Distopia (Land of Dis) Page 14

  “Curse you, dragon!” Wyngalf growled, ignoring the pounding in his head and the churning in his gut. “What gives you the right to say who leaves this port? What gives you the right to kill men whose only crime was trying to earn an honest living?”

  “Hey,” said Verne, holding up his claws in a mock-defensive gesture, “Don’t blame me. I told them I was going to incarcerate them.”

  “Incinerate them,” snapped Wyngalf. “You breathe fire, for Shotarr’s sake. Learn the blasted word. Incarcerate means you’re going to put them in prison.”

  Verne smacked his forehead with the back of his claw. “No wonder they didn’t jump earlier,” he said. “Incinerate, incinerate, incinerate. Got it. So, what are you guys up to?”

  “I was trying to get home,” Evena snarled. “But you knew that.”

  “I may have heard something to the effect,” said Verne. “If it makes you feel better, you almost got away with it, thanks to that dimwitted clerk. He was under strict instructions to alert me of any young women seeking passage across the Sea of Dis, but the man has the memory of a brain-damaged squirrel. Fortunately, my good friend Lord Popper thought he might get in my good graces by telling me about a change in the management of the local shipping guild office earlier this morning.”

  “If you wanted to stop me,” Evena snapped, “why didn’t you just tell the ship to turn around? Or pluck me right off the ship? Why did you have to kill all those people?”

  Verne shrugged. “I need to make a dramatic demonstration once in a while to remind the locals who’s in charge. And as an added bonus, no captain in Skaal City is going to let you within a hundred yards of his ship in the near future. I’m afraid you’ll be sticking around for a while, my dear. Try not to take it personally. It’s just business.”

  “It’s not business!” Evena cried. “It’s extortion!”

  “I suppose,” said Verne absently. “Seems like a semantic distinction to me. Anyhoo, I should get going. Got some villages in the east to terrorize tonight. Busy, busy, busy!” He raised his wings as if to fly away.

  “I’m going to kill you,” said Wyngalf quietly.

  Verne dropped his wings and cocked his head toward Wyngalf. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Could you repeat that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “Come closer then,” said Wyngalf, his lips curling in a slightly deranged smile. Evena and Tobalt stared at him. He felt a pinch on his right arm just below the shoulder which he vaguely realized was Evena’s fingernails digging into his flesh.

  Verne smiled and craned his neck to bring his head closer to Wyngalf, as if amused at Wyngalf’s seething anger. Wyngalf could feel the dragon’s hot breath on his face, and he saw now that the crazy old warrior Orbrecht had been telling the truth: Verne favored his right eye. The left eyeball never moved, and it had a slightly hazy appearance to it. One jab to his good eye and Verne would be completely blind.

  Wyngalf laughed maniacally. “What, you aren’t frightened of me, are you? Come closer, so we can talk man to man. Or man to dragon, as the case may be.”

  Verne hesitated a moment, but then obliged, moving his head even closer. Whatever suspicion he had about Wyngalf’s behavior was outweighed by his curiosity. His teeth were now just inches from Wyngalf’s nose, and his eye was within reach of sword point—if Wyngalf could only get the sword from Tobalt, who stood quaking in terror on his left. He was clutching the scabbard in his left hand, its tip resting in the sand.

  “Now,” said Verne, his breath like a furnace on Wyngalf’s face, “were you making some sort of threat, Simply Wyngalf?”

  “Not a threat,” said Wyngalf, grinning. “More of a promise.”

  The dragon chuckled, and his good eye glittered at Wyngalf. Wyngalf glanced at Tobalt, who remained oblivious both to Verne’s weakness and Wyngalf’s plan. If only Tobalt were holding the sword on his right side! It was going to be a mean feat to get to the sword and lunge at Verne’s eye before the dragon could react. He’d have a better chance if he could get Tobalt to turn around. He couldn’t very well ask Tobalt to hand him the sword and still expect to take Verne by surprise.

  “A promise!” exclaimed Verne. “Oh, this is exciting. And when will this momentous event occur? I want to make sure my affairs are all in order before I’m, you know, slain.”

  “Soon,” said Wyngalf. “Be assured of that.”

  Verne’s good eye remained fixed on him, and the dragon’s mouth fell open. Wyngalf wasn’t sure if the dragon was about to laugh in his face or engulf them in fire—or do both, simultaneously. Wyngalf could only hope that his need to keep Evena alive and unharmed was greater than his desire to eliminate Wyngalf as a threat. She stood silently at his right, her fingers clutching Wyngalf’s bicep ever tighter. Tobalt stood to Wyngalf’s left, quaking so violently that Wyngalf could hear the goblin’s bones vibrating. Wyngalf was just thinking that this was the longest Tobalt had ever been silent in his presence when the goblin spoke, his voice quavering and faint.

  “I’ll be the first to admit that my experience in such matters is limited,” Tobalt ventured, his voice quavering, “but perhaps antagonizing the fire-breathing dragon is not the most advisable course of action.”

  “You should listen to your goblin friend,” said Verne. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders. For now.” Verne turned to face Tobalt and snapped his teeth together menacingly. Tobalt looked like he was about to bolt.

  “Don’t worry, Tobalt,” said Wyngalf. “Verne’s not going to bite your head off.”

  “No?” said Verne, focusing his eye again on Wyngalf.

  “No,” said Wyngalf.

  “And why, pray tell, not?”

  “Because goblin heads taste terrible,” said Wyngalf. “What you want to do is slow roast him around the middle. This part here—” He poked Tobalt in the belly with his finger. “—is good eatin’.”

  Tobalt’s face was rapidly going pale. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous…” he began, but trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

  “You don’t say,” said Verne, regarding Tobalt’s belly. “Still, it’s hardly worth the trouble. I could swallow him in one bite.” He snapped his jaws at Tobalt again, and that was about all the goblin could take. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed onto the sand. Wyngalf had actually been hoping Tobalt would make a run for it, but this would do. As the goblin fell, Wyngalf leaned toward him as if trying to catch him. Supporting Tobalt’s weight for a moment with his left hand, he reached behind the goblin’s back and grasped the hilt of the sword. As he drew it, he let Tobalt fall, and then lunged toward Verne.

  His aim was perfect, but he was a split-second too slow. Verne blinked, and the tip of the sword bounced harmlessly off the dragon’s armored eyelid. Only the faintest scratch on the surface of the scales was visible. Verne reared his head back, out of range of Wyngalf’s blade. Undaunted, Wyngalf stood with his sword pointed firmly at the dragon’s head. If he was going to die, he was going to die with the sword in his hand.

  Verne he began to laugh. “Poor Wyngalf,” said the dragon with mock pathos. “It seems you’re an even worse swordsman than a preacher.”

  The point of Wyngalf’s sword wavered.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention it the other day, didn’t I?” said Verne. “I did a little research on you. Had a nice conversation with Evena’s father, the fish merchant, when I was in Skuldred. He was rather troubled that you ran off with his only daughter and then allowed her to fall into the clutches of a dragon.”

  “You lie,” growled Wyngalf. “I had nothing to do with Evena stowing away on that ship, and Evena’s father knows it.”

  “I may have stoked his suspicions about you a bit,” Verne admitted. “He called you all sorts of names, most of which have slipped my mind. The only ones I can recall off the top of my head are ‘scoundrel,’ ‘rascal,’ and ‘poor addition to my investment portfolio.’”

  “That does sound like my father,” Evena admitted.

  “You made such an
impression on him that I decided to do a little research,” Verne continued. “I inquired at a few nearby towns, and after the locals had finished screaming and running in circles, a few of them acknowledged that they remembered you. Well, at first they didn’t know what I was talking about. I kept asking about a traveling preacher named Wyngalf, but all I got blank stares. It wasn’t until I thought to describe you as a ‘wandering imbecile’ that a few people thought they remembered you. It was the walk that clinched it, though.”

  “The walk?” asked Evena.

  “Sure,” said Verne. “Tell me you haven’t noticed the way he walks.” Verne straightened up on his rear haunches, and then craned his neck forward, dropped his wings and began a slow, shambling walk along the shore. When he’d gone a dozen paces or so, he turned around and shambled back toward them.

  Wyngalf heard Evena stifling a laugh, and he turned to glare at her.

  “What?” Evena said. “You have to admit, he nailed your walk.”

  “I do not walk like that!” Wyngalf fumed.

  “The denizens of the towns along the western shore of the Sea of Dis beg to differ,” said Verne. “The consensus is that you’re a harmless wandering beggar who was most likely dropped on his head as a child. From a very tall tree. Repeatedly. Nobody seemed to have any idea that you were any sort of missionary, I’m sorry to report.”

  “The Jagged Coast wasn’t ready for the good news of Noninitarianism!” said Wyngalf. “That’s why my divine mission brought me to Dis.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Verne, “this is where your ‘divine mission’ ends, Simpleton Wyngalf. As much as I’d like to keep Evena for leverage—and keep you and your goblin around for entertainment purposes—I’m beginning to think it’s just not worth the trouble. I’ll just have to rely on the threat of incarceration to—”

  “Incineration!” shouted Wyngalf.

  “Sorry, I’ll have to rely on the threat of incineration to keep gold flowing from Skuldred. The hostage angle seemed like the logical play, but it’s just too much work. Anyway, it’s been nice knowing you. Now, you can run if you like, but I’ll warn you that’s just going to make it take longer. Your best bet is just to cower together in fear while I incinerate you.” Wyngalf craned his neck back and opened his mouth wide. Wyngalf dropped the sword and clamped his eyes shut, squeezing Evena tightly.

  “Wait!” cried Evena. “If you keep us alive, I can make it worth your while!”

  Verne paused, regarding her dubiously. “And what do you have to offer me, dear, that I don’t already have?”

  “A treasure hidden in the town of Skuldred,” Evena said. “An extremely valuable jewel that is hidden under a cobblestone on of one of the streets.”

  “Nonsense,” said Verne. “Why would anyone hide a jewel under a street? Desperation does not become you, dear.”

  “There’s a bit of a story behind it,” said Evena.

  “I do love a good story,” said Verne thoughtfully. “I suppose I could delay incinerating you while you tell the story. All right, out with it.”

  Evena nodded and cleared her throat.

  “Any time now, dear,” said Verne.

  Evena smiled nervously and took a deep breath. “An emissary from a kingdom in the north was traveling through Skuldred many years ago on his way to visit a prince in the south,” she began. “He had on him a priceless jewel that he was instructed to give as a gift to the prince, in order to secure an alliance against a third kingdom, to the west.”

  “And he hid the jewel under a cobblestone?” Verne interrupted. “Ridiculous.”

  Evena went on, undeterred. “A plague happened to be sweeping through Skuldred at the time the emissary and his entourage arrived in town, and the entire entourage was stricken. With his bodyguards weakened, the emissary was afraid the locals would overcome him and steal the jewel, so at night he sneaked out and hid it under a cobblestone of one of the city streets. But when the emissary himself fell ill, he began to worry that the location of the jewel would die with him. So as he lay on his death bed, he told the secret to three members of his entourage, in three parts: he told the first man the name of the street; he told the second man how many paces to walk from the beginning of the street; and he told the third man how many cobblestones to traverse from the edge of the street. Now the emissary picked these particular men because he knew they hated each other and would be unlikely to cooperate to steal the jewel for themselves. He expected that if he were to die, the three servants would return to the king in the north and pass along the information that he had given them. The king would then be able to send another emissary to retrieve the jewel.”

  Verne still looked skeptical, but she definitely had his interest now.

  “The emissary died the next day, and of his entourage, only the three servants entrusted with the location of the jewel remained alive. The three decided that two of them should remain in Skuldred to guard the jewel and one of them should return to the king. But each of the three servants was afraid to leave town, thinking the other two would work together to find the jewel—for with any two pieces of the puzzle, the jewel could be located by spending a few days overturning cobblestones. So the three servants took up residence in Skuldred, each of them taking on some sort of menial work to support himself while he waited for the others to make their move. But none of them ever left, and none dared to start looking for the jewel out of fear of tipping off the other two about what he knew. In time, they all became respected members of the community, took wives, and had families. The three servants died within a few months of each other, and it’s generally thought that their secrets died with them. But I never believed it. I was convinced that the three servants would have passed down their secrets to their heirs. Due to my father’s position, I have a fair amount of influence in the town, and over the past three years I managed to locate two of the men’s heirs and confirm that they know two of the three secrets. The third heir took a bit more work to find, but I finally located him just a few weeks ago. I’m the only one who knows who the three heirs are.”

  “So you know where the jewel is?” asked Verne dubiously.

  “No,” Evena replied. “I only know who the heirs are. I was never able to get any of them to talk to me. As wealthy as my father is, no amount of money could persuade them to talk, and I have no other form of leverage to use on them. I can’t very well threaten to incinerate them.”

  Verne cocked his head at her. “Which one is that again?”

  “The burning one,” said Evena.

  “Oh, right!” said Verne. “And I can, is that it? You happen to have just enough information to allow me to get the jewel, but not enough to get it yourself?”

  “Exactly,” said Evena. “That’s why I ran away with Wyngalf. I’d spent three years trying to solve this mystery, but when I solved it, I still couldn’t get the prize. Strolling down the streets of Skuldred, knowing that I’d probably walked right over it a dozen times, was too much for me. I decided to seek my fortune elsewhere.”

  “It’s a preposterous story,” said Verne. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so ridiculous.” But something in the dragon’s voice told them he wanted to believe it.

  “You wouldn’t be the first to doubt it,” said Evena. “Very few in Skuldred today acknowledge that just beneath their feet lies a treasure of inestimable value.”

  Verne cocked his good eye toward her. “How inestimable?” he asked.

  “Extremely inestimable,” said Evena. “You know that chest of gold you carried across the sea yesterday? The Jewel of Skuldred is worth at least twenty of those.”

  “Twenty!” exclaimed Verne, in awe.

  “And that’s being conservative,” said Evena. “Some experts think it might be worth as much as a million gold pieces.”

  “A million!” cried Verne, flapping his wings in excitement. Then he grew suddenly somber again: “You’re certain the story is true?”

  “I swear on my life that ever
ything I’ve told you is true,” said Evena. “And I’m willing to give you the names of the three heirs, if you let us live.”

  Verne studied her for a moment. “And this isn’t some kind of elaborate hoax to keep me from incinerating you?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Evena. “Cross my heart.”

  “Okay,” said Verne. “Because if it is, I’ll come back and kill you in a much slower, more painful manner.”

  “No danger of that,” said Evena. “Since I’m telling the absolute honest-to-the-Noninity truth.”

  “It had better be, for your sake.”

  “It is.”

  “Great!” exclaimed Verne. “It’s a deal. What are the names?”

  “Ashor, Wiggin, and Brisby,” said Evena. “Can you remember that? Just go to the town square and ask to see Ashor, Wiggin and Brisby.”

  “Ashor, Wiggin and Brisby,” said Verne. “Got it.” He spread his wings and then paused. “Hey, how do you know I won’t kill you now that you’ve told me?”

  “Because you want to make sure I was telling the truth, remember? If I lied to you, you were going to kill us slowly and painfully.”

  “Right!” said Verne. “Good point. Okay, wait here. I’ll be back tomorrow to make you regret you were ever born if you lied to me. Which you didn’t.”

  “Nope,” said Evena. “That story was one hundred percent true.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Verne. “Because none of us is going to enjoy the weeks of agony I plan on subjecting you to if you’ve lied to me. Well, see you when I get back!” He spread his wings again and shot into the sky. Wyngalf and Evena watched him disappear into the sunset. Next to them, Tobalt sat up in the sand.

  “That was a fascinating story,” Tobalt said quietly. “If you don’t mind my asking, though, is any of it true?”

  “Not a word,” said Evena. “Ashor, Wiggin and Brisby were three dogs my father owned when I was a child.”