Distopia (Land of Dis) Page 19

  No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he heard the whinnying of horses just up ahead. “Is someone there, Tobalt?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid my nocturnal vision, acute though it is, does not allow me to see through trees,” answered Tobalt. But not long after, a dim light came into view. Wyngalf realized it was a hooded lantern. “Who goes there?” a gruff voice demanded.

  “My name is Wyngalf,” said Wyngalf, putting himself in front of Tobalt. “These are my companions Tobalt and Evena.”

  “What’s wrong with your friend?” the man asked. It was hard to make him out behind the lantern, but he seemed to be leaning to look past Wyngalf at Tobalt.

  “Orbrecht sent us,” said Wyngalf, ignoring the question. “Are you Krell?”

  “Your friend looks like a goblin,” said the man. “Orbrecht di’n’t say nuthin’ ‘bout no goblins.”

  “But he did instruct you to escort me and my friends away from Skaal City, did he not?”

  “Yeah, but he di’n’t say nuthin’ ‘bout no goblins.”

  “So I gathered,” replied Wyngalf. “But as it happens, one of my friends is a goblin, and Orbrecht instructed you to help me and my friends.”

  The man, who Wyngalf took to be Krell, was silent for some time, evidently attempting to piece together the elements of Wyngalf’s syllogism. “Usually I kill goblins,” said the man after a moment, as if he expected Wyngalf to grant him permission to dispatch Tobalt on the spot.

  “You won’t be killing this one,” said Wyngalf firmly. “This goblin is my friend. Got it, Krell?”

  Krell grunted something halfway between agreement and disgust. “I got horses for ya,” he said. “Dunno if any of ‘em will let a goblin ride ‘em.”

  They approached, and in the dim light Wyngalf confirmed that the gruff stranger was indeed missing his right ear and three fingers on his left hand. He was standing at the head of a row of four horses, whose reins were tied together. Without another word, Krell untied the horses and climbed into the saddle of the horse farthest upstream, apparently waiting for Wyngalf and his companions to do the same. Tobalt climbed onto the horse in the rear without hesitation; if there was any natural antipathy between horses and goblins, one wouldn’t know it by the horse’s reaction. Wyngalf helped Evena onto the horse in front of Tobalt’s, and then climbed onto the horse behind Krell. Before Wyngalf was even comfortably in the saddle, Krell doused his lantern, grunted a “giddup,” and the four horses began to move as one up the path. Wyngalf could only hope the horses could see better than he could—or knew this path well enough to navigate it in the dark. They continued in silence down the path for some time.

  As the journey wore on, Wyngalf began to worry that Orbrecht hadn’t thought their escape through: while it was pleasant enough to travel by horseback, the horses weren’t making any better time on the narrow river path than they could have done on foot. But at this point they had little choice but to trust Krell. As Wyngalf relaxed with the rhythmic movement of his mount’s muscles, he realized how exhausted he was. They hadn’t had a moment’s rest since Verne attacked the Numinda Fae, and it was all he could do to remain upright in the saddle. He was just dozing off when his mount suddenly broke into a gallop. Only the bedroll strapped to the horse’s back behind him kept him from falling completely out of the saddle. He managed to get hold of the reins and pull himself upright.

  The blackness that had hung over them was gone; they had emerged from the path through the woods and were now flying across an open field under a clear sky lit by a near-full moon. Ahead of him was the dark figure of Krell on his horse, leading the way, oblivious to the fact that he’d just very nearly lost one of his charges. Wyngalf ventured a glance behind him and confirmed that Evena and Tobalt remained on their mounts behind him. He wondered if they had been as shocked as he was at the sudden burst of speed. He couldn’t see their faces, and talking over the galloping hooves was impossible. The only thing to do was hold on and hope for the best.

  Wyngalf leaned forward against the horse’s hot, sweaty neck, and soon acclimated to the horse’s faster gait. He dozed off several more times, and couldn’t say with any certainty how far they had traveled when his horse finally slowed to a walk again. Ahead of them loomed something large and dark, and Wyngalf realized after a moment that they were headed into more woods. They meandered down another path under a black canopy for some time, and then came to an abrupt stop at a small clearing. Krell slipped off his horse.

  “Get some rest,” Krell said. “There’s a bedroll and some blankets on the horses.”

  “What about food?” asked Evena. “We’re famished.”

  “Jerky and hardtack in the saddle bags. Should be some skins full of water too. Be quick about it. I gotta tend to the horses before I bed down myself.”

  They managed to extricate the supplies from the horses and had a small meal huddled together in the dark while Krell led the horses off somewhere, presumably to get them water. Then they bedded down, sleeping like the dead until Krell roused them with rough commands just after dawn.

  “Giddup,” he barked, in the same tone he had used for the horses. When they didn’t immediately respond, he gave Wyngalf a kick in the ribs. “Giddup!” he barked again. Wyngalf bit his tongue and got groggily to his feet. When they had broken fast and attended to their other basic needs, they got back on their horses. Still sore from the previous day’s ride and not feeling particularly well-rested, Wyngalf would have liked nothing better than to remain in the clearing and rest for a few more hours, but he knew that by now Verne would be back in Dis, and was probably at this moment inquiring of his spies in the city regarding them. Assuming Verne didn’t learn anything relevant from the spies, he would then start checking the obvious escape routes: ships that had recently departed from the harbor, the main roads leading out of Skaal City to the south and east—and the path along the river. From what Wyngalf recalled of his studies, dragons were middling trackers but they had incredibly powerful vision. Even allowing for Verne’s partial blindness, they had to figure that he could see for several miles. Wyngalf doubted that Verne would be able to track them from the river across the plains, but even if he simply proceeded in a spiral out from Skaal City, scouring every inch of ground, it wouldn’t take him more than a few hours to find them. They needed to get much farther away—or find a very good hiding place—to be safe from Verne’s wrath.

  “How many miles do we have to put between us and Verne to be out of danger?” asked Wyngalf.

  Krell snorted in disgust. “Ain’t miles that’s gonna save you from Verne,” he said. Wyngalf tried to get him to elaborate, but he wouldn’t say another word. Once again, they could only follow in silence and hope that Krell had their best interests at heart.

  Wyngalf heard the sound of moving water ahead, realizing that they must be coming upon another river. Soon after, Krell dismounted and motioned for them to do the same. They followed Krell as they led their mounts down to the river and into the water. The river moved swiftly here, but it seemed to be less than five feet deep in most places. Krell guided them through the shallower areas, and it didn’t take long to cross. They made their way up the steep bank on the far side, remounting when they found a continuation of the narrow wooded path.

  After some time the woods gave way to rolling hills, and the three companions took advantage of the opportunity to ride side-by-side and converse regarding their circumstances.

  “What do you suppose he meant by that?” asked Evena. “That miles aren’t going to save us from Verne?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Wyngalf. “Krell doesn’t strike me as very bright. Or helpful.”

  “Where do you think he’s taking us?” asked Evena.

  “You’re welcome to try asking,” said Wyngalf. Krell remained several yards in front of them, and gave no indication of having any interest in their conversation.

  “If I might be permitted a supposition,” said Tobalt, “I would venture that our des
tination is the fair city of Brobdingdon. It would have been faster to travel on the road that runs along the river, but of course our choleric guide wished to keep off the main roads to avoid Verne’s spies. Thus he led us along the river and then cut north across the plains to the west of the Chathain Mountains. To my knowledge, the only settlement of note anywhere in the vicinity is Tyvek, and traveling there would require us to head back south, closer to Verne’s lair. That leaves Brobdingdon as our likely target.”

  “Okay,” said Wyngalf. “But how does that help us? It’s only a couple hours’ flight from Skaal City to Brobdingdon, and I’ll bet that Verne has spies there as well.”

  “From what I gather of Verne’s activities,” said Tobalt, “he rarely ventures farther north than Tyvek. I have not been able to ascertain the reason for this limitation, however.”

  “Maybe the Brobdingdonians have defenses against Verne,” said Evena. “Towers with big crossbows or something.”

  “It’s difficult to imagine a weapon that might frighten Verne,” said Tobalt. “But there must be some reason that Verne was willing to fly many leagues across the sea to terrorize your hometown rather than simply follow the river north to Brobdingdon.”

  “Yes,” said Evena. “And thanks, by the way. I’d almost forgotten that my parents and all my friends are probably dead because of me.”

  “Because of me, you mean,” said Wyngalf.

  “I’m terribly sorry I mentioned it,” said Tobalt. “I was merely attempting to discern our reticent chaperon’s intentions.”

  “It’s fine, Tobalt,” said Evena, exerting obvious effort to affect a conciliatory tone. “Anyway, we’re all going to be dead soon enough. Whatever Verne’s reasons are for staying away from Brobdingdon, I’m sure he’ll make an exception for us. I don’t know why we didn’t just stay in those dwarf tunnels under Skaal City.”

  “Goblin tunnels,” muttered Tobalt.

  “We couldn’t hide down there indefinitely,” said Wyngalf. “And according to the Ovaltarian prophecy, we’re supposed to flee, not hide.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re taking that prophecy business seriously,” said Evena, looking askance at Wyngalf.

  “The Noninity works in mysterious ways,” said Wyngalf. “It isn’t impossible that Ganillion the Messenger entrusted some ancient prophet of Dis with some small fragment of the Blessed Truth of Noninitarianism in order to facilitate my mission here.”

  “Wow, are you full of yourself,” said Evena. “You’re actually saying you think you’re this Hairy Cuckoo Messiah?”

  “Ko-Haringu,” said Tobalt. “And I have to admit, the correlations between the prophecy and Wyngalf’s journey are striking. If I were of a more superstitious bent, I would be tempted to believe it myself.”

  “But you don’t believe it,” said Evena.

  “Horkuden’s Knife,” said Wyngalf. “It’s the simplest solution.”

  Tobalt scowled. “I’m withholding judgment on the matter,” he said. “At present, I cannot offer a more compelling explanation for the correlations than the one Orbrecht provided. But whether or not Wyngalf truly is the Ko-Haringu, it may be possible for us to use the prophecy to our benefit.”

  “How do you figure?” asked Evena.

  “Quiet down back there!” Krell growled.

  “What’s the harm in a little conversation?” asked Wyngalf, growing irritated with their guide’s sullen manner. “Particularly since there’s a good chance it’s the last one we’ll ever have.”

  “If you wanna make sure o’ that, keep distractin’ me,” Krell growled. “Otherwise, keep an eye out for Verne.”

  “What good will it do us to see him coming?” asked Wyngalf. “We can’t fight him.” The others nodded in assent: they were on an exposed plain with no cover. If Verne was anywhere in the area, they were doomed.

  “See those peaks over there?” said Krell, pointing to their right. “Them’s the Chathain Mountains. Lots o’ caves and places to hide. If we see him coming, we might be able to get to one of ’em in time.”

  They peered into the distance. It seemed a long shot to Wyngalf, but he supposed it was better than nothing. He didn’t ask why they didn’t travel closer to the mountains; the terrain was obviously rougher in that direction. The three companions remained silent for the rest of the day, with Evena and Wyngalf watching the skies for signs of Verne. Tobalt, whose eyes were not attuned to bright light, rode with his gaze downcast.

  Just before dusk, they reached a copse of trees that would have to serve as cover from Verne for the night. They ate dried meat and hard tack again and then bedded down for the night. Krell woke them rudely before dawn, and it took considerable effort for Wyngalf to convince himself that this was preferable to being awakened by dragon fire. Sore, tired, and hungry, they set out on their horses once again. The sun was in their eyes, which meant they were heading almost due east. If Verne wanted to surprise them, this would be a good time—not that he needed the element of surprise; they were once again on an open plain with no cover for miles.

  But they survived the morning unscathed, and just after noon they turned slightly northward. Tobalt was right: they were going to Brobdingdon. Wyngalf wondered how this detour fit into the prophecy of the Ko-Haringu and the Noninity’s plans for him. Perhaps Ganillion the Messenger was telling him that Skaal City was not ready for the Blessed Truth, and that he was destined to start his church in Brobdingdon instead. The more Wyngalf thought about it, the more sense it made. All the struggles he had faced so far were intended to guide him toward Brobdingdon and make his ultimate success all the sweeter. He would begin converting the citizens of Brobdingdon shortly after their arrival, and soon the faithful would begin construction on a grand cathedral that would someday tower over city. Wyngalf, as the Bishop of Brobdingdon, would send missionaries into the far reaches of Dis—even Skaal City, once he determined the people there were ready for the Blessed Truth of Noninitarianism.

  A few hours later, they came upon a paved road running roughly north-south, and Krell led his horse onto it and turned left.

  “Is it safe to be on the road?” Evena asked.

  “No choice,” Krell answered. The three companions followed.

  “I’m afraid our surly conductor is correct,” said Tobalt. “We are on a narrow strip of land between the Rivers Ytrisk and Skaal. Without traveling far to the south, there is no place to ford either river. This is the only way to Brobdingdon. We can only hope that Verne is occupied with other possible escape routes long enough for us to get there unmolested.”

  Just before dusk, they left the road and made camp in another small copse of trees. Krell judged it too dangerous to start a fire, so again they ate in the dark and then bedded down for the night.

  They set off early the next morning for Brobdingon, hoping they were far enough away from Skaal City to escape Verne’s attention. Fortunately, they were aided in this by a persistent fog that hung over the river basin most of the day. Even with Verne’s sharp eye, he would have to be within a stone’s throw to see them. By the time the fog dissipated, they were but a few miles from the walls of Brobdingdon. The landscape was dotted with small farms and estates, and Wyngalf found himself wondering if these were free from Verne’s tyranny. If the influence of whatever force kept Verne away from Brobdingdon extended this far, then perhaps they were safe already. But somehow Wyngalf suspected that Evena was right: for them, Verne would make an exception. Wyngalf wouldn’t feel safe until they were inside the walls of Brobdingdon—and even then, “safe” was a relative term.

  By luck or providence, they made it to the city gates. A guard called down to them, asking their business in the city. Wyngalf decided to leave the talking to Krell, assuming their guide had some connections inside the city. He almost immediately regretted this decision.

  “We’re merchants from Tyvek,” said Krell. “Let us in.”

  “What kind of merchants?” demanded the guard. “You don’t look like merchants. And you don’
t sound like you’re from Tyvek. Is that a goblin with you?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Krell growled. “That’s my cousin, Mingus. His mother used to eat a lot of woozleberries.”

  “We don’t allow goblins in the city,” said the guard. “And unless you can prove you have business here, I can’t let you in either. Lots of spies from Skaal City about.”

  “We ain’t from Skaal City!” snarled Krell. “And we ain’t no spies neither! We’re merchants, here on important merchant business! Now let us in, you rat-faced troll-hugger!”

  The guard turned away, disappearing inside the tower.

  “Wait!” cried Wyngalf. “You’ve got to let us in. There’s a dragon after us!”

  After a moment, the guard’s face reappeared. “What kind of dragon?” he asked.

  “A big, green one. His name is Verne.”

  The guard studied them for a moment.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Our guide, with whom you were just conversing, is from Skaal City,” said Wyngalf, and even at this distance he could see the disdain on the guard’s face. Krell grumbled and shook his head. “But my friend and I are from across the Sea of Dis. We’ve been running from Verne ever since we got here. We first fled to Skaal City, but the people there don’t seem to understand how dangerous Verne is. We ran into some trouble with the authorities, and we were forced to flee here.”

  “Skaalians are a bunch of cowards,” said the guard. Krell scowled but said nothing.

  “That assessment has been largely borne out by my experience,” said Wyngalf. “Please, this is our only chance.”

  “Why do you have a goblin with you? We don’t allow goblins in Brobdingdon.”

  “He’s our friend,” said Wyngalf. “He’s been one of the few people—er, beings—willing to stick his neck out to help us since we got to Dis. As you can see, he’s a very small specimen of his race, and completely unarmed. I assure you he’s harmless.” Wyngalf glanced at Tobalt, who was slumped pathetically in the saddle, either attempting to demonstrate his harmlessness or expression his dejection at Wyngalf’s description of him.