The Coldstone Conflict Page 5

  Sunlight streamed into the palace, penetrating every nook, cranny and keyhole, streaming under doors and sneaking around corners.

  Diek Wustapha’s head swam with horrific dreams and echoed with nightmare images. He had been trapped in the black dimension for what felt like centuries, floating through darkness while the talons of the void clawed at his soul … and all because of the voices.

  Diek’s eyelids flickered as the light spilled over them. His mind was racing, flowing back through the hidden corridors of his subconscious, showing him the contents of all the locked drawers. How long had it been since the voice had left him? Minutes? Hours? Days? Months? It was difficult to tell. He certainly remembered its arrival: he’d been sitting in his father’s field, playing a tune on … a tune … the rats … the children … Dullitch!

  Diek started, shocked awake by the sudden horror of the memory. In a blink, he saw everything … and the knowledge that came with it washed over him like a flood. The old wizard had done something … opened a door … and they had both gone through … into nothing.

  Diek Wustapha opened his eyes …

  … and found himself in what appeared to be a cupboard. A warm smile split his lips as he reached out and touched a broom-handle. The solidity of the object almost brought him to tears: this was a real broom, an actual, everyday wooden broom! How long had it been since he’d seen one? How long had it been since he’d actually touched anything?

  Diek used the broom to get himself to his feet, noticing that the handle glowed in the darkness when he gripped it. He still felt dizzy, but the nightmares that had plagued him for so long had been dissolved by the arrival of a thin shaft of light, which shone through the keyhole. No more spiteful shadows, no more dead air.

  From what little he could tell from the washy reflection in the cupboard’s cracked and broken mirror, he hadn’t grown old; his face was still pale and unblemished, though his eyes were strangely dark. His hair, which had always been short, dark and spiky, was now long and matted, with a single strand of white among the black.

  So … time had taken its toll. But how much time … and where was he now? Well, wherever he was, he had to get home. His parents would be … what? Missing him? Ancient? Dead?

  And then, in the blink of an eye, the world went white as the door opened and an unstoppable torrent of light streamed into the broom cupboard.

  “Who the hell are you?” said a voice.

  Diek, one hand covering his eyes, could just make out a pike and some tarnished armor.

  “I said, who the hell are you?” the voice repeated. “And what are you doin’ in ’ere?”

  The boy straightened up.

  “My name is Diek Wustapha,” he muttered. “Where is this place?”

  “Dullitch Palace. How did you get in here? Are you homeless?”

  “What? Er … no. I come from Little Irkesome …”

  “Unlikely: that’s miles away. How did you sneak in?”

  Diek rubbed his head: he had so many questions himself; how could he answer someone else’s?

  “I … arrived here,” he managed.

  “You bein’ funny, kid?”

  The guard stepped back, dimming the light enough for Diek to get his bearings. He’d had an awful day, so far. The palace was on high alert following the explosion, and all the senior officers had been gathered in the main courtyard for the last eighteen hours, to no apparent end. He just wasn’t in the mood to let some young joker try his luck.

  “What did you say your name was?” he prompted, flexing his knuckles.

  “Diek. Diek Wustapha.”

  “Ha! You were named after the rat-catcher? Your parents must have a sense of humor, I reckon.”

  “Rats?” Diek looked up, suddenly. “You remember the rats? I got rid of them!”

  The guard smiled and leaned down to whisper in the boy’s ear.

  “Nice try, kid: but you need some serious makeup if you want to pull off a con like that. The real Diek Wustapha would be about my age by now … and anyway, if it’s charity you’re after, you should pretend to be someone the city actually wants to see. Diek Wustapha kidnapped the children of Dullitch: if he walked back into the city right now, he’d probably be ’anged.”

  “He would?”

  “Yeah, or worse. Now step outta that cupboard or I’ll wrench ya out.”

  Diek glanced sideways at the broom, which had stopped glowing but still felt oddly … alive.

  “I—think this broom is magic,” he muttered. “Either that, or I’ve brought some magic with me from the … place where I was before. I hope not: magic gets me into trouble.”

  “Get OUT,” snapped the guard, beginning to lose his temper. “Are you a mental patient or something?”

  “It could be a wizard’s broom … or a witch’s, maybe. It feels … light.”

  The guard rested his pike against the wall, and cracked his knuckles.

  “You know what I reckon,” he growled, snatching hold of Diek and dragging both him and the broom out of the cupboard. “I reckon you’re just a crafty little street urchin who sneaked his way into the palace and got found out. Know what else I reckon? I reckon you’re just comin’ up with any old cock-and-bull rubbish, thinkin’ I’m just some dumb guard who’ll fall for everythin’ you choose to tell me. Well, let’s see about this magic witch’s broom, shall we?” The guard lifted Diek—who was still dragging the broom—straight off his feet, and marched him over to the nearest window.

  “We’re three floors up,” he muttered. “So this here magic broom is just what the surgeon ordered, eh?”

  He hoisted Diek over his head and threw him, bodily, out of the window.

  The boy scrabbled on the air for a millisecond before he plunged, kicking and screaming, toward the ground. He snatched out at the broom as it plunged with him.

  “ ’Ere, quick,” the guard snorted at a second sentry, who was approaching the window. “Come and see thi—”

  His words died away as he looked back into the courtyard … where the broom had paused in midair, Diek still clutching on to it for dear life. There were a few twists and spins, and then the boy, broom firmly beneath him, rocketed back toward the window. Both guards ducked instinctively as the missile flew over them into the room … and then they regained enough sense to give chase.

  Seven

  A MEANDERING QUEUE OF troglodytes snaked away from the little recruiting table. Burnie couldn’t help but smile: his people might not be smart, but they were brave, loyal, quick and always, always up for a fight.

  A particularly sturdy-looking example of the breed arrived before the recruitment officer.

  “I’m join,” he croaked.

  The officer looked up through jellied eyes. “Join you now want?”

  “I’m join,” the volunteer confirmed.

  “Flail you?”

  “Me flail. See.”

  The warrior brandished a nasty looking, three-whipped flail.

  “Flail good. Who you?”

  There was a lengthy period of silence.

  The officer paused, looked up again.

  “Who you, I say?”

  “Me him brother.”

  “Him brother?”

  The officer glanced over at a second, fat troglodyte and pointed a gnarly finger. “Him brother, you say?”

  “Him brother mine.”

  “One next!”

  The recruit shuffled off, and the line moved on.

  “I’m join.”

  “Flail you?”

  “Me flail.”

  “Who you?” came the (by now, predictable) question.

  “Me him son.”

  Burnie watched the proceedings with an increasingly doubtful expression. He tried to express his worries in troglodotion, but ended up resorting to plain tongue.

  “Are you sure these army lists are going to make sense?” he muttered, turning to King Slythi. “I mean, there’s not a single name on there: how are you going to do things like roll cal
l?”

  The king gave him a look of defiance.

  “Weapon need,” he snarled, brandishing a scimitar. “Weapon have.”

  Burnie nodded.

  “I think I understand. When this … enlisting procedure is done, do you think we may be able to head for Spittle?”

  “Spittle no see, Dullitch danger.”

  Burnie sighed.

  “Yes, I know that, Slythi,” he managed. “But we need to join with others, we need to form a great army! Vanquish is incredibly powerful: only together can we see this through!”

  “Spittle no go,” Slythi snapped. “Dullitch go. Dullitch go!”

  Burnie muttered something under his breath, but continued to smile. Nevertheless, as the queue of volunteers moved on, he tried the path of reason once more.

  “Look, King Slythi, there’s not ENOUGH of you to go straight to Dullitch! A hundred trogs against a dark god? It’s insane.”

  “Say you trogs!” Slythi bared his pointed teeth. “Say you trogs and one you: one you!”

  “I know that,” said Burnie, guiltily. “Look, I didn’t mean to use the slang term … I’m just worried that you’re all going to get wiped out. If you let me lead the group to Spittle, maybe we can join forces with Earl Visceral … That way, we might actually stand a chance of saving Illmoor from this … thing.”

  Slythi looked down at his sword, then at the thin line of volunteers standing beside the table.

  “Think I,” he muttered. “Think I now.”

  Burnie nodded.

  “Let me know what you decide,” he said, hopefully, turning back to the table.

  “Think I done,” Slythi snapped, suddenly. “Long think I done.”

  Burnie’s jaw dropped.

  “That was quick!” he said.

  “Quick think me.”

  “I’ll say. So … what’s your decision?”

  The king looked down at his sword, then back at Burnie, his teeth gleaming in the fiery glow of the underdark.

  “Dullitch go!” he screamed. “Dullitch go! Dullitch go!”

  The exhalation got a roar of approval from the recruits … and a sigh of despair from Burnie.

  The enchanted broom was heading for the ground like a rogue dart. Diek tried to close his eyes against the rush of wind, but the memory of the darkness forced them open.

  There was an audible whoosh.

  … And the broom suddenly jerked to a standstill. Diek peered, with mounting dread, over his shoulder. His trip out again through the palace walls had evidently gained him some baggage: there was part of a bookcase hanging off the brush-end of the broom, spilling its contents to the ground.

  Diek spun himself around and kicked madly at the devastated wood, desperate to lose the weight before it dragged too heavily on the unpredictable transport.

  Too late.

  “No! NO! Noooooooo!”

  The broom plummeted from the sky. As he flew inexorably downward, Diek tried to make out where he was. Far from the city, that was for sure … but how far could he fall before …

  His answer came in the form of a tree, which he collided with, crashing through the branches on a long and bumpy ride to the ground. When he eventually did find the forest floor, he landed awkwardly, an unfortunately large root knocking the wind out of him.

  “Urgh,” he managed, before something heavy and wooden dropped out of the lower branches and clonked him on the skull.

  “Owwww!”

  The boy put a hand to his aching head, but passed out before he could massage it. The jungle swam around him … and he dreamed again.

  During his childhood, Diek’s dreams had consisted of the usual, everyday rubbish: fairies playing the drums, a man in a black suit picking his nose with a garden-fork, pigs dancing, etc. Now, however, these whimsical fantasies were thinning … and Diek did manage to wonder, rather vacantly, just how long he’d been in the hellish limbo that surrounded him.

  For a time, the boy snored … and the forest around him grew dark. When he eventually awoke, it was twilight.

  “My head,” he said, to no one in particular. “My head hurts.”

  “I carn even feel me ’ead,” said a deep and very menacing voice.

  Diek, still oblivious to his surroundings, rolled on to his side. “Wh-where am I? Was it all just a dream? Am I still in that … place?”

  “Dunno. Don’ ask me. I carn see nuffin’.”

  “I know how that feels. It doesn’t seem like much of a—” Diek’s eyes flicked open and he sat bolt upright. He was in a dark, shadowy jungle and, more importantly, he was alone. A quick glance in every direction turned up nothing more than a few oddly shaped plants and some debris from the bookcase. Diek looked up: the broom was still wedged in the higher branches of the tree.

  “Insane,” he muttered. “I’ve been enchanted, imprisoned in a black void, heard voices, and now I’ve gone insane; had to happen. Understandable, really, all things considered.” He waited a few seconds to make sure the voice wasn’t going to comment, then climbed unsteadily to his feet.

  “I hate these places,” he complained to himself, getting comfortable with his new lunacy. “Nothing but black shadows, screeching sounds and things that slither.”

  “An’ spiders.”

  “Well, of course; spiders go without saying. There’s probably hun—”

  Diek stopped short, and turned his head slightly. “Who said that?” he demanded. “Is there somebody else here with me? Somebody real?”

  “Yeah—me.”

  “Are you real?”

  “Always fort so.”

  “Are you … invisible?”

  “Dunno. Am I?”

  Diek spun on his heels and hurried around the clearing, checking in bushes and behind the wider trees.

  “You seem to be,” he admitted, at last. “The problem is that you’re a voice … and I’ve heard voices before. They’re never a good sign.”

  “Who are ya, then?”

  “My name is Diek.”

  “I’ve ’eard that name ’fore.”

  “Oh.”

  “You dun’ soun’ surprised. Famous, are ya?”

  Diek shook his head. “Not really,” he muttered. “But I once did something bad that … attracted a lot of attention. Not on purpose, mind: I was enchanted!”

  “Yeah? I ’tract ’tention all the time. I once rescued an ’tire, city o’ kids from some young ’chanter what took umbrage when he wasn’t paid for killin’ rats. Did they fank me? Did they ’ell.”

  “Yes, well I expect …” Diek’s voice trailed away and he froze. The jungle around him seemed to grow even darker. Then, speaking very quickly, he said: “Er … who are you, exactly?”

  There was a moment of silence in which, Diek fancied, he could actually hear the voice thinking.

  “Name’s Groan Teethgrit. I’m a famous warrior, me.”

  “I … er … think we may have met.”

  “You an’ me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “A few years ago.”

  “Where?”

  “A tavern in Dullitch called the Rotting Ferret.”

  “Sounds ’bout right. Did I beat y’up?”

  “I don’t think so; I seem to recall that you and your dwarf friend helped me … then again, I was in a bit of a daze.” Diek’s memory was giving him some frightening updates. “I think we probably met again, not long after that … you might have tried to kill me then … but it was probably for all the right reasons.”

  “I’ve killed folk jus’ for lookin’ at me.”

  Diek nodded and peered around him.

  “Well, changing the subject, Mr. Teethgrit,” he said, “you don’t actually seem to be a warrior any more. In fact, you don’t actually seem to be anything.”

  “D’ya wanna make somefing of it?”

  Diek bit his lip, and took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he whispered. “I’m just saying what I see, and I can’t see anything.
You’re just a voice in my head! What happened to you?”

  “Dunno; can’t ’member tha’ much.”

  Diek approached his next question with care.

  “Um,” he began, his own voice shaking slightly, “has it been a very long time since the business with the rats?”

  “Dunno. What date is it now?”

  Diek frowned.

  “I have no idea; that’s why I asked.”

  Another moment flittered away in noisy thought.

  “I reckon that rat stuff ’appened ’bout fifteen years ago …”

  “Fifteen years?” Diek almost choked on his own breath. “Fifteen YEARS?”

  “Yeah … back ’fore I became King o’ Phlegm.”

  “Fifteen years …” Diek muttered, beginning a slow walk out of the clearing in order to try and stop his head thumping. “Fifteen … that’s incredible. Is Duke Modeset still on the throne of Dullitch?”

  “Nah, he was chucked out over the rat stuff. I did ’im in, few years ’go. Viscount Curfew took over after ’im, only it turned out to be this uvver bloke what—oi! Where you goin? I can ’ear you movin’ …”

  “I’m heading over this way to see where—” Diek stopped short, realizing that the voice had now grown distant. “Can’t you come with me?” he called back.

  “Nah, don’ fink so. I carn feel me legs.”

  “Hmm. Can you feel anything at all?”

  “Nah … I can ’ear me voice, tho.”

  Diek scratched his head and looked back toward the clearing he’d just emerged from. “Keep talking,” he hazarded.

  “ ’Bout what?”

  “Anything … just tell me a bit about the things that have happened to you … and I’ll see if I can’t find out where you are from your voice.”

  “Yeah, all righ’.”

  Groan dived into a long and, Diek had to admit, rather exciting story about disembodied corpses, forgotten cities full of zombies, battles with spider kings and various plots to destroy one lord or another. Eventually, however, he located the source of Groan’s voice …

  “You’re in a box,” he said simply, picking up the small casket and examining it carefully.

  “You what?”

  “Your voice is coming from a box. Specifically, it’s got a little grid on the front; I’m looking through it, right now: can you see my eye?”