The Coldstone Conflict Read online

  “Nah. S’dark in ’ere.”

  “Oh.” Diek turned the box over in his pale hands. “Should I open it, do you think?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Well, it’s your box …”

  “Yeah … all righ’. Go on, then.”

  Diek lifted the lid and peered inside.

  “There’s a white mist,” he said, eyeing the contents suspiciously. “Hang on, I’ll try to tip it out.”

  He upended the box and shook it violently, but nothing emerged from within. After a while, he closed it again.

  “Nothing happened, I’m afraid—the mist won’t come out. Looks like powerful magic of some kind. Did you upset a witch or something?”

  “Nah … don’ fink so … but I don’t ’member nothin’.”

  “Mmm … well, either way, I think we need to get you looked at.” Diek tucked the box under his arm, then picked a random direction and began to march through the forest.

  “This might take a while,” he muttered. “I’m afraid I don’t know Illmoor that well, and I don’t have the slightest idea where we are …”

  “S’all right: I’ll tell ya where we are.”

  Diek frowned. “How can you? You’re in a box.”

  “I know me way ’round. ’Sa wood, right?”

  “Um … it’s actually more like a jungle. It’s quite warm.”

  “South, then. Can only be Shadewell or Car’ fat. There ’ny big trees?”

  “I’m sorry; what was that?”

  “The trees; ’ny big ones?”

  Diek looked around him. “They’re ALL big.”

  “Are they fat ’an all?”

  “Er … reasonably, I suppose.”

  “Is there lots o’ vines wiv blue stuff drippin’ off ’em?”

  “Well … yes!”

  “An’ a lot o’ smashed-up statues lyin’ ’bout?”

  “Now that you come to mention it, I can see one or two …”

  “S’Car’ fat, then; you wanna ’ead east.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s brilliant!” Diek grinned. “Any other good advice?”

  “Yeah,” said Groan. “Never buy a moffskin coat off a bloke you only seen twice wearin’ it.”

  “Right,” Diek replied, weakly. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  They walked along in silence for a time, Diek trying to start random conversations to avoid the awkwardness of the situation. “Er … have you got a wife or children, Mr. Teethgrit?”

  “No’ really,” Groan boomed. “I got a boy somewhere; but I reckon they put ’im in ’idin’ an’ tol’ ’im I was dead.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I’m not ver’ ’sponsible.”

  “Oh. I see.” Diek swallowed a few times and tried to think of something else to say. “Er …” he began. “Do you have anything you’d like to ask me?”

  “Yeah.” Groan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you that young ’chanter what took all them kids outta Dullitch?”

  Diek looked down at the box.

  “You catch on very fast, Mr. Teethgrit,” he said.

  “Fort so. The o’ wizard pushed ya into tha’ black ’ole an’ ended up goin’ in hisself. D’you ’member?”

  Jimmy Quickstint had decided that he didn’t like the crew of the Royal Consort. They were gruff, unwelcoming and very antisocial, and they certainly didn’t appreciate someone teaching them how to keep hold of their belongings.

  “All I’m saying,” Jimmy whispered to the captain, “is that by wearing a bracelet loose on your wrist, you’re inviting trouble. Here …”

  He handed back the diamond-encrusted band with a knowing wink. “Fortunately, I’m the kind of thief who’s willing to let you in on a few trade secrets. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

  The captain grimaced at him. “Next time, I’ll cut your throat with my blade.”

  “Look, there’s no need—”

  “You just stole my bracelet, you little scumba—”

  “I gave it back!”

  “Yeah, because I saw you slip it off when you shook my hand.”

  “Ah, yeah, but you didn’t feel it coming off, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Liar.”

  The captain drew his blade, causing Jimmy to take several steps back.

  “I’d rejoin your friends, if I were you,” the captain muttered.

  Jimmy rolled his eyes.

  “I dunno,” he muttered, mooching up to Obegarde and slumping down onto the barrel beside him. “You try to help people out, and all you get is a sword-edge at your throat and a mouthful of abuse.”

  “Quiet!” Effigy snapped. “Just be quiet, will you?”

  Jimmy glanced at Obegarde, and sniffed. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “The ravensage just arrived back,” said Vanya, who was still taking it upon herself to make the group feel welcome aboard her father’s ship. “I think your friend has replied.”

  “What, already? Wow! What did he say?”

  Obegarde, who was looking over Effigy’s shoulder at a piece of paper, heaved a long sigh. “Pretty much nothing,” he confirmed. “All it says is: Meet you in Spittle.”

  “Disappointing.” Effigy conceded. “I thought at the very least he might give us some idea of what he thinks we should do.”

  “Maybe he will, when he sees us,” said Obegarde. “You know Burnie, cagey to the last.”

  Vanya tried to break the growing air of despondency.

  “My father will know what to do,” she assured them. “He is totally passionate about Illmoor, believe me.”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy grumbled. “They used to say that about Modeset, and look what happened to him …”

  Eight

  VORTAIN VISCERAL WAS A popular ruler, and not merely because his family had commanded Spittle since the city had first been conceived. He was angular, pale and gaunt, with a chin so pointed that many voiced the opinion that his head looked exactly like a crescent moon. Visceral was also a very strange man, and had aged little in the ninety-seven years he’d been on the throne. Some took his unnaturally long life and nocturnal demeanor to be a sign of vampiric or ghoulish pursuits, though in truth Visceral had never drunk blood and the thought of flesh-eating was abhorrent to him. Moreover, the earl had no great taste for food: he seldom even dipped a biscuit these days.

  The actual fact of the matter was this: Vortain Visceral had absolutely no idea why he was the way he was … and he certainly didn’t want to question it. If the gods had seen fit to grant him extended tenure and a body that never looked much over thirty, then who was he to disagree? Gods were whimsical creatures, after all, and to be fair, he’d always wondered if they’d given him Spittle as a form of punishment.

  People said Dullitch was bad—people who’d never set foot in Spittle. Few did.

  Nevertheless, like all cities, it had its good points. If you wanted to trade anything, absolutely anything at all, you went to Spittle. You just didn’t expect to return with anything more than a black eye and, if you were lucky, a limp.

  Today, the city was bursting with energy, activity, enthusiasm and the sort of smells that only went away after you set light to the source.

  Spittle Tower, home to the royal family, was arguably the most visited site in Illmoor, due not to its particular size or questionable beauty, but because it was the continent’s only leaning tower—if the word leaning could actually be applied to a building that had bent at such an angle as to practically lay horizontally across the landscape. It was also a structure surrounded by mystery—not least because the corpses of several limbo dancers were still under there somewhere.

  Inevitably, the rooms inside were all slanted at a ludicrous angle, and only Earl Visceral himself managed to walk the corridors with his dignity intact.

  Today, the page on duty threw all his energy into climbing the long corridor to the throne room. When he reached the portal, he clung on
for a time, before managing to swing himself into the room.

  “A message for the earl,” he gasped. “It’s quite urgent.”

  Earl Visceral, sitting in an ornate chair that had been nailed to the floor to stop it sliding into the far wall, looked up from his news scroll.

  “Urgent?” he snapped. “I can’t remember the last time I got an urgent message. It’s not from Prince Blood, is it? Another complaint about the trade fair with Spittle I don’t need.”

  The page shook his head. “No, Highness, it’s a message from Lady Vanya: she’s on the ship from Dullitch …”

  “Ah yes. Her term will have ended.”

  “… with a vampire and two other refugees.”

  “What’s that? Refugees? What are you talking about?”

  The page wiped some sweat from his brow with a free hand. “It appears that there has been some sort of an uprising in the capital. Her ladyship says that she will explain upon her arrival, but that in the meantime you must call a meeting of the High Council.”

  “But—”

  “It appears, Highness, that there’s a very real chance that Viscount Curfew has been murdered, and that some sort of … creature now sits on the throne.”

  Earl Visceral swallowed a few times. Then he did what he always did whenever he got bad news. He closed his eyes and thought on it for several minutes. Eventually, he opened them again.

  “I … that is … does she say anything else?” he demanded.

  “No, milord. Only that she loves you and that you mustn’t do anything foolish until she arrives.”

  The earl seemed to be rather resentful of the last bit, but he rose from his chair and, grasping hold of wall-mounted braziers and table edges, began to negotiate his way across the floor.

  “Very well: summon the High Council.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “Not all of them, mind: invite Viceroy Funk of Shinbone, Baron Muttknuckles of Sneeze and, of course, Prince Blood. I don’t want that witch from Beanstalk nosing around and you can forget calling on the shifty pair who run Crust and Chudderford these days. Have I left anybody else out?”

  “Er … the Steward of Fogrise, Highness?”

  “Um … no, don’t bother. Pegrand Marshall is ill, I believe.”

  “And what of Phlegm?”

  “Phlegm? Oh, you can ignore them as well. Groan Teethgrit never bothers to come to HC meetings, and he’s seldom in the city, anyway. Leads a life of reckless adventure, that one. They should never have given him the throne …”

  “Er, sorry, Highness, but I was actually talking about the Steward of Phlegm.”

  “Oh, I see. No, then. N-O. Absolutely not.”

  “Yes, but Lord Lambontroff—”

  “… is a decapitated head on a stick. I don’t care if it talks, I’m not discussing matters of national urgency with something I have to hold like a lollipop—when it’s not rolling all over the cushions.”

  “Very well, Highness … I just thought that his lordship might be a powerful ally …”

  “In what sense? As a cannonball, perhaps?”

  “No, Highness. Rumor has it that Phlegm has built up a large contingent of—”

  “Yes, yes! All right, invite him—but make sure he brings his own cushions this time. It took us weeks to get the last lot clean …”

  The page bowed low, almost falling over in the attempt, and departed.

  Diek Wustapha trudged on through the damp and murky jungle.

  The conversation between him and Groan had been limited, but he soon came to realize that conversations between anyone and Groan were limited. The man had only two topics on which he would openly comment: money and hand-to-hand combat. Since Diek was interested in neither, he’d decided to remain quiet and hope that his companion would do the same. Unfortunately, luck wasn’t with him for long.

  “ ’Ere,” said Groan. “Where’d you come from?”

  “Originally? A place called Little Irkesome.”

  “Bin there. I beat up some bloke what owed me ten crowns.”

  “Oh … good.”

  “Yeah, was.”

  “I … er … didn’t come from there today, though.”

  “Eh?”

  “When we met, back there in the jungle, I had just come from Dullitch. Some guards tried to arrest me, but I found a magic broom and escaped from the palace.”

  “Good on ya. I ’ad a magic broom once.”

  “You? Really?”

  “Yeah, got twenny crowns for it off some bloke up in Sneeze. I ended up kickin’ his bruvver fru a door ’cause he didn’ pay up.”

  Diek rolled his eyes.

  “Right. Of course you did—back when you were a bit more than a disembodied voice. So what’s the last thing you remember from those times, then?”

  There was a definite pause, before Groan’s monotonous voice rolled on.

  “I ’member this ’ammer that turned out to be a key an’ the wizard what made himself look like Viscount Curfew an’ put hisself on the throne, he tells me ’bout the secret treasure an’ so I go up to unlock it an’ Gordo—s’me mate—says I shouldn’ do it, but I does it anyway an’ then … er … I dunno what happened ’fter that.”

  “It all sounds very complicated,” said Diek, doubtfully. “But I’m guessing something happened to you when you unlocked the thing your friend told you not to unlock …”

  “Yeah, must’ve done.”

  “I hope your friend is OK.”

  “Don’ worry ’bout him,” Groan’s voice boomed. “He’s tough as nails, is Gordo. ’Sides, he’s got me bruvva wiv ’im.”

  “Good. So tell me … where are we going, exactly?”

  “Dullitch.”

  “I see.” Diek allowed a couple of minutes to drift by in silence. Then he said: “Er … is that wise?”

  “ ’Ow d’you mean?”

  “Well, it’s just that you said there was a wizard on the throne.”

  “So what?”

  “So … if he’s changed you into a-a-a voice in a box, he must be pretty powerful!”

  “I can kill ’ny wizard goin’, me.”

  “Yes, I believe you probably could have—back when you were, well, you. But it’s different now, isn’t it? You’re just a voice in a box and, as such, it’s pretty stupid to go walking back into the city, isn’t it?”

  “You callin’ me stupid?”

  “No! I’m just saying that maybe we should think about things first, that’s all. Besides, I have your box, so it’s up to me really.”

  “We’re goin’ to Dullitch.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “We’re goin’ to Dullitch or else.”

  Diek stopped dead, glaring down at the box.

  “Or else what? What exactly do you think you’re going to do? Mist me up?”

  “I’ll kick yer teeth out the back of yer ’ead.”

  “Go on then!”

  “I’m gonna.”

  “GO ON THEN! DO IT!” Diek waited a few seconds, his teeth clenched in anticipation. “You can’t, can you?”

  Silence.

  “Well, can you?”

  More silence.

  “Right, then. So you can just shut up: I’ll decide where we’re going.”

  “Just make sure it’s somewhere you don’ mind bein’ buried.”

  “I think,” Diek started, ignoring the last remark, “that we should go and see my parents. Yes, that’s where we’ll go—back to Little Irkesome.” He smiled at the thought. “Which way is it?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be immature: just tell me.”

  “Nah, I don’ ’member.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to put your box down and leave you here.”

  “You wouldn’ dare.”

  “Try me.”

  Diek smiled to himself and crouched down to deposit the box on the jungle floor. He was preparing to demonstrate the second part of his bluff, when he heard the sound of mar
ching feet: lots of them.

  Diek quickly regained his footing and spun around just as the vanguard of the troglodyte warband came into view.

  Nine

  GORDO AND GAPE MARCHED mindlessly through the deserted streets of Dullitch, two giant caskets suspended on a chain between them. Their master’s orders had been clear: they were to knock on every door in the city, draw out every able-bodied man and remove his soul. This was achieved by dunking their heads into the smaller casket, waiting until their souls were expelled, then performing the same procedure with the second casket in order for them to receive their new inhabitants.

  Vanquish had explained that the deposit and imprisonment of the old souls was necessary in order to hold sway over the victim’s bodies. If the body died, the soul would be released.

  However, the dark god’s voice still rang in their ears, be certain to make the exchange swift—a body left too long vacated will automatically attract the return of its true soul.

  The citizens would resist, of course: both dark servants were looking forward to that. These people were weak, after all, and there were thousands of them.

  Above them, the great dragons flapped noisily, their presence a deterrent to even the most determined of rebels. One by one, the people of Dullitch would be subdued. In due course, they would rise up and fight for their new master …

  Diek Wustapha dived behind a nearby tree and crouched as low to the floor of the jungle as his fear of insects would allow.

  “I knew you wouldn’ ’ave the guts to leave me,” Groan’s voice bragged.

  “Shhh!”

  “Don’ shhh me.”

  “There’s an army coming through!”

  “Eh?”

  “An army, on the march: I can see them!”

  “How many?”

  “I’m not sure. Looks to be … about a hundred or so.”

  “Ha! That ain’t no army! Thass a warband.”

  “Yeah well, army, warband, whatever; they’re armed.”

  “What are they, orcs?”

  “I don’t think so: they look smaller, and sort of rubbery.”

  “Sounds like goblins t’me. What weapons they got?”

  Diek squinted to make out what the warriors were carrying.

  “It looks like some sort of whip with funny balls on the end.”