Distopia (Land of Dis)

by Robert Kroese

  “Er, yes,” said Wyngalf. “That way.” He started after Tobalt, with Evena close behind.

  “Why, what’s—?” started Corbel.

  From the opposite direction, the sound of footsteps approached. “Stop them, you morons!” yelled Garvin, coming around a corner. “They’re fugitives!”

  The two bootless guards and the clearly exhausted Garvin did their best to pursue Wyngalf and his friends, but they were unable to keep up. After a few minutes of running down side streets, the three companions emerged from an alley into a crowded bazaar, where they did their best to blend into the throng. Wyngalf led them down another alley on the far side of the bazaar, his only goal to put as much distance between them and the guards as possible. But as he neared an intersection, he heard Tobalt call out from behind him. He and Evena turned to see that Tobalt had fallen some distance behind. At first Wyngalf thought the goblin simply hadn’t been able to keep up, but he realized that Tobalt had been trying doors as he went, and had found one unlocked. He beckoned to Wyngalf and Evena to follow him inside. Wyngalf and Evena shrugged at each other and went to see what Tobalt had found.

  Before they even reached the door, they were struck with the wonderful, almost-overpowering aroma of fresh-baked bread. They followed Tobalt inside to find that they were in a small bakery. A rhythmic, almost musical sound arose from somewhere toward the front of the building, and after a moment Wyngalf realized it was someone snoring. Tobalt sneaked silently toward the sound, reporting back shortly thereafter.

  “It would seem the proprietor is resting up after the morning’s labors,” Tobalt said. “He is sound asleep in a chair.”

  “Well,” said Evena, eyeing the shelves full of still-warm bread, “I don’t think we’re going to find a better place to hide out and rest for a while.” She sat down on the floor and took off her boot to inspect her swollen ankle.

  “Agreed,” said Wyngalf. He grabbed a loaf and tore it into three pieces, handing one to each of his companions. Tobalt managed to locate a small keg of beer, and the three of them sat on the floor in the storeroom of the bakery, eating bread and drinking beer from mixing bowls.

  “Your tenure as bishop seems to be going well,” said Tobalt, after they had sated their hunger.

  “I’m having second thoughts about the job,” said Wyngalf.

  “About whether you’re the Ko-Haringu, you mean?” asked Evena.

  “Ko-Haringu,” muttered Wyngalf. “I don’t even know what that word means. Funny how quick we are to conform to someone else’s idea of what we should be. Somebody says, ‘Hey, you look like you could be the Flibbertigibbet!’ And you start thinking, ‘Yeah, that’s me! I’m the Flibbertigibbet!’”

  “What’s a Flibbertigibbet?” asked Evena.

  “Exactly!” cried Wyngalf, around a mouthful of bread.

  “The need to find one’s place in society is common to all the humanoid races,” said Tobalt. “It’s what holds society together. Unfortunately, it’s also what makes possible the stupidity of the SAURIANs, the SMASHers, and—sad to say—Orbrecht’s new regime. People would rather find their place in a terrible system than try to change the system and risk being cast out.”

  Wyngalf nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “Fortunately, I think I’ve finally found my place.”

  “Really?” said Evena. “Where?”

  “Right here,” Wyngalf replied.

  Evena frowned. “I’m not sure we can stay in this bakery,” she said. “Eventually that guy is going to wake up.”

  “No,” said Wyngalf, “I mean here with you two.”

  “Wyngalf,” said Evena, “I understand that you feel bad about the way things went between us, but you’ve got a great opportunity here. Tobalt and I will be okay. You don’t owe us anything. We know how important it is to you to start a Noninitarian church in Skaal City. And like Tobalt said, Orbrecht still needs you. So if there’s any way you can patch things up with him—”

  “No,” said Wyngalf again. “I was an fool to trust Orbrecht. There are only two ways that relationship can go. Either I become a slave to Orbrecht, or I become another of his victims. And if I’m going to die, I’d rather die with you guys.”

  “That’s an admirable sentiment,” said Tobalt, “but perhaps not as reassuring as you had intended.”

  “What I’m trying to say,” Wyngalf said, “is that my faith is not what it used to be. I’m not sure if it’s gotten stronger or weaker, but I’m finding it hard to put much stock in ancient prophecies and obscure doctrines. I prayed for wisdom, and I ran into you two. Maybe that’s just a coincidence, or maybe someone really is looking out for me. All I know is that have more faith in the people in this bakery than anyone else in the land of Dis.”

  “Whazzit?” grunted a voice from the front of the building. “Somebody there?” When there was no response for a moment, the man’s snoring resumed.

  “Not him,” Wyngalf said quietly.

  “Don’t be so quick to judge,” said Tobalt. “We shouldn’t underestimate the value of having a baker on the team,” Tobalt replied.

  “Why, Tobalt,” said Evena, smiling at the goblin, “I believe you just made a joke.”

  “It has been known to happen,” said Tobalt.

  “You guys are kind of ruining my moment,” said Wyngalf.

  “We get it, Wyngalf,” said Evena. “Apology accepted. Right, Tobalt?”

  Tobalt nodded. “I am certain I am as much to blame for our falling out as Wyngalf,” he said. “My somewhat pedantic and recondite manner can be grating at times.”

  “Really?” said Evena. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Wyngalf. “By now every guard in the city is probably looking for us. We could try to escape the city, but Orbrecht undoubtedly knows all the escape routes better than we do.”

  “Perhaps if we threw ourselves on Orbrecht’s mercy?” Tobalt offered. “He was, after all, your ally until a few hours ago. It isn’t unthinkable that we could come to some sort of mutually beneficial agreement.”

  Wyngalf shook his head. “In Obrecht’s mind—and the minds of everyone else in the city—I’m either the Ko-Haringu or a heretical imposter. There’s no middle ground. If I don’t go along with Orbrecht’s plan to rule Skaal City with an iron fist, I’ll be strung up in the city square. Or thrown into the gaping pit that used to be the city square, I guess. And I suspect he’ll throw you two in with me, after all the mischief we pulled today.”

  “So we can’t escape, and we can’t surrender,” said Evena. “What options does that leave us with?”

  Wyngalf glanced at Tobalt, and he could see they were thinking the same thing. “Go on the offensive,” said Wyngalf.

  “Uh,” said Evena. “Just the three of us? Against Orbrecht and all his men? Maybe we should reconsider putting the baker on the team. We could show up at Orbrecht’s headquarters with, like, 5,000 cupcakes. Not enough problems are solved with cupcakes.”

  “I believe Wyngalf is suggesting that we break into the mansion and destroy the dragon egg.”

  “Or we could do that,” said Evena. “Seriously, though, I think our odds are better with the cupcake thing. How are we supposed to get out of the city once we’ve destroyed the egg?”

  Wyngalf glanced at Tobalt again. “We don’t,” said Tobalt.

  “It’s a suicide mission,” Wyngalf said. “We most likely won’t get out of the mansion alive. But at least we’ll stop another dragon from taking over Skaal City. It’s our fault—my fault—that the Orbrecht has the egg in the first place. I can’t be responsible for another thousand years of torture and suffering. Of course, I’ll understand if you and Tobalt would rather sit this one out.”

  “I cannot speak for Evena,” said Tobalt, “but if I’m going to die, I would just as soon die attempting to dismantle an authoritarian regime as huddling in fear while waiting to be discovered by the city guard.”

  Evena sighed. “Yeah, me too,” she said. “Also, I suspect
you’re going to need my help.”

  Wyngalf frowned. “You understand that this is essentially a breaking-and-entering job, right? We don’t need to organize Orbrecht’s finances.”

  “You know,” said Evena, “for somebody who is basically a really nice guy, you sure can be a condescending jerk sometimes. I’ll have you know that while you were learning about angels dancing on pins in the Noninitarian Stronghold, I was finding all sorts of ways to entertain myself in Skuldred. You’d be amazed at what a girl can learn by hanging out with the wrong crowd.”

  Wyngalf and Tobalt both regarded her dubiously, and she smiled mischievously. Getting to her feet, she walked to the back wall of the bakery and picked a wire whisk off a hook. “This should do nicely,” she said, and turned back to face Wyngalf. “Now, tell me about this mansion.”

  Twenty-four

  A lone guard stood sentry in the street in front of the mansion that served as Orbrecht’s headquarters. It was a cloudy night, and the street was dark except for the illumination from two torches in wall sconces, one on either side of the guard. The sound of footsteps on cobblestones rose out of the darkness.

  “Who goes there?” the sentry demanded.

  “It’s just me,” said a woman’s voice. “I thought you might like some company.”

  “Who is that?” the sentry asked, but his posture had relaxed a bit. “There’s a curfew, you know. I could arrest you.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun!” the woman said. “I’ve been very bad. I need to be punished.” She let out a little yelp and fell to her knees. “Darn these streets!” she cried. “I don’t know how a girl is supposed to walk on these things.”

  The guard stepped forward to help her to her feet. “You shouldn’t be out here,” the sentry chided. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Evena. A loud thud echoed down the street and the sentry slumped to the ground. Tobalt stood behind the man, a wooden rolling pin in his hand.

  Wyngalf ran out of the shadows, and he and Evena dragged the man into an alley. Meanwhile, Tobalt removed the torches from their sconces and doused them in a bucket of rainwater nearby. The street was now shrouded in near darkness, and Wyngalf had to walk carefully over the cobblestones to avoid unintentionally recreating Evena’s performance.

  “Over here,” whispered Tobalt, and they followed the sound of his voice to the front of the mansion. Wyngalf stopped when he felt the top of the goblin’s head with his outstretched fingers. He could sense Evena standing next to him. “Hold out your hands,” Tobalt instructed.

  Unable to see anything but meaningless gradations of shadow, Wyngalf had to trust that Tobalt was in the right place. He locked his hands together and held them in front of him at waist level. Tobalt stepped on his hands and grabbed his right arm. While Wyngalf remained as still as he could, Tobalt climbed on top of him. Wyngalf winced as Tobalt’s boots dug into his shoulders, and then the weight was gone. Tobalt had pulled himself up to the second floor balcony. Looking up, Wyngalf saw the goblin’s silhouette against the sky for a moment, and then he disappeared.

  Wyngalf and Evena retreated around the corner where they would be less likely to be seen by passersby. The night air was cold, and Wyngalf pulled Evena toward him and embraced her as they waiting for Tobalt to return. He was reminded again of the first night they spent together, huddled on the island. “Evena,” Wyngalf started, “I want you to know, in case we don’t live through this, which we probably won’t…”

  “Shh,” said Evena, putting her hand on his lips. “Not every moment calls for a speech.”

  He smiled and gave her a squeeze. True enough, he thought, but didn’t say it.

  They waited for what seemed like an hour, huddled together in the darkness, fearing that a contingent of the city guard would march past at any moment. But as they waited for the sound of boots approaching, they heard instead a whisper from the front of the building.

  “Hurry up!” Tobalt said. “I’ve got the door open.”

  Wyngalf walked uncertainly forward, turning the corner and running his finger along the front wall of the building until he came to the door. Inside, it was even darker, but he felt Tobalt’s hand reaching out to him and clutched it tightly. In turn, Wyngalf held his other hand out to Evena. The three of them moved single-file into the quiet mansion, Evena closing the door behind them. Tobalt led them across the foyer and then paused. “Watch your step,” he whispered.

  Tobalt began to pull upward, and Wyngalf knew that they had reached the stairs. They climbed slowly, making as little noise as possible. Light was visible at the top of the stairs from the lanterns that hung in the upstairs hallway, and as they rounded the corner, Wyngalf took the lead. “Wait here,” he whispered to his companions, and crept forward in the dim light.

  The hallway split into a T here, and the two branches turned at right angles about fifty feet down. Halfway to the corner, on the inside wall of each hall, a lantern hung on a hook, casting a faint, warm glow. Wyngalf knew that the hallways turned inward again another fifty feet or so, so that the upstairs hallway formed one large, unbroken rectangle. At the far side of this rectangle was the master suite, where Orbrecht slept—and presumably where he kept the dragon egg. A guard was assigned to patrol the upstairs, but in Wyngalf’s experience the man could usually be found asleep in a chair on the right branch of the hallway. Wyngalf’s plan was to creep down the left branch far enough to make sure it was clear, and then signal Tobalt and Evena to follow.

  But as he passed the lantern on the wall and neared the corner, he heard someone walking toward him. Realizing it was too late to retreat without being seen, he stood his ground. With any luck, the guard would be unaware that Wyngalf was now a fugitive and would allow him to pass unmolested. Luck, however, was not on Wyngalf’s side.

  “Hey,” said the guard, halting in surprise as he rounded the corner. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Bishop Wyngalf. Where’s Anders?”

  “Anders is out sick. Aren’t you a fugitive?”

  “A fugitive?” asked Wyngalf. “What makes you think I’m a fugitive?”

  The man reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. He uncrumpled it and held it out for Wyngalf to see. On it was a crude line drawing of Wyngalf’s face. At the top of the sheet was written BISHOP WYNGALF. Underneath the drawing was written, in big block letters: FUGITIVE.

  “That doesn’t even look like me,” Wyngalf protested, although the drawing was, despite its simplicity, an uncanny likeness. “In any case, I can’t be a fugitive. I’m the, you know, lynchpin of the whole repressive system.”

  The guard scowled and drew his sword. “The only word I understand of that was ‘lynch.’”

  “Look,” said Wyngalf. “It’s really complicated, but basically you’re being fooled into arresting me by a sort of mass delusion of an authoritarian state.”

  “Are you calling me stupid?” the guard growled, raising his sword to Wyngalf’s throat.

  “No!” said Wyngalf. “I’m sorry, my friend can explain it better than I can.”

  “What friend?”

  “The one behind you.”

  The guard laughed. “I’m not falling for that,” he said. “Now turn—”

  There was a thud, and the guard collapsed. Wyngalf caught him as he fell, trying to keep him from making any more noise than necessary. Tobalt stood behind the guard, the rolling pin in his hand. The guard’s sword clattered to the ground, and Wyngalf picked it up.

  “Took you long enough,” Wyngalf said.

  “I wanted to listen to your explanation of the totalitarian delusion,” said Tobalt.

  “How did I do?” asked Wyngalf.

  “I would humbly suggest you stick to theology. Which door is Orbrecht’s?”

  Wyngalf took the lantern from its hook and then led them down the hall to the master suite. The door was a heavy slab of wood, virtually impregnable unless one had a sledgehammer and a lot of time. It was also, Wyngalf
confirmed with a twist of the knob, locked. No sound could be heard from inside, and no light escaped from the crack underneath the door. They seemed to have timed their incursion well: Orbrecht was actually asleep.

  “Step aside,” whispered Evena, approaching the door and taking the lantern from Wyngalf. She got on her knees, examining the lock for a moment, then handed the lantern back to Wyngalf and extracted a length of wire from her coat. It was a fragment she had broken off from the whisk she had nabbed at the bakery. She bent the wire about halfway along its length, folding it back on itself. Then she made some additional modifications to the ends, bending them with her small fingers. When she was satisfied with the pick, she inserted it into the lock and began methodically squeezing the tool as if it were a pair of scissors. With her left hand, she reached up and turned the handle. There was a click as the bolt slid aside.

  “That was amazing,” whispered Tobalt. “I have a rudimentary knowledge of the workings of common locks, but to be able to sense the position of the—”

  “Book learning only goes so far,” whispered Evena with a smile. “Sometimes the only way to learn something is by doing it. A lot. Now quiet down.” She turned the knob the rest of the way and pushed the door open a few inches. The room was completely dark. Wyngalf, holding the lantern in one hand and the sword in the other, shoved the door open and stepped inside. Tobalt and Evena followed, and Evena closed the door behind them.

  They were in the first room of the suite, a sort of general purpose living area that Orbrecht had turned into an office. In the far wall was another door, which led to Orbrecht’s private chamber. If Orbrecht was as paranoid and power-crazy as they suspected him to be, that would be where he was keeping the egg. They were going to have to break into Orbrecht’s bedroom to get it. Wyngalf wouldn’t be surprised if the old warrior was sleeping with the damned thing.

  Wyngalf handed the lantern back to Evena. He held up his hand to her, and then crept as quietly as he could across the room. No light came from underneath this door either. Hearing the sounds of snoring from inside, he gently tried the door handle and found it unlocked. He nodded to his companions, and Evena doused the lantern and set it down. Now completely blind, Wyngalf waited for his companions to approach. He felt Tobalt slide past him, and Wyngalf stepped aside. They didn’t want to waken Orbrecht with the lantern, which mean that they would have to rely on Tobalt’s ability to see in near-total darkness. But if Orbrecht woke up while Tobalt was rooting around his room—as Wyngalf had the night before—they were done for. Orbrecht was a formidable fighter, and he wouldn’t be as forgiving of an intruder as Wyngalf had been. So the plan was to sneak into Orbrecht’s room, subdue him, and then search for the egg. Unfortunately, the only member of their team who could see in the dark was also the least intimidating of the three. Orbrecht would be unlikely to be cowed into submission by Tobalt’s squeaky, uncertain voice. So Tobalt would lead the way, guiding Wyngalf to Orbrecht’s bedside. Then Tobalt would locate the egg while Evena kept a lookout. That was the idea, anyway.