The Coldstone Conflict

by David Lee Stone

  Burnie hesitated, looking at the object clasped in his hand.

  “Why? It’s a stick with holes in it!”

  “It’s a flute. Give it to me …”

  “What are you going to do, play it a tune?”

  Diek lunged forward and snatched the flute from Burnie’s hands. “No,” he said, breathlessly. “I’m going to see if glowing eyes are all I kept from my days as a charmer.”

  The troll had risen from the depths of the river, and was once again striding purposefully toward the little boat. Roaring with anger, and spurred on by the furious screams of the old man, it brought its plate-sized fists down on the river, showering the thieves with water.

  Diek put the flute to his lips … and began to produce a tune. It had been an age since he’d played, yet it felt so natural—and the music was good.

  “Well, that’s that question answered,” Burnie snapped at him, still looking for a weapon amongst the heap. “Your charm-noise is doing absolutely nothing: the troll is still coming … and it looks more determined than ever.”

  Diek closed his eyes and played on, praying to the gods that something, anything would heed the tune.

  “Right,” Burnie muttered, plucking a makeshift drum from the bottom of the pile. “This will have to do.” He raised the crude instrument above his head … and gasped.

  Two crocodiles had appeared on the near bank. Slowly, languidly, they slipped into the water. They were headed straight for the boat.

  “Er …” Burnie began, but when he looked back at Diek he saw that the boy had his eyes open, and was watching the scene with mounting glee.

  Just before they reached the boat, both crocodiles suddenly changed direction, twisting through the waters en route for the troll.

  Sensing the impending clash, Burnie dashed over to Diek and shoved him aside, taking hold of the oars in the process.

  The first crocodile snapped at the troll, who drove a fist into the water beside it. Unfortunately for the troll, the crocodile took this opportunity to snap hold of his wrist. Before he could retaliate the second crocodile arrived, closing its jaws around his remaining arm. There followed a series of splashes as the troll heaved both beasts out of the water and began to flail around.

  Fortunately, all this gave Burnie and Diek enough time to put some serious distance between themselves and the boat-yard.

  Diek’s music had saved them both.

  “How did you do that?” Burnie cried, heaving on the oars with all his might. “I mean … what did you actually DO?”

  “The same thing I did when the voice was commanding me,” Diek said quietly. “But … on my own.” He glanced up at Burnie and smiled. “I just searched the area for … a mind. It has to be simple, I think—not complex, like a human’s. Then it’s just a case of feeling myself take over. Somehow, that must all come out in the music … it’s very odd.”

  Burnie grinned.

  “It’s not odd,” he said. “It’s bloody amazing.”

  Ten

  TWO POSSESSED SENTRIES STOOD before Dullitch’s great Market Gate, their hollow eyes fixed upon the River Washin. They didn’t see the shape looming over them, or the fact that three figures detached from it, dropping onto the grasslands and rolling as they landed.

  Jimmy, Obegarde and Effigy met up in the long grass, crouching just low enough to avoid detection.

  “That was incredible!” Jimmy gasped. “Can you believe that? I mean, can you actually believe it?”

  “I believe it now,” said Obegarde, shaking his head. “Great gods … and I always thought I was a special case.”

  “It was … an experience I would never have thought possible,” Effigy agreed. “But we still have a job to do—so let’s not upset our powerful new friend by doing it distractedly.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Yeah.”

  Effigy peered over the top of the grass at the two zombies standing guard.

  “They’re about as observant as a pair of posts,” he muttered. “We’ll take them out first, then we’ll head to the palace. Remember, all we’re doing is looking for these containers: nothing else.”

  Jimmy and Obegarde nodded, and the three of them crept through the grass toward the city.

  Vanquish sat on the great throne of Dullitch, his head bowed in silent contemplation. The rest of the chamber was empty, though several possessed guards were manning the corridors.

  A low hum accompanied the powerful ring of glowing color that was forming in the air around the dark god’s temporary form.

  Something is blocking me, he thought. I should be able to see all … yet I cannot. Dullitch is crystal clear … but the rest of Illmoor is a mist-shroud … What magic exists to challenge my own … What power still lies in this decayed land …? None that I know of … so … why is …

  “Master …”

  A voice … out there, in the night.

  “Master …”

  Vanquish started; the magic faded away, and his eyes flicked open.

  A possessed servant was standing before him, almost bent double.

  “Yes?”

  “I have excellent news, master. The dragons are returning!”

  “Nonsense. I have not called upon them to do so.”

  The zombie produced a telescopic device and raised it before his master as evidence.

  “I have seen them through this!” he said, his voice taking on a pleading edge. “They return!”

  Vanquish rose to his feet, an irritated yet quizzical expression playing on his face.

  “I ordered them to lead the assault,” he muttered, snatching the telescope and slapping the zombie aside. He strode over to the palace balcony and climbed up the steps in order to get a clear view over Dullitch.

  Putting the telescope to his eye, he scanned the skies.

  The dragon was still no more than a shape on the horizon, but Vanquish didn’t need a telescope to recognize that it was huge … his extraordinary sense told him as much.

  “That is not an obsidian dragon.”

  “It isn’t, master?”

  Vanquish stared up at the sky, his eyes blazing in sudden, ferocious anger. “That,” he said, slowly, “is Moltenoak … the first dragon I ever created. He is … an enemy.”

  The servant’s eyes filled with tears. “Will he destroy you, master?”

  Vanquish smiled.

  “He will try.”

  Part Three

  The Coldstone Conflict

  One

  COLDSTONE WAS APTLY NAMED—a flat barren plain where neither man nor beast rested easily. It was generally avoided by travelers, not because it housed any hostile creatures nor suffered from any particularly bad weather conditions, but simply because the whole place felt oppressive and despairing.

  Yet it was on these plains that the soldiers of Illmoor joined to fight for their freedom.

  Prince Blood, Viceroy Funk and their colleagues had managed to assemble an army of close to a thousand men. Even taking into account the large number of deserters, it was still a breathtaking sight. The troops ranged out across the plains in organized ranks, their swords, axes and pikes glistening in the morning sunshine.

  Grid Thungus rode up to the lords, drew his own great axe and pointed west.

  “Who are they?” he asked, indicating an approaching warband of some two hundred riders.

  Prince Blood squinted at the new army as they split from their two-man command group and joined the main body of troops on the plain.

  “Baron Muttknuckles’ men, I suspect. Ah, yes … here he comes now.”

  Muttknuckles galloped up to the lords and gave a desultory nod of the head.

  “Morning,” he managed. “Nice one for a scrap, I reckon.”

  Grid Thungus smiled as the rest of the lords muttered under their breath.

  “Morning to you, Baron,” he growled. “I don’t suppose you remember me …”

  Muttknuckles snorted at the big barbarian.

  “Nope. Should I?” />
  “Possibly: I once robbed your keep …”

  “Ha! That narrows it down—half the men in Sneeze have robbed my keep. Did I catch you?”

  “No, but you did run after me yourself, on foot in fact! I was always impressed by that.”

  “Yeah, well. Whatever. Who are ya?”

  “This is Grid Thungus,” Prince Blood interjected. “He will be leading our army into battle.”

  “Yeah?” Muttknuckles raised an eyebrow. “Says who?”

  The barbarian shrugged, but his smile remained. “Says me.”

  The other two lords fell back a bit, talking quietly to each other.

  “So,” Muttknuckles continued, squaring up to the new general. “Any sign of the enemy yet?”

  “No,” said Thungus. “But I’m not surprised. The Gleaming Mountains are a nightmare to cross, especially if you’re going through them rather than skirting the damn things.”

  “Why did they go through them?”

  “Because they already have another army heading north.”

  “To Spittle?”

  “Yes, but Earl Visceral’s army is going to try to stop them at Phlegm.”

  “Who’s leading that lot?”

  “Earl Visceral.”

  “They’re doomed, then—Visceral is a politician, he’s not a warmonger.”

  “He’s going to try to hit them and run.”

  “Run?” said Muttknuckles, sarcastically. “Run where?”

  “Here.”

  “Oh … I see,” Muttknuckles rolled his eyes. “So what you’re saying is that halfway through one war, we’re going to have a second one plough into us.”

  Thungus nodded.

  “Exactly; that’s why we have to defeat the first lot quickly.”

  Earl Visceral was riding south with a hundred men. Having left an equal number to form some (admittedly weak) resistance in Spittle, he was preparing to put Moltenoak’s “hit and run” plan into action. His nerves, which were frayed at the best of times, weren’t being helped by the constant doubts being fired at him by Loogie Lambontroff, who had been thrust on the end of a war-pike and was being carried along by the clumsy Mr. Theoff.

  “I’m just glad they managed to find me a decent helmet,” he was saying. “That way, if they find my skull on the battlefield, at least they’ll think I was a normal, able-bodied soldier who got beheaded.”

  Visceral took a deep breath and attempted to keep his patience. “Can we at least try to look on the positive side?” he asked.

  “I was looking on the bright side,” said Lambontroff, defensively. “To be honest, I don’t think they’ll find me at all.”

  “Get down! Now! We need to get to the bank!”

  Burnie dropped the telescope he’d been using, then grabbed Diek and dragged him to the bottom of the boat. They’d enjoyed a largely uneventful trip up the Washin thus far, but they had reached a point roughly halfway along its length where the river bent round and took them extremely close to Phlegm.

  “What is it?” Diek managed, as Burnie stuck out an arm and began frantically to lean the boat into a change of direction.

  “It’s them! The black horde! The dragon! The walking possessed! It’s all of them! I can’t believe how slowly they’re moving: we’ve actually caught them up!”

  “What? Where?”

  “Get DOWN, damn you!”

  Diek pressed his face against the bottom of the boat.

  “What are they doing?”

  Burnie ignored the question, and employed one of the oars to steer the little boat toward the near bank. When the boat’s prow kissed the muddy grass, he grabbed the telescope, nimbly hopped onto the bank and, crawling to the top, raised the device to his keenest eye.

  “Oh great gods! There are thousands of them! They’re about to attack Phlegm!”

  “Let me see!” Diek clambered up the bank, remembering at the last moment to take Groan’s box with him, and snatched the telescope from his companion.

  Burnie waited while the boy moved it through several adjustments. “Well? Can you see?”

  Diek nodded. “It’s terrible,” he said, his voice wavering. “That dragon … the people of Phlegm don’t stand a chance.”

  “They must have gone through the forest, too,” Burnie added. “Because they’ve got a tree as a battering ram—and I’m betting it will do the job.”

  The horde of the possessed ground to a standstill a few meters from the great doors of Phlegm. For a few seconds there was stony silence. Then the enormous dragon crashed onto the dirt before them, and Gape Teethgrit dismounted. The great casket of souls was brought forward, causing the twenty or so zombies who had hold of it to stagger beneath the weight.

  “People of Phlegm,” he thundered, in a voice filled with malice that rang out in the surrounding hills and valleys. Diek almost dropped his telescope. “You are granted this one chance to surrender your souls and join the ranks of our lord, Vanquish. Otherwise, you shall die … crushed beneath the wrath of our might. I ask you now: will you surrender?”

  The soldiers on the battlements of Phlegm maintained their stance. Nobody moved.

  They must be terrified, Diek thought, watching the scene. Absolutely terrified.

  Then a cry echoed from the top of the wall.

  “We will not surrender. In the name of our absent king, and the royal steward who serves him, we shall fight you with the last gasps of our breath.”

  Diek looked on in terror as Gape strode back to the dragon and remounted it. The army behind him suddenly bristled with all manner of swords, axes, pitchforks, pikes and spears. Then …

  “What’s happening now?” Burnie asked.

  “Wait!” Diek adjusted the telescope again, and slowly turned until he was almost facing the little troglodyte.

  “What are you doing, lad? Don’t play with the damn thing!”

  “I’m not!” Diek muttered. “There’s some people over on the far hill, just right of the town. They’re on horseback!”

  “Really?” Burnie looked suddenly hopeful. “Phlegmians, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. How do you tell?”

  “Give it back to me, I’ll tell you.”

  Diek handed Burnie the telescope. The little troglodyte had barely put the device to his eye when he lowered it again.

  “That’s Earl Visceral, Lord of Spittle,” he said, excitedly. “THAT’S the man I need to talk to.”

  On a low hill just east of Phlegm, Earl Visceral turned to his commander in chief.

  “Archers,” he said, looking on with grim determination as the order was passed on and more than seventy soldiers drew back their longbows.

  “Ready when you are, Highness,” the commander said, nodding his head respectfully.

  Visceral squinted at the army laid out before Phlegm. “I want half the front line of zombies taken out,” he said. “That should get their attention.” He leaned closer to the man. “And be certain that you give the command to go the very second we get their attention. We will then have to gallop in front of them … yes, I do mean between them and the gates of Phlegm, if we are to successfully draw them to Coldstone.”

  The commander nodded, somewhat gravely, and urged his horse back along the line of archers. Raising a hand, he hesitated for a few seconds. Then he screamed: “Fire!”

  A rain of arrows flew from the seventy longbows, arcing through the sky with incredible speed.

  For a second, Visceral and his men waited with baited breath, their eyes fixed on the dark horde.

  Then a wave seemed to wash over the sea of zombies as several of the creatures in almost every line on the front flank flew backward, arrowheads embedded in their chests. The dragon turned its great head to scan for the new threat as a roar went up from the soldiers who still stood on the battlements of Phlegm.

  “With me now! With me!” screamed the commander of the Spittalian army, his horse thundering toward the space between Phlegm and its sprawling enemy.

  Gape screa
med out, and the dragon took to the skies. The army of the possessed charged forward.

  “Where are they going?” Burnie said, out of breath. He and Diek had reached the hill on which they’d expected to find Earl Visceral, only to find that he and his men had already charged away.

  Diek put a hand to his forehead in order to block out the sun.

  “It looks like they’re galloping across the front of the horde.”

  “But why would they do that?” Burnie cried. “It’s insane! They won’t survive an attack from that rabble! They’ll all be killed!”

  Diek stood rooted to the spot as the inevitable clash loomed. The great dragon swooped, and the horde swept forward.

  “Destroyed,” he said, his voice so low as to be almost inaudible. “All those innocent people. It’s not fair … I have to do something.”

  Burnie watched the scene until it became clear that the dashing army were not going to make it through the gap. Then he closed his eyes and said a quiet prayer for the fallen. When he opened them again, Diek Wustapha had vanished, and the great dragon was twisting and turning in the air, as if caught in the throws of a fit.

  Two

  A DIRTY BLACK SPECK appeared in the air over the Plains of Coldstone. At first, it appeared to be moving on land. Then, as it drew nearer, it became clear that the dragon was aloft. There was no sign of the army beneath it, but every armed solider standing on the plains knew the horde was coming.

  “Well, here goes nothing,” said Grid Thungus, taking up the reins of his horse and winking at the assembled lords. “I bid you gentlemen good day, and I wish you the very best of luck.”

  Muttknuckles glared at him. “Deserting, are you?”

  “Not at all,” said Thungus, pulling his great axe from its shoulder strap. “I’m going to draw the dragon away from you.” He raised the axe above his head and began to urge the horse forward. “If I were you, I’d have your men attack in one great rush. See? There really isn’t anything to being a general … it’s all about running at the enemy and hoping you don’t get killed. Grant me luck, fellas! Hahaha!”

  As the horse thundered away, picking up speed with every second, Muttknuckles turned to Prince Blood.