The Coldstone Conflict

by David Lee Stone

“I’d give him time to reflect on things,” said Burnie, who’d dropped back in order to give Diek some warm furs to wear. “After all, it really isn’t his fault: according to my king, Vanquish is a god—and you can’t fight a god. At least, not on your own.”

  “I wasn’ on me own,’ came the voice, suddenly. “I was wiv Gordo ’n’ Gape.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I wonder what ’appened to Gape. I don’ ’member anyfing ’bout ’im.”

  “Well, he probably got away, then,” Diek said, reassuringly.

  Burnie cast a sideways glance at the boy.

  “I don’t mean to keep on,’ he said, doubtfully. “But are you really Diek Wustapha?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve actually been trapped in another plane since the Rat Catastrophe, all those years back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. So you’ve been in the dark place ever since?”

  “Yeah,” said Diek, touching his face self-consciously. “I just hope my mum and dad are still … around.”

  “Well—”

  “I ’ope Gordo’s still ’round,” Groan interrupted. “ ’Sme best mate.”

  The pair walked in silence for a time, before Burnie noticed that the warband had shuffled to a halt.

  “What’s the problem?” he called, hurrying up to Slythi.

  The king drove his sword into the stout trunk of a nearby tree.

  “Edge jungle,” he yapped. “Big bunoak: see all.”

  Burnie gazed up at the immense tree as a troglodyte warrior scampered up it like a giant squirrel (albeit a green squirrel … covered in snot). He was gone for ten minutes.

  “What there?” Slythi barked. “See you? What there?”

  “Mishmash,” said the returning troglodyte, shaking its warty head. “Mishmash biiiiig.”

  Diek, who’d caught up and was trying to make sense of the conversation, looked to Burnie.

  “We’ve hit the Gleaming Mountains,” said the troglodyte councillor.

  “Is that good?”

  “Not really, just means it’s all uphill from here.”

  “Can’t we go round them?”

  Burnie shook his head. “Nope. Going round west would set us back days and going round east would take us too close to Dullitch—which would be especially dangerous since we don’t know what’s going on there, right now. We’ll have to go through the mountains. Is that all right with you, Slythi?”

  The troglodyte king removed his sword from the tree and nodded.

  “Mishmash climb,” he muttered. “Mishmash hard climb.”

  A line of carriages rattled through the grounds of Spittle Tower. One had already arrived at the little cottage, disgorging Viceroy Funk and several of his lackeys. Another carriage, several back, had produced two Phlegmian assistants who were struggling valiantly to entice their royal steward out of his transport.

  “No! I’m not coming out,” snapped a high-pitched and rather grating voice. “I look terrible.”

  “You don’t, sir. Honestly!” said one of the pages, who was supporting a magnificent cushion between his hands.

  “I do! And I don’t want the cushion. I want to stay on the spike. Not this spike, though—it’s an absolute disgrace …”

  “But, sir …”

  “Oh, all right! Just get on with it, would you!”

  Loogie Lambontroff was giving his servants hell. The two men gingerly reached into the carriage before one emerged with what appeared to be a very long lance. There was a human head impaled on the top of it.

  “I didn’t ask for the blue spike,” it moaned. “I wanted the red spike, with the gold lace … it makes me look younger.”

  “Really, sir, I do think—”

  “Well don’t! You don’t know what it’s like to be a head.”

  “No I don’t, sir, but—”

  “Then shut up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you shutting up?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Who’s holding me?”

  “Mr. Theoff, sir.”

  “Is he holding me upright? Everything looks a bit … slanted.”

  Mr. Theoff checked himself, and quickly straightened the lance.

  “I’m s-sorry, sir,” said his colleague. “Mr. Theoff is quite new to all this.”

  “Then why aren’t YOU holding me?”

  “Er … my hands are still sore from the branding, sir.”

  Loogie rolled his eyes. “Yeah well, you deserved that …”

  “I know, sir.”

  “Saying that we should get ahead of the other carriages was nothing short of bloody insensitive.”

  “Yes, sir. I AM sorry, sir.”

  “Right, well … Can we go in, do you think?”

  “Of course, sir! Mr. Theoff—on the double!”

  The lance-wielder marched smartly toward the cottage, where Earl Visceral was waiting to meet and greet his special guests.

  “Steward Lambontroff!” he declared. “What an honor! Thank you so much for coming …”

  “Whatever—just let me get inside. I thought I could hear an eagle just now …”

  “Oh … we have a few flying wild around the grounds.”

  “Yeah, well I’m feeling a bit exposed here, and if I lose an eye on top of everything else, I’m not going to be up to much, am I?”

  Visceral nodded and stepped aside so that Lambontroff’s entourage could carry him in. Unfortunately, the door had swung shut.

  “Arghgh!”

  “I’m so sorry, sir!”

  “What am I now, a bloody battering ram?”

  The second page hurried forward and opened the door. Mr. Theoff carefully proceded inside, the lance held out before him, while Earl Visceral did his best to keep a straight face.

  Viceroy Funk had also arrived. A small and decidedly ugly little man with prominent teeth and wild blond hair, he sidled up to the earl, coughing loudly.

  Visceral smiled at him. “Welcome, Viceroy.”

  “Eh?”

  “I said ‘Welcome.’ ”

  “You can see me?”

  “What?”

  “Can you actually see me?”

  “Of course.”

  “But I’m wearing my magic bracelet!”

  “Really? Well, I’m very sorry—”

  “Can you see all of me?”

  Visceral looked the viceroy up and down. “What there is to see, yes.”

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Twelve.”

  “What about now?”

  “Six.”

  Funk glared down at his wrist and began to slap the band of gold that was fastened to it.

  “Damn Muttknuckles and his dodgy gear. I paid five hundred crowns for this! No wonder the wretch hasn’t turned up …”

  “Yes, well, there are far more important things to discuss, so if you’d just move inside …”

  Visceral waited for the viceroy to comply, then turned his attention to the coach he had been waiting for: the Legrasian flag flew from it in every direction, large and resplendent.

  It didn’t surprise Visceral that the door was opened from inside, or that Prince Blood didn’t wait for a servant before jumping down and heading for the cottage. The prince was all about strength and pride … and he looked every inch the noble.

  “Before you ask, I do have a very good reason for calling you here,” Visceral began.

  “I don’t want reasons,” Blood muttered, walking past the earl and into the cottage, “I want evidence. Only then will you have the backing of Legrash.”

  Earl Visceral shook his head, sadly … and followed the lords inside.

  Four

  IT WOULD BE FAIR to say that Jimmy Quickstint knew there was something wrong with Charney the second he laid eyes on it. The town consisted of ten cottages, all huddled together … and there wasn’t a single light visible. The entire place was shrouded in darkness; even the light of the full moon failed to illumina
te it.

  Jimmy carefully urged his horse down into the valley … and then tugged sharply on the reins: a bloodcurdling howl had split the silence of the night.

  Jimmy gulped. Even as he watched the town, he felt instinctively that something was watching him.

  The second howl was louder, but it was also too close for comfort—Jimmy slapped his horse on the flank and galloped headlong through the town, screaming encouragement at the horse when he realized that at least one wolf was now tracking him.

  Head down, he clung on to the reins for dear life, darting glances left and right as several wolves appeared and began to keep pace with the horse.

  Jimmy’s eyes filled with tears as the wind whipped at his face. The horse was picking up speed, leaving the town far behind, but still the wolves were almost upon them.

  The valley road, which was nothing more than a winding dirt track, caused the horse plenty of effort on the ravine bends. The wolves, on the other hand, had no such problems … and, seizing the initiative, one leaped.

  Jimmy twisted in the saddle to avoid the beast, but failed to move in time: it cannoned into him and the two of them crashed to the ground. The horse bolted.

  Jimmy wriggled out from under the beast, momentarily surprised that it let him go so easily. Then he saw why: several of the creatures had gathered around him, circling and sizing up their prey. They obviously intended to have some fun before they fed.

  “I’m armed,” Jimmy said, cursing the nervous squeak in his voice. He slid a long knife from the arm of his jerkin. “You’d do well to stay back.”

  The wolves were obviously used to working together: the first feigned a leap—which Jimmy immediately ducked—before the second leaped over it in order to catch him on the ground.

  An axe-head cut the beast in two.

  Jimmy rolled on to his back, shielding his face from the shower of blood that splashed over him.

  Grid Thungus stepped onto the path, as casually as if he’d been out for an afternoon stroll. He stepped over Jimmy Quickstint and swung the great axe a second time, sending the wolves scrambling backward.

  “Dangerous place for a man to wander,” he growled. “You’ve either got too much confidence, a death-wish, or both.”

  The barbarian produced what looked like a butcher’s knife from his belt-pouch and pitched it at the pack, downing a second wolf. The others shrank back into the undergrowth.

  “Up with you,” Thungus snapped. “And if I need to tell you to get the hell out of here, you’ve lived too long already.”

  “Wait!” Jimmy cried, struggling to his feet and hurrying after the barbarian. “I think you might be the man I’m looking for!”

  Thungus snorted. “I doubt it. People don’t look for me—they tend to avoid me.”

  “But are you not Grid Thungus?”

  The barbarian stopped dead, and turned very slowly to face his pursuer. “I am. What of it?”

  “You travel with a man called Moltenoak?”

  Thungus narrowed his eyes. “I may do. Who’s asking?”

  “Earl Visceral.”

  “HIM? Why? We did a job, he paid us, we left. What more is there to say?”

  “You killed all those trolls, right?”

  “We … helped out, certainly.”

  “Exactly.” Jimmy nodded, catching his breath. “Do you think you could kill a dragon?”

  “A what?” A green-cloaked figure emerged from the edge of the woods, his cape billowing out behind him. He was leading Jimmy’s lost horse. “I’ll forget the fact that you said my name aloud—if your question has a story behind it. A dragon, you say?”

  “A dragon,” Jimmy repeated, stepping back as the second man, presumably the one called Moltenoak, tethered the horse to a tree and moved to join Thungus on the road. “A dark god has risen up to claim the capital. It has two obsidian dragons working for it.”

  Grid glanced at his companion, whose eyes were glowing red. “What god has the power to summon dragons to the realm?”

  “He’s called Vanquish.” Jimmy wiped some sweat from his forehead. “There’s little doubt that he’ll take the whole of Illmoor if he isn’t stopped. I expect the reward would be … huge. In fact, I’d be surprised if money is an object on this sort of quest …”

  Grid Thungus sniffed. “How tough is an obsidian dragon?” he asked his companion.

  Moltenoak shrugged. “Harder than a cave dragon, weaker than a frostworm.”

  “Could we take one?”

  “I could, given a bit of luck and the right circumstances.”

  “Two?”

  “Tricky.” The hooded man regarded Jimmy Quickstint. “I know Vanquish,” he said, quietly. “You don’t stand a chance.”

  It took a few moments for Moltenoak’s words to sink in.

  “Y-you know him?” Jimmy gasped. “You mean, as in, know of him?”

  “No, I mean I know him … and he’s about as bad as they get.”

  Jimmy shook his head in disbelief; even Grid looked shocked.

  “B-but Vanquish is a god; an actual dark god. How can you possibly KNOW him? He’s … from the other side.”

  “Only since he became imprisoned.” Moltenoak smiled, and his red eyes suddenly seemed to light up the hood he was wearing. “Before that, he walked the land. Long, long ago.”

  “B-but how can you know him?”

  This time, it was Thungus who answered. “My friend is very old,” he said. “Very, very old.”

  Jimmy squinted at Moltenoak: the man appeared to be in his early forties.

  “But that’s ridiculous! I mean, we’re talking hundreds of years, right? Thousands?”

  “Oh yes.” Moltenoak yawned. “But, please, don’t go on about it … I hate being reminded of my age.”

  “I’m s-sorry,” Jimmy blurted, trying to wrench his eyes from the man but finding himself unable to do so. “E-earl Visceral is trying to form an alliance with the other lor—”

  “Should we really get involved in this?” Thungus grumbled, eyeing his companion doubtfully. “I mean, it’s not our problem, is it? Don’t get me wrong; I can take on anything, me. But it sounds like a lot of hassle for uncertain pay …”

  Moltenoak turned to him, a smile still playing on his lips.

  “If Vanquish has truly broken from his eternal prison, no corner of the land will be safe from him,” he said.

  “W-what about Trod?”

  “Heathen Trod?”

  “Yeah—we could always get a ship and—”

  “Have you ever been to Trod, Thungus?”

  Grid sniffed, shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Right, then. Let’s go and have a talk with the earl, shall we?”

  “I’ve only got one horse,” Jimmy admitted. “I doubt all three of us could get on. Are there any other towns in this part of Grinswood?”

  Moltenoak shook his head. “None, but a horse isn’t necessary. We will … make our own way to Spittle.”

  “Yeah,” Thungus added. “Don’t worry about us.”

  “Eh?” Jimmy glanced from one to the other. “But it’s miles away …”

  The barbarian shrugged. “I’ll wager we arrive before you,” he muttered.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  “Whatever you say!” Jimmy turned and hurried over to his horse. “I guess I’ll see you in Spittle, then …”

  “Aye,” Thungus grinned. “That you will.”

  The two men watched as Jimmy charged the horse through the wood.

  After a few seconds, Thungus turned to his companion. “Shall we go?”

  “Not yet,” said Moltenoak, wearily. “Let’s give him a head start, at least …”

  “If we must,” Thungus growled.

  “Before we leave, I want to … take a look at the situation for myself.”

  He moved over to a nearby tree and placed his hand firmly on the trunk. The wood reacted almost immediately, melting around his touch as if he’d plunged his hand
into water.

  Grid Thungus looked on in amazement; he’d seen the trick a few times now, but it never ceased to astonish him.

  Moltenoak withdrew his hand from the tree; then he drew back his hood and plunged his head inside it. The wood solidified around his neck.

  Several seconds passed, but the silence was soon interrupted.

  There was a low rumble, and the tree began to creak. This went on for no more than a few seconds; then the ground started to shake beneath them. The mini-quake continued unabated for a time before seeming to move off into the distance.

  Silence returned.

  “Just because I watch this stuff doesn’t mean I’m impressed by it,” Thungus lied, rubbing his beard distractedly. He always felt the need to carry on talking with Moltenoak during these “events,” even though it was quite obvious his words were being lost. “Another few minutes, I expect,” he said, pointlessly, watching his companion with a careful eye. “No more, certainly. Pretty amazing, I suppose … considering the distance you manage to cover. Five, four, three, two, two and a half …”

  Sure enough, the distant rumble became audible again a minute or two later. It grew steadily as the forest ground joined in, causing Thungus to grab for a nearby branch in order to keep his stance.

  The tree swirled again, and Moltenoak withdrew from it. Stepping back, the hooded man closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

  “Well?” Thungus prompted him. “What’s happening?”

  Moltenoak sighed.

  “Unusual,” he said. “My tree-eye failed to penetrate the capital. Vanquish must have grown very powerful indeed.”

  “You didn’t see anything?” Thungus shook his head. “That’s bad, especially if—”

  “I didn’t say I saw nothing. I just said that I couldn’t see inside the capital. What I did see was two armies …”

  “Two?”

  “Yes; both led by dragon-riders. One was heading in the direction of Spittle. The other was going north-west, to Legrash if I’m any judge.”

  “These armies …” Thungus grimaced. “Are they … undead?”

  “More like the walking possessed,” Moltenoak hazarded. “Either way, the situation is worse than suspected. Now let’s get moving—we’ve given the boy enough of a lead to at least make it an interesting race …”

  Five