The Coldstone Conflict (12 page)

“He’s called Vanquish.” Jimmy wiped some sweat from his forehead. “There’s little doubt that he’ll take the whole of Illmoor if he isn’t stopped. I expect the reward would be … huge. In fact, I’d be surprised if money is an object on this sort of quest …”

Grid Thungus sniffed. “How tough is an obsidian dragon?” he asked his companion.

Moltenoak shrugged. “Harder than a cave dragon, weaker than a frostworm.”

“Could we take one?”

“
I
could, given a bit of luck and the right circumstances.”

“Two?”

“Tricky.” The hooded man regarded Jimmy Quickstint. “I know Vanquish,” he said, quietly. “You don’t stand a chance.”

It took a few moments for Moltenoak’s words to sink in.

“Y-you
know
him?” Jimmy gasped. “You mean, as in, know
of
him?”

“No, I mean I
know
him … and he’s about as bad as they get.”

Jimmy shook his head in disbelief; even Grid looked shocked.

“B-but Vanquish is a god; an actual dark
god.
How can you possibly KNOW him? He’s … from the other side.”

“Only since he became imprisoned.” Moltenoak smiled, and his red eyes suddenly seemed to light up the hood he was wearing. “Before that, he walked the land. Long, long ago.”

“B-but how can you
know
him?”

This time, it was Thungus who answered. “My friend is very old,” he said. “Very, very old.”

Jimmy squinted at Moltenoak: the man appeared to be in his early forties.

“But that’s ridiculous! I mean, we’re talking hundreds of years, right? Thousands?”

“Oh yes.” Moltenoak yawned. “But, please, don’t go
on
about it … I hate being reminded of my age.”

“I’m s-sorry,” Jimmy blurted, trying to wrench his eyes from the man but finding himself unable to do so. “E-earl Visceral is trying to form an alliance with the other lor—”

“Should we really get involved in this?” Thungus grumbled, eyeing his companion doubtfully. “I mean, it’s not our problem, is it? Don’t get me wrong; I can take on anything, me. But it sounds like a lot of hassle for uncertain pay …”

Moltenoak turned to him, a smile still playing on his lips.

“If Vanquish has truly broken from his eternal prison, no corner of the land will be safe from him,” he said.

“W-what about Trod?”

“Heathen Trod?”

“Yeah—we could always get a ship and—”

“Have you ever
been
to Trod, Thungus?”

Grid sniffed, shook his head. “Nope.”

“Right, then. Let’s go and have a talk with the earl, shall we?”

“I’ve only got one horse,” Jimmy admitted. “I doubt all three of us could get on. Are there any other towns in this part of Grinswood?”

Moltenoak shook his head. “None, but a horse isn’t necessary. We will … make our own way to Spittle.”

“Yeah,” Thungus added. “Don’t worry about us.”

“Eh?” Jimmy glanced from one to the other. “But it’s miles away …”

The barbarian shrugged. “I’ll wager we arrive before you,” he muttered.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Whatever you say!” Jimmy turned and hurried over to his horse. “I guess I’ll see you in Spittle, then …”

“Aye,” Thungus grinned. “That you will.”

The two men watched as Jimmy charged the horse through the wood.

After a few seconds, Thungus turned to his companion. “Shall we go?”

“Not yet,” said Moltenoak, wearily. “Let’s give him a head start, at least …”

“If we must,” Thungus growled.

“Before we leave, I want to … take a look at the situation for myself.”

He moved over to a nearby tree and placed his hand firmly on the trunk. The wood reacted almost immediately, melting around his touch as if he’d plunged his hand into water.

Grid Thungus looked on in amazement; he’d seen the trick a few times now, but it never ceased to astonish him.

Moltenoak withdrew his hand from the tree; then he drew back his hood and plunged his head inside it. The wood solidified around his neck.

Several seconds passed, but the silence was soon interrupted.

There was a low rumble, and the tree began to creak. This went on for no more than a few seconds; then the ground started to shake beneath them. The mini-quake continued unabated for a time before seeming to move off into the distance.

Silence returned.

“Just because I watch this stuff doesn’t mean I’m impressed by it,” Thungus lied, rubbing his beard distractedly. He always felt the need to carry on talking with Moltenoak during these “events,” even though it was quite obvious his words were being lost. “Another few minutes, I expect,” he said, pointlessly, watching his companion with a careful eye. “No more, certainly. Pretty amazing, I suppose … considering the distance you manage to cover. Five, four, three, two, two and a half …”

Sure enough, the distant rumble became audible again a minute or two later. It grew steadily as the forest ground joined in, causing Thungus to grab for a nearby branch in order to keep his stance.

The tree swirled again, and Moltenoak withdrew from it. Stepping back, the hooded man closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

“Well?” Thungus prompted him. “What’s happening?”

Moltenoak sighed.

“Unusual,” he said. “My tree-eye failed to penetrate the capital. Vanquish must have grown very powerful indeed.”

“You didn’t see
anything
?” Thungus shook his head. “That’s bad, especially if—”

“I didn’t say I saw
nothing.
I just said that I couldn’t see inside the capital. What I did see was two armies …”

“Two?”

“Yes; both led by dragon-riders. One was heading in the direction of Spittle. The other was going north-west, to Legrash if I’m any judge.”

“These armies …” Thungus grimaced. “Are they … undead?”

“More like the walking possessed,” Moltenoak hazarded. “Either way, the situation is worse than suspected. Now let’s get moving—we’ve given the boy enough of a lead to at least make it an interesting race …”

“F
AR EYE! FAR EYE!”

Diek couldn’t tell
what
was going on. The troglodyte warband had been negotiating the mountain rise when two of the unit scouts had come charging back to speak with Slythi. Now, even Burnie looked worried.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Groan’s voice boomed.

“I don’t know,” Diek admitted.

“Far eye!” Slythi was croaking. “Far eye! Far eye!”

A rather fat troglodyte hurried up to the king, unhooking a tied pack that was attached to his spines. He rummaged around inside, produced a telescopic device and handed it to the king. Slythi made a gesture to Burnie and the two troglodytes dashed off to join the scouts, who had vanished soon after their inexplicable whisperings.

At the mountain edge, Burnie waited for the king to finish looking through the telescope before taking the device and holding it up to his own gloopy eye.

He was silent for some time. Then both he and the king dashed back to join the warband.

“What is it?” Diek asked, rushing over to Burnie at the first opportunity. “What’s happened?”

The little troglodyte rubbed his emerald forehead.

“There’s an army of zombies on the move,” he said. “Judging by the sheer number, they’re from Dullitch.”

“Where are they heading?”

“North. Maybe for Phlegm, or Spittle. There’s a dragon flying over them … with a rider, I think.”

Diek swallowed a few times. “This is all very bad, isn’t it?”

“As bad as it
can
be.”

“What do we do?”

Burnie sighed. “We need to get ahead of ’em, somehow. They’re not moving
that
fast, so maybe—”

“Burnie! Look!”

Diek’s face had gone very pale, and his jaw had dropped.

Burnie spun around as the rest of the troglodytes rushed over to the opposite edge of the mountain. There was another dragon flapping through the sky … and this one was heading straight for them. Burnie quickly produced the telescope and put it to his eye: a sizeable army was marching up the mountain path, far beneath the beast.

“Run!” Burnie screamed. “Everybody.
Ruuuunn
!”

“Fight!” Slythi croaked, stopping the warband dead in its tracks. “Fight we; fight we!”

“Are you crazy?” the little troglodyte screamed. “We can’t fight a dragon! We’ll die; we’ll all die!”

“Whichways, all die!” Slythi yelled back. “Whichways, whichways! Arm us! Arm us! Fight we! Fight we!”

As every troglodyte warrior brandished a flail, the dragon began to swoop.

Burnie cast a significant glance at Diek … and the two of them took to their feet.

“The defences at Legrash will hold—”

“They will NOT hold against a pair of obsidian dragons and a dark god—honestly, Blood, just
listen
to yourself!”

The argument in the cottage had been raging for several hours. Effigy had opened the meeting with a lengthy (and impressive, Obegarde thought) summary of the events surrounding the fall of Dullitch, but so far, Prince Blood had his head in the sand. If the Legrash noble really
did
believe his city could withstand an attack of the suggested magnitude, Obegarde concluded that he was either completely misguided or irreparably stupid.

“I’ve put Phlegm on high alert,” said Loogie Lambontroff, who’d been placed on a cushion in the center of the table. “After all, we
are
quite near to the capital … and I’m not taking any chances. Besides, if the king really
is
lost to us, I need to start thinking about the future of Phlegm.”

“Well said,” Viceroy Funk agreed. “Beanstalk is a bit further away from the immediate danger zone, but I’ve got guards on the walls and—”

“How many men do you have, exactly?” Visceral interrupted. “I mean, are we talking hundreds or thousands here?”

Funk hesitated, his eyes flicking from lord to lord. “Er … I have about a hundred armed guards in Beanstalk,” he admitted.

“And you, Steward?”

“I have about a hundred, give or take.”

“These numbers are not enough!” Visceral cried. “I myself can muster no more than a few hundred troops.” He turned imploringly to the prince. “Surely you will help us, Blood? You
must
realize that Vanquish will come for Legrash on a whim—you are NOT safe from him.”

“Possibly …” Prince Blood stared down furious glares from Effigy and Obegarde before returning his attention to the other lords. “However, giving you the thousand or so troops at my disposal merely to watch you run them into dragonfire is
not
my idea of warfare. Would you really have an army, even one so vast, attack such living nightmares with sticks, stones, swords and pikes? It’s pathetic, man—it’s almost entirely futile …”

“Then what do YOU suggest, your Majesty?” Effigy cut in, when he could hold himself back no longer. “That we all gather together in Legrash and hide behind the MIGHTY WALLS THAT CAN WITHSTAND ANY AND ALL ATTACKS? I don’t think so …”

“Hear, hear,” Obegarde muttered.

“On the contrary—I think we should call upon the Trodlings to aid us.”

A deathly silence settled over the room as various horrified expressions met those across the table.

“You can’t be serious,” Visceral snapped. “You would ally yourself with the enemy to defeat a problem on our own soil?”

Prince Blood sighed. “We know nothing of Trod, save what is told to us by the few who return from the place. We
do
know they are heathens … but the fact—”

“This fight is
ours
,” Viceroy Funk said, sharply. “We don’t want to solicit the help of an unknown and untested foe, merely to have them invade Illmoor off the back of any victory, however unlikely, that we may secure over the fell beast who now walks our land.”

“May I remind you that Trod has never attacked the shores of Illmoor—”

“… As we have never attacked the shores of Trod,” Visceral finished. “It does not mean we are allied: what it means is that we are totally alien to each other. Such an alliance is, to my mind, out of the question.”

Viceroy Funk nodded. “I agree.”

“I hate to say it,” Effigy added, “but, speaking as a free citizen of Dullitch, I have to concede the point myself. A foreign and unknown land should be our very last resort—such a request may well throw up more problems than it solves.”

Visceral nodded gravely. “Will you not assist us by lending your army?” he asked the prince, his voice now near to desperation. “Please?”

Prince Blood took a deep breath.

“I’m afraid not,” he said—and rose to his feet.

The dragon flew out of the sky like a dart, Gordo Goldeaxe screaming short commands from its back. The beast spewed a gout of flame across the mountain top, burning three troglodytes where they stood and causing a rush of panic among the others. Several of the warriors leaped into the air, flailing wildly with their swords, but the dragon was way beyond their reach.

Slythi had retreated to the back of the group. Untying a spear from his own pack and raising it above his head, he began to run toward the dragon as it came in for its second sweep. Two more troglodytes erupted in flames on the new pass, but Slythi had managed to avoid the fire. He took three final, giant leaps and flung the spear with all his might: it lodged in the dragon’s stomach, causing the beast to falter slightly as it rose back into the air.

“Spear want!” the king screamed at his remaining men. “Spear want!”

A small troglodyte armorer hurried up to him and thrust a new spear into his claw-like hand.

Slythi took a few steps back, and waited for the dragon to return. The great creature wheeled in the air, the spear still lodged in its gut, and dived again.

This time, the jet of flame consumed six troglodytes, causing the others to scream in terror and frustration.

Slythi, on the other hand, wasn’t having any of it. He flung the second spear, which again lodged in the dragon’s gut, about twenty centimeters from the first. This time, the great beast cried out.

Sensing the danger posed by the troglodyte king, Gordo dived from the dragon’s back and rolled as he landed, drawing the immense battle-axe from its shoulder strap as he reached his feet.