The Coldstone Conflict Read online

  The Coldstone Conflict

  The Illmoor Chronicles

  David Lee Stone

  This book is for my agent, Sophie Hicks. If it wasn’t for you, the dream of Illmoor would never have been realized. Thank you for making me the author I always hoped I would become (and for putting up with my tantrums and increasingly bizarre sense of humor).

  Contents

  Selected Dramatis Personae

  Prologue

  Previously, in the Illmoor Chronicles

  Part One: The Great Escape

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Two: Moltenoak

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Part Three: The Coldstone Conflict

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Epilogue

  Thanks

  Selected Dramatis Personae

  (ye cast of characters)

  Blood, Prince - Ruler of Legrash.

  Diveal, Sorrell - A dark sorcerer.

  Funk, Viceroy - Ruler of Beanstalk.

  Goldeaxe, Gordo - A dwarf.

  Hyburni, Burnie - A troglodyte.

  Lambontroff, Loogie - Steward of Phlegm.

  Moltenoak - A hooded man.

  Muttknuckles, Baron - Ruler of Sneeze.

  Obegarde, Jareth - A vampire.

  Quickstint, Jimmy - A thief.

  Slythi, King - Ruler of Ungst.

  Spatula, Effigy - A freedom fighter.

  Teethgrit, Gape - A barbarian.

  Teethgrit, Groan - A barbarian.

  Theoff, Mr. - Lambontroff’s aide.

  Thungus, Grid - A barbarian.

  Vanquish - A dark god.

  Vanya, Lady - Daughter of Visceral.

  Visceral, Vortain - Earl of Spittle.

  Wustapha, Diek - An enchanted boy.

  Prologue

  CERTAIN STORIES ONLY NEED to be told once: they get handed down, like old clothes, from generation to generation. Some get handed down because they’re frightening, or whimsical, or good for a laugh. Others get handed down because they’re true.

  Everyone knew the story of Charney well—at least, well enough to know that it wasn’t one. So when the hooded man wandered into Cambleton Valley, he knew exactly what to expect. The town, which was referred to only in hushed whispers, supported the entire werewolf community of Illmoor … and strangers were simply not tolerated. In the latter part of the Tri-Age, an agreement had been reached that, in exchange for food provided by nearby Spittle, the wolves would never leave their town … or, more importantly, the valley that secluded it.

  Every so often, a stranger would wander in, and become food or, in some extreme cases, a part of the pack.

  The hooded man had absolutely no intention of becoming either.

  He looked up. The signpost said: “You Are Trying To Leave Charney.” It certainly made its point, he thought.

  A wolf howled in the night. It was joined by several more, and the sound grew into a cruel yet pitiful cry.

  Stopping on the road to glance up at the moon, the hooded man quickly became attuned to the shadows moving around him, not by sight … but by the barely perceivable sounds they made.

  “I am unarmed,” he said. “Move out of the dark, if you’ve a will to slay me.”

  Three wolves detached themselves from the forest fringe and circled the stranger, growling low and slathering with hunger.

  “I’ve never been bitten by a wolf,” said the hooded man, his voice still calm. “Is it VERY painful?”

  The growls became synchronized as another pair of wolves emerged from the undergrowth and joined the pack.

  “Hmm … this fight is a little bit one-sided, isn’t it?” the hooded man continued, dropping his knapsack and taking a step back. “Am I to face you one at a time, or all at once? Oh, I see, you’re preparing to—”

  He was cut off as the first wolf leaped at him, knocking him backward. The hooded man tripped over his knapsack, and groped for the signpost in order to right himself … but the beasts were on him: all five, in fact, ripping at his flesh before he’d even hit the ground.

  There was a wild struggle before the body fell limp and the wolves began to fight over it: all joined in the feast.

  A few moments passed as the five wolves picked at their prey. Then something extraordinary happened …

  The wolves began to die. Howling with pain and frustration, the first one scrabbled in the dirt, tongue lolling from the corner of its bloodied maws. As its eyes began to fix on infinity, its body changed back into human form … and it died.

  The stranger, still lying in the middle of the road, began to laugh: a cold, cruel cackle that echoed through the surrounding hills.

  The second wolf staggered forward on shaky legs … and collapsed in the dirt. This one didn’t revert to its human form, as the other had done, but simply died in the shape nature had gifted it. Two more expired in the same way. Of the entire pack, only the largest beast now remained … and even this magnificent terror was dying as it transformed.

  “You …” the dirty, bloodied wretch said, pointing at the hooded man with a shaking, accusatory finger. “Murderer!”

  The stranger, who’d staggered to his feet and was still bleeding profusely, pulled back his hood to reveal a face so grey that it could have belonged to a gargoyle.

  “Ha! Why should I mourn your losses? You made a good meal of me!”

  The wolf man scrabbled in the dirt, his strength beginning to leave him as the poison kicked in.

  “B-bad meat,” he managed, weakly. “B-b-bad blood.”

  The hooded man nodded, his skin re-forming. “Actually, it’s neither.”

  “Y-you’re a necromancer, a demon, a—”

  “Oh no, my friend. It’s much more than that: I’m … old.”

  The wolf man, expelling his life’s breath, croaked: “Y-you’re a god?”

  “Wrong again,” said the stranger. “Though I’ve always wanted to be.”

  He kicked the corpse aside and reached for his knapsack.

  “I have tasted the flesh of a ghoul, mind … and the blood of a vampire. I’ve never eaten werewolf before, but I’m told you taste … wonderful.”

  He sighed, and opened his knapsack. Far to the east, another series of howls split the silence of midnight. More wolves would come, and quickly; they would all need to be dealt with. Still, there was time …

  The hooded man produced a bread roll from the fathomless depths of his knapsack, broke off a piece and parted it. Then he ripped a leg from one of the wolves, put it into the roll and began to chew noisily on it.

  “Water,” he muttered longingly, after the second mouthful. “I always like to have water with a meal: it’s good for the digestion.”

  He rose to his feet and began to look around for the source of running water that he’d heard since his arrival in Cambleton Valley. Before he reached the forest fringe, however, a voice said:

  “Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen a human take on a pack o’ werewolves and come out smilin’.”

  The hooded man glanced up at a large, ugly-looking bird with a patch of mangy feathers and a sickly-looking yellow bill.

  “A barrowbird,” he muttered. “How nice: which god have I upset now?”
>
  The bird cocked its head.

  “So you eat werewolves ’n’ ghouls, and you drink vampire blood; makes you a rare boy, that does.”

  The hooded man’s scar of a mouth twisted into a smile. “Thanks for the compliment,” he muttered. “But really, I’ve met your kind before and I don’t need a traveling companion.”

  “You must be … pretty much a one-off, in fact.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You must be … special.”

  “I am. However—”

  “In fact,” chirped the barrowbird, hopping along its branch. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you must be Moltenoak.”

  The hooded man froze. He hadn’t heard that name in a very long time … and this barrowbird was pushing its luck.

  Previously in the Illmoor Chronicles

  BURNIE, THE TROGLODYTE CHAIRMAN of Dullitch Council and founder of the city’s secret army, revealed a terrible truth about the death of Viscount Curfew and the existence of his impersonator, the necromancer Sorrell Diveal. Escaping with his life, Burnie fled Dullitch, and was forced to communicate with the rest of the secret army by ravensage. Inside the palace, famed barbarian Groan Teethgrit was tricked by Diveal into releasing a dark god from its cosmic prison. Possessed by the malevolent soul of Vanquish, Groan turned on his own companions and attacked them in a brutal frenzy. The attack was witnessed by three magically disguised members of the secret army who, fearing imminent danger, fled the scene …

  Part One

  The Great Escape

  One

  IT WAS EVENING IN Dullitch, and a sudden, terrible storm was assaulting the city. Lightning danced from the sky, followed by cracks of thunder so deafening that the city’s doomwardens had taken to their pulpits, and were proclaiming the end of creation.

  Up at the palace, a determined multitude of guards, maids and cooking staff were deserting the grounds. This exodus was not the result of the storm, but due to the major explosion that had preceded it, ripping through the palace’s upper floor and throwing everyone into a blind panic. Rumors of Viscount Curfew’s death were already circulating widely.

  Yet none of the citizens could possibly guess the true horror of the scene taking place inside the throne room at that very moment.

  There was a gasp, and two enchanted swords clattered onto the stone floor.

  Gape Teethgrit looked down at the sword protruding from his stomach, and his ever-present smile contorted into shock.

  “G-g-groan,” he spluttered, staring up at the blood-red eyes of the thing that had until recently been his only brother. “What have you …”

  His voice trailed off … and he slumped to the floor. Beside him lay the equally still body of a dwarf. Gordo Goldeaxe, famed mercenary and long-time partner of Groan Teethgrit of Phlegm, stared into the void of infinity, blood still trickling from his lips.

  “Excellent, master! Excellent!”

  A disfigured face emerged from the shadows of the room, followed by a stooped frame that insinuated itself forward. The figure was wrapped in a black cloak, still clutching at the bloody stump where its right hand had been. Sorrell Diveal, fell sorcerer and a highborn lord of Illmoor, hurried over to kneel before the giant form of Groan Teethgrit.

  “Lord Vanquish, god of gods, I bow before thee in supplication. Indeed, I already feel myself becoming more powerful again in your presence. I beg you to grant me—”

  “I grant you nothing.”

  The voice was no more than a whisper, a rasp, but it spoke of an evil so great as to be unimaginable.

  Diveal looked up, sharply.

  “B-but I granted your desires, master! I gave you freedom!”

  “The barbarian did that.”

  Vanquish closed Groan’s mighty fist and looked at it, as if examining a rare treasure.

  “Strong,” said the god. “So … strong. I need more like him if I am to return to power. People will listen to and obey strength … not the whining of a spindly wretch like yourself. Groan and his friends will … broaden my influence.”

  “B-but you killed his friends, my lord.”

  Vanquish turned away from Diveal and crouched over the fallen warriors. Then, running his hands along the mortal wounds that had claimed both lives, he began to speak in a low and arcane voice. There was a sudden pulse of sound, and red light streamed from the barbarian’s fingertips, surrounding the corpses and causing them to shake uncontrollably.

  “Servants of the Sword,” came the deadened voice once more. “Heal … breathe … rise in my service.”

  The body of Gordo Goldeaxe twitched, and its eyes flicked open. They were larger than they had been in life, and black of pupil. Beside him, Gape was approaching the same state.

  “You now possess the souls of two creatures that failed in my service long ago. This is a second chance for you, my friends … rise now … and do not fail me again.”

  The two warriors brought themselves, slowly and awkwardly, to their feet.

  “They will make great soldiers in our army,” Diveal tried again, pulling himself up and forcing a hopeful smile. “Great soldiers indeed.”

  “Our army?”

  “Your army,” the sorcerer corrected himself. “I meant to say your army, of course.”

  Vanquish smiled, and it was revealed that Groan’s gleaming teeth had rotted and turned black.

  “I seek not soldiers, wretch … but lieutenants to command my army.”

  “Lieutenants?” Diveal shook his head. “What lieutenants do you need? You have me! I know I’ll be a little preoccupied with the running of Dullitch, but really, I—”

  You are not WORTHY to run Dullitch and your preoccupations mean less than nothing to me …”

  “But you said … you promised … I fulfilled my task …”

  “Your task, dustling, is to decide where you want to be buried.”

  Vanquish raised Groan’s mighty sword and hurled it across the room. The blade spun several times and then stopped, frozen, a mere centimeter from the sorcerer’s chest. It clattered onto the stones.

  “I am not without power myself, master,” Diveal muttered, quickly casting an enchantment to slow the blood flow from his wrist. “P-please reconsider … I am your most faithful servant. You asked me to disguise myself as Curfew and, with your help, I did it! You asked me to kidnap and replace the viscount; I obeyed! You told me how you were to be freed; I made it happen! I—”

  “You DARE to challenge me.” The voice of Vanquish now felt to Diveal like a cold laceration.

  “N-no master! Of course not … yet I must defend myself if you—”

  “Defend yourself, then.”

  It happened in a split second.

  Vanquish released a breathtaking stream of magical energy from outstretched fingertips, lightning tendrils that poured through the air and crashed, ablaze, with an equally powerful stream that flew from the opposite direction.

  The two figures circled each other, lightning bleeding into lightning, fire against fire.

  Mere shadows in the dazzle, Gape Teethgrit and Gordo Goldeaxe stood, jet eyes blank, awaiting instruction from the voice that had called them back. They longed to meet their master’s attacker … but the icy strength of the dark god’s calm held them back.

  There was a sudden blinding surge of light … and the fires died away. Vanquish had broken off the assault.

  Sorrell Diveal was stepping away from his master, eyes wary, remaining hand outstretched before him.

  “Dullitch, master: Dullitch is all I ask … it’s all I’ve ever wanted! They wouldn’t give it to me! They gave it to Modeset and then Curfew! Don’t you deny me the city as well … I beg of you!”

  Vanquish curled his lips into an even darker smile.

  “If you love this city so much, Sorrell, then allow me to make you a permanent part of the palace.”

  He raised one of Groan’s great hands, and a jet of flame spewed from it. The flame grew on the air, swirling into a great, tumultuous ball of fir
e that cannoned toward the sorcerer at great speed.

  Diveal leaped back and threw up his hand: a wall of ice materialized along his section of the wall, blocking the fireball but melting away in the process.

  “Enough!” Diveal screamed, spit glistening on his withered mouth. “You’re just like them, denying me my city … my birthright! You’re … you’re …”

  “You have little or no concept of what I am. Your magical tricks, impressive though they may be, are only afforded from the power I have already given you.”

  “Not true! I trained as a sorcerer in Shinbone years before—”

  “You use dark magic against me … yet all dark magic used in this land is mine: I infused the very SOIL with it! What will you do when my little sparks desert you, maggot?”

  Diveal backed into a chair, his eyes darting left and right for some means of escape.

  “They’ll rise up against you,” he whined. “The troglodyte that escaped my blade, the vampire and his friends. They’ll rise up against you and you’ll need someone who can—”

  “I have all the strength I will require,” said Vanquish, a grim finality edging into his voice. “Soon, all who have stood against YOU will bow before me … along with the pathetic inhabitants of this decrepit city. All will know the wrath of Vanquish … as will you.”

  A circle of dark water appeared in the air behind Sorrell Diveal, rippling and shimmering as it took form. Even as the sorcerer moved away from it, the circle became a void … a gaping maw.

  “The Dark Doorway invites you, Sorrell. Go and rule for an eternity … in Limbo.”

  Vanquish turned to his newly resurrected servants.

  “Throw him in,” he snarled, and strode from the room, dropping Groan’s sword in the process.

  Gordo and Gape padded forward, surrounding the sorcerer, who was forced to take a step in the wrong direction.

  “Get away from me!” he screamed. “Get away from me!”

  Gape lunged at the sorcerer, his black orb eyes reflecting the terror on Diveal’s tortured face. Sorrell evaded the attempt to snatch him, but tripped over Gordo, who had approached from the opposite direction. Together, driving aside kicking and flailing limbs, they lifted the sorcerer into the air and carried him, screaming, toward the shimmering portal.