,” said the sergeant. “Do you have time right now?”

  “I could spare a few minutes,” said Wyngalf, trying to sound reluctant.

  “Proceed, Barderic,” said the sergeant to the man who was still waiting on the steps. “We’re going to be giving the good bishop a tour of the prison.”

  The lead guard disappeared somewhere down below, and a few moments later Wyngalf heard him calling for the others to proceed. The sergeant prodded the prisoners, sullen and grumbling, down the steps, and Wyngalf followed. The remaining guard took up the rear.

  As Wyngalf’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that the lead guard had procured a torch and had lit it from one already burning in a sconce on the wall. Once the group had reassembled in a cavern about the size of a small dining hall, the guard in the rear lit a torch as well. While the sergeant and the guard who had been in the rear watched the prisoners, the lead guard took a key from his belt and unlocked a rusty metal gate that was set in an opening in the far wall. He proceeded through it into a long, narrow tunnel with a ceiling so low that Wyngalf had to duck most of the way through it.

  Eventually the tunnel widened into a long, winding cavern with several smaller caves branching off from it. Walls of iron bars with gates in them separated the cells from the main cavern. In several of the cells stood pale, gaunt figures in torn, soiled clothing who blinked and squinted at the approaching torches. The lead guard proceeded past the first few cells and opened one on the right with another key. “Inside!” he barked at the prisoners, who proceeded docilely into the cell. He slammed the door shut behind them.

  “The first few cells are filled mostly with people who were out after curfew on the first night of the Revolution,” the sergeant explained. “Past them are—”

  “Simply Wyngalf!” cried a voice from one of the cells ahead on Wyngalf’s left. The voice was hoarse and ragged, but Wyngalf recognized it as Arbliss’s. Wyngalf grabbed the torch out of the hand of the guard ahead of him and walked toward the voice.

  “Bishop,” said the sergeant. “If you could remain with the group….”

  “I’ll just be a moment,” Wyngalf called back, leaving the perplexed guards muttering to themselves.

  “I knew you would come!” cried Arbliss, his knuckles white as he clutched the bars.

  “What are you doing down here, Arbliss?” Wyngalf asked. In the torchlight, Wyngalf could see that Arbliss was badly bruised and his ragged clothes were stained with blood.

  “Not a whole lot,” said Arbliss, glancing around him.

  “I meant,” said Wyngalf, “why are you in here?”

  “I wouldn’t tell Orbrecht where the you-know-what is,” said Arbliss. “His men beat me for hours, but I never told them a thing.”

  Wyngalf began to feel sick. “So,” he said weakly, “it’s very important that Orbrecht not know about the… you-know-what?”

  “Oh, no,” said Arbliss. “It’s just important that I not tell him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not,” said Arbliss, with a grin. The corners of his mouth were crusted with blood, and at least three of his teeth were missing. “That’s what makes you so useful.”

  “Useful?” asked Wyngalf.

  Arbliss sighed. “Orbrecht has to believe that an alliance with you is necessary to retain control over the city. He has to think you’re the Ko-Haringu. If he knew I had given you the egg, he would think the public perception that you’re the Ko-Haringu was a result of the Ovaltarians propping you up. A self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “Are you saying I’m not the Ko-Haringu?”

  Arbliss shrugged. “Doesn’t make any difference, as long as Orbrecht believes it.”

  “But Orbrecht doesn’t believe it,” said Wyngalf. “He’s not religious.”

  “No,” said Arbliss, “but he’s practical. If he thinks the people think you’re the Ko-Haringu, then as far as he’s concerned, you’re the Ko-Haringu. And as long as he thinks you’re the Ko-Haringu, people will believe you’re the Ko-Haringu.”

  “That’s circular,” said Wyngalf.

  “Faith usually is,” said Arbliss, grinning. “Look, if Orbrecht starts to doubt that you’re the Ko-Haringu, then he’ll dump you and make an alliance with the SAURIANs or the SMASHERs. But the SAURIANs and the SMASHERs aren’t going to want to share power with a dragon. They saw how that went last time. They’ll try to kill the dragon while it’s still young. Orbrecht will try to protect it, of course, but the SAURIANs and the SMASHERs have agents all over the city. If Orbrecht is forced to ally himself with either of those factions, odds are that dragon is going to be dead within the year. The Ovaltarians can’t allow that to happen.”

  “So it’s true,” Wyngalf said weakly. “The Ovaltarians are a dragon cult. You never cared about ridding Dis of dragons. You just wanted to ensure the reign of a new dragon.”

  “Oh, Simply Wyngalf,” said Arbliss. “How I admire your naïveté. Of course we’re a dragon cult.” He traced the circle marking on his forehead with his index finger. “Why do you think we’re called Ovaltarians?”

  Wyngalf nodded dumbly. He’d been a fool not to see it: the oval was a dragon’s egg.

  “Verne and Scarlett had grown old and sloppy,” said Arbliss. “It was only a matter of time before they were slain, and then there would be a power vacuum. Human society in Dis would fall into anarchy.”

  “And by ‘anarchy,’ you mean that people would be in charge of their own business, rather than dragons.”

  Arbliss shrugged. “Ovaltar
ians are not opposed to humans running their own societies, but there will always be dragons out there. Given that fact, a human society that doesn’t have a dragon to defend it doesn’t have much of a chance to avoid being subjugated by a dragon.”

  Wyngalf’s head spun as he tried to follow Arbliss’ logic. “Hang on,” he said. “The Ovaltarians are dedicated to making sure that a dragon be put in control of Skaal City, because otherwise a dragon will take control of Skaal City?”

  “Exactly!” cried Arbliss, as if Wyngalf had arrived at some sublime truth.

  “But that’s insane,” said Wyngalf.

  Arbliss nodded. “Faith usually is.”

  “That isn’t faith!” Wyngalf exclaimed. “It’s mindless dogma! You’re pretending something is true in order to make it true!”

  “I don’t see the distinction,” said Arbliss. “What’s the point of a prophecy if you don’t have to do anything to make it come true?”

  “The point of a prophecy is that it comes true no matter what you do!” cried Wyngalf. “That’s why it’s called a prophecy!”

  “Very good,” said Arbliss. “Then you have accepted your role.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Wyngalf snapped.

  “You’re the Ko-Haringu, whether you want to be or not. You are the one who will usher in the thousand-year reign of the new dragon.”

  “No,” said Wyngalf. “I don’t accept that. There has to be another reason I was brought here.”

  “You said it yourself,” replied Arbliss. “It doesn’t matter whether you accept it or not. The fact that the Ovaltarian prophecy has suddenly become inconvenient to you does not make it false.”

  “And the fact that it was previously convenient for me doesn’t make it true,” said Wyngalf.

  “Fair point,” said Arbliss. “Maybe you’re not the Ko-Haringu. Maybe you’re just a pathetic wandering preacher who happened to stumble into town a few days before Scarlett and Verne killed each other. I guess we’ll find out.”

  “Yes,” said Wyngalf. “I suppose we will. You know, I was going to try to get you out of here, Arbliss, but now starting to think the city is better off with you down here, where you can’t cause any more trouble.”