“I don’t reckon much on his strategic skill,” he said. “But I’ll tell you one thing for certain: that bloke’s got ba—”
“Yes,” Blood interrupted. “But he’s also just left us in charge of an army, so if you don’t have any objections, I’m going to order a charge.”
“Not on all of them, you’re not,” Muttknuckles warned. “I’m taking a few hundred out wide so we can flank the scumbags.”
“Will that work?”
“It’s something my grandfather taught me.”
Prince Blood hesitated.
“Your grandfather died in the opening salvos of the Third Crust Conflict,” he muttered.
“Yeah I know,” growled Muttknuckles. “Somebody flanked him.”
“Diek? Diek! Where are you? Where did you go?”
Burnie, the box wedged under his arm, ran up and down the little hill, searching the landscape for Diek Wustapha. His gaze took in the war-zone at Phlegm, the riverbank and even the series of small hills they’d run across in order to get to the earl. Then he saw the boy … and stopped dead.
Diek Wustapha was standing on the very top of the next hill, the flute at his lips. Burnie couldn’t make out any sound because of the hideous din caused by the two clashing armies, but he knew instantly that Diek’s actions were prompting the suddenly erratic flight pattern of the dragon.
Diek knew it, too … but he also knew that it wasn’t working—not completely. The mind was far too strong …
“How dare you try to break us,” said a slithery voice in his head. “We are older … so much ollllder than you … we will not succumb to your low enchantments. We WILL NOT … WE WILL NOOOOOOT …”
Diek felt a sudden surge of pain in his skull, and the flute fell from his hands. He staggered a few paces then folded up, dropping to his knees and crying out in pain.
“Diek!”
Burnie scrambled up the hill and hurried over to the boy, crouching beside him and throwing an arm over Diek’s shoulders.
“You idiot! You can’t mess with the mind of a dragon: they’re the smartest breed of all!” He shook his head and fixed Diek with a stern glare. “What did you think you were doing?”
Diek raised a shaking hand and pointed. “That.”
The dragon’s mental struggle had bought Visceral’s men some much-needed time. As Burnie gawped at the conflict, a group of some fifty or sixty soldiers, Earl Visceral among them, broke free of the horde and galloped toward the River Chud.
The army of the possessed trampled the remaining troops, but were far too ponderous to give immediate pursuit. Still, Gape screamed at them … and slowly they reformed in order to follow the troop.
“It worked!” Burnie cried. “I can’t believe it: you actually helped them to get away! Well done, boy! Well done!”
But Diek’s face had suddenly become a twisted mask of horror.
“The dragon!” he screamed. “I’ve attracted its attention: it’s coming this way!”
He staggered back.
“Run,” Burnie mouthed. “Ruuuuuunnn!”
Dragon-hunters had always been few and far between. This wasn’t because the job paid poorly or because there wasn’t much demand for such a talent: it was mainly because dragon-killers didn’t live very long. A job which inevitably involves a good chance of your own death is a job not many people decide to make their own. In Illmoor, dragons were now a rare species. Occasionally, the odd cave dragon might make itself known but, by and large, the breed was fast disappearing. Consequently, there were only two dragon-hunters at large in Illmoor, and of those two only one had ever actually taken on a dragon and beaten it.
His name was Grid Thungus. Born into a barbarian tribe not dissimilar to the Teethgrits’ own brood, Grid had grown up with a grim certainty that life was short. He had therefore decided to set forth with a great axe and make it a lot shorter for things he didn’t like. A curious attitude, but one that was remarkably common in his family.
Grid Thungus was a dragon-hunter. In his lifetime, he had fought three cave dragons, a slime dragon, two ice dragons and a Frecklin Wyvern. Admittedly, he hadn’t beaten them all—but he had lived to tell the tale and that, in itself, was a testament to his talents.
The thing wheeling in the sky above him, however, was an obsidian dragon. It looked almost as old as Moltenoak … and that meant it was olllld.
Grid sighed despondently: it was clear that he had only one reasonable chance of getting out of this battle alive.
He thrust a hand into his loincloth and produced a long, white handkerchief. Then he raised it high above his head … and waved it in the air.
A collective gasp went up from the Army of Illmoor ranged behind him: their appointed general was surrendering!
The dragon flapped noisily in the air. As Gordo struggled to bring the great beast to ground, the horde of the possessed began to appear in the distance, a vast line of the staggering soulless, stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Thungus forced his reluctant horse to approach the dragon.
“You surrender so readily,” said the voice of Gordo’s inhabitant-spirit. The glowing eyes looked out at the Army of Illmoor. “Who are you, to do so on behalf of so many?”
Grid Thungus smiled. “I’m nobody special,” he said. “But I do like your dragon.”
From his place at the head of the army, Prince Blood looked on in astonishment as the distant figure of Thungus slipped from his horse and bolted toward the dragon. Blood must have blinked then, for when he next looked upon the scene, Thungus was a darting blur and the dragon had taken to the air once again, its rider and the army’s barbarian general struggling frantically in the saddle.
Grid Thungus had met Gordo Goldeaxe a fair few times. He tried not to let his fond memories of the dwarf affect the force with which he drove his head into Gordo’s chin.
There was a crack, and Gordo’s head snapped back. Throwing a punch of his own that missed by a mile, the dwarf then tried to grab for his battle-axe, all the while keeping a tight hold of the dragon’s rein with his free hand. His battle-axe slipped from its strap and dropped away. Grid almost lost his own, but managed to snatch hold of it at the last second.
Desperate to shake the attacker off, the dragon rose into the air and then spun itself around, causing Gordo to hang desperately from the reins and Thungus to hang desperately from Gordo. Still clinging on to his great axe with one hand, Thungus managed to clip the weapon on to his belt. Then, clamping a firm hold on the dwarf’s stout legs, the barbarian began to climb, driving his knees into Gordo’s back at every opportunity.
Meanwhile, far below this aerial battle, sensing that his troops expected something of him and realizing that the inevitable moment had arrived, Prince Blood forced his own horse over to the far edge of the army.
“Charge!” he shouted. “Everyone! Chaaaaargge!”
There was a moment of hesitation, and then the Army of Illmoor cannoned toward the enemy. The speed of their assault almost took Blood’s breath away, and he gasped with unexpected pride at the fury of his own soldiers. Slowly, very slowly, he began to urge his horse into a gallop.
Up in the skies, the dragon was still falling, spinning faster and faster as it hurtled toward the ground. At the last second it leveled out and furiously beat its wings, avoiding the stony plain by no more than a couple of meters before it took to the skies again.
Unfortunately for the dragon, the only thing it lost as a result of the dive was its rider. Gordo, who’d been hanging from the end of the reins, hit the ground hard, skidding along on the dirt for several meters before the friction stopped his progress. The dwarf quickly struggled to his feet, snatching a sword from a passing warrior and thrusting it into the man’s chest with a defiant scream. He may have lost his mount … but he wasn’t going to lose the battle.
Grid Thungus clung to the dragon’s back like a leech, his great arms locked with every ounce of effort he could muster. Very slowly, he began to claw his way towa
rd the saddle.
Air rushed around him.
The dragon, infuriated by the itch it couldn’t scratch, dived once again, determined to take out its anger on the human army below it.
Three
MOLTENOAK WAS THE BIGGEST dragon ever to exist in Illmoor; a crimson beast of such gargantuan size that he actually blocked the light of the sun for several seconds as he passed over the Crest Hill Tower. At once the most magnificent and most terrifying sight imaginable, Moltenoak came to ground inside the gates of the palace, transmuting into his human form in a fierce and blinding flash of energy.
First, there would be talk: Vanquish knew this with a certainty, for he had conceived and created Moltenoak himself: this creature and all its kind. They had been the perfect warriors during the continent’s first war with Bobova, the founding father of light. They had also been the greatest companions, the most blessed of sons … until this wretch—this firstborn child—had betrayed him.
Vanquish stared down from the balcony at the approaching figure.
You come here to beg forgiveness …
The hooded man threw off his cowl and stared back.
I come here to offer you death.
You … whom I gifted birth …
And a will of my own.
… in whom I bestowed magical blood …
Independent of yours.
… an ability to conceal your true form …
And a skill in shielding the land from your cruel eyes.
You betrayed me … in my hour of need. You sided with the light … and tricked me into a prison that has held for time uncounted! I curse you, Moltenoak! I made you … and you betrayed me!
You would have covered the land in darkness.
I still will …
Not while I draw breath.
Then … you shall draw it no longer.
Vanquish extended his hand … and a burning spear of red light shot from his fingers.
Moltenoak raised his own hand and absorbed the ray, flinching only slightly as he took the force of it.
Really, master. You insult me with such weak magic.
Vanquish sneered.
A taster, my child. That and nothing more.
The dark god turned and ran, shoving two of his possessed servants aside as he went.
Moltenoak resumed his true form, and flew into the palace with such force that a gaping hole was left in his wake.
Landing on the flagstones of the devastated throne room, he released a jet of flame that melted the stones of the far wall as easily as if they were made of candle-wax.
But Vanquish was nowhere to be seen in the corridor beyond.
Burnie and Diek ran.
To say that they ran fast would have been an incredible understatement: Burnie and Diek ran for their lives. Perhaps crucially, they ran in opposite directions.
Diek dashed across the hills toward the River Chud, unintentionally following Earl Visceral’s army, while Burnie reached the west bank of the Washin, and bolted south. However, he soon skidded to a halt when he realized, to his horror, that the beast hadn’t pursued him.
Not the boy, he thought. Not the boy!
Burnie watched the great beast … and tried to follow it.
The dragon wheeled in the sky as it made to pursue Diek, its mind still burning with anger.
Charm us, would you ? Insignificant, mortal wretch. Now you will be consumed …
Diek ran on, his own thoughts racing. He remembered being bullied by a few of the village boys when he was growing up back in Little Irkesome, and being pelted with stones on his way home from the market. He also remembered the advice his dad had given him: never to run in a straight line.
Diek didn’t look behind him: he knew that to do so would mean instant death. Instead, he began to run in a series of zigzags toward the out-hanging edge of Rintintetly Forest.
Just as he reached the trees, several of them exploded in great gouts of flame. Diek dived for cover, scrambling further into the forest as the shadow of the beast fell across the hill beyond.
He gasped with relief. He’d made it—the dragon couldn’t follow him inside.
Wrong.
The dragon charged into the trees, its incredible bulk forcing several of them over.
Diek turned and ran as the dragon charged again, and again, and again.
I will find you, human. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I will find you, if only to watch you burn …
The voice was full of malice … and Diek couldn’t shake it from his head. He ran deeper into the forest, but he could still hear the beast crashing through the undergrowth behind him.
Ah … so you delay me … clever … very clever—but pointless. My army shall catch up with the riders—wherever they go—and they shall destroy them … as I shall destroy you.
The dragon had slowed to a careful crawl. It moved between the trees, its great wings folded up behind it. Every few seconds its scaly head turned to study the view in each direction.
Diek was crouched inside a tree hollow, shaking like a leaf as he felt the beast moving closer. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a warty palm closed over his leg.
“Aghghh! Oh, Burnie, it’s you! You scared me half to death!”
“Shhhh! I can see it … it’s just over there.” The little troglodyte crept over to crouch in the hollow with Diek. “That was a very brave thing you did, back there,” he managed. “Stupid, but very, very brave.”
“I can’t believe you came back for me!”
“Hey, of course I did. We’ve been through some tough stuff together, haven’t we?”
Diek sighed, a world-weary look on his face.
“What now?” he breathed. “If we try to move, that thing will annihilate us …”
“I think we should stay where we are,” said Burnie. “At least for the time being. It’s bound to give up the search … eventually.”
“But it can get inside your head,” Diek whispered. “Maybe it knows where I am and it’s just toying with me.”
“If someone don’ tell me what the ’ell’s goin’ on,” said a voice, “I’m gonna be kickin’ some serious face when I get out of ’ere.”
“Shhhh!” Burnie and Diek exclaimed, looking down at the box in the troglodyte’s arms. “Keep it down! There’s a dragon hunting us.”
“Fort so.”
Diek and the troglodyte shared a glance, then they hunkered down in the tree hollow and prepared for a long wait.
Visceral’s cavalry thundered through the hills as if they were being granted speed by the gods themselves.
“We make for Chud Bridge,” screamed the earl, his eardrums pounding as loudly as the hooves thundering beneath him. “Once we’re over the river, it’s Coldstone—and every man for himself. We fight for Spittle!”
“For Spittle!” shouted the captain beside him.
The cry was echoed by the rest of the cavalry as the river and the bridge loomed into view.
Four
THE BATTLE WAS RAGING into an inferno as the Army of Illmoor collided with their possessed countrymen. Swords clashed, axe-heads cleaved bone and pikes speared flesh as each side held back absolutely nothing in their determination to claim victory over the other.
Large numbers of warriors from either side staggered around blindly, wreathed in flame.
Far above them, the dragon was becoming increasingly frustrated with its human parasite. Try as it might, it couldn’t actually shake the infuriating creature.
Grid Thungus had decided that he’d wasted enough time merely irritating his host. Keeping one hand firmly looped through the dragon’s saddle-harness, he reached down and plunged the other into his boot, withdrawing a long dagger from the fur-lined recess. Then, waiting for the beast to draw level once more, he swung himself up into the saddle, raised the blade with both hands and brought it down into the dragon’s neck.
The creature gave an almighty roar, and fell from the sky like a stone down a well. Grid Thungus hooked
the reins around his neck … and prepared for a crash-landing.
Several screams erupted from the battle below as some of the more perceptive soldiers realized that the dragon was heading for the ground, fast. Within seconds, a large vacuum had opened in the midst of the conflict.
It was filled with a sound like the collision of two mountains. The entire land shook as the dragon landed.
Grid Thungus, who had leaped from the beast mere seconds before it came to ground, struggled to his feet and drew his great axe from its shoulder strap.
“Right,” he muttered to himself. “Now for the difficult part.”
The battle was beginning to go against the Army of Illmoor. Possessed warriors were cutting down soldiers left and right, and those who did manage to gain the upper hand were finding their opponents increasingly difficult to put down. A second wind was badly needed.
It came in the form of Baron Muttknuckles. Leading a group of some two hundred cavalrymen, he ploughed into the right flank of the possessed army, his troops lashing out with everything they had. None fought more furiously than the baron himself, who swung out with a frying pan and practically decapitated the first zombie with the affront to attack him.
“Get out of it, you privileged scum!” he cried, clunking random troops with the chair-leg he carried in his other hand. “Take my town, would ya? Take the shirt off my back as well, I’ll bet! Have at ya!”
Grid Thungus circled the dragon wearily, looking for an opening. He found one, but just as he was about to strike the beast uncoiled, lashing out at him with claws and teeth.
Thungus moved with remarkable speed for his size, leaping left and right in order to avoid the attack. When the first jet of flame erupted from the dragon’s nostrils, he had already rolled beneath it and was about to swing his great axe into the beast’s stomach.
Another deafening roar resounded across the plain as the axe-head slashed its terrible wound across the scaly underbelly.
Recognizing the possibility of a collapse, Thungus somersaulted between the dragon’s back legs, slashing the tendons on one of the giant appendages as he rolled out.
The Coldstone Conflict Page 14