The Coldstone Conflict (20 page)

A spark of anger lit the dragon’s gleaming eyes and it sent forth a jet of flame that seared a horrific wound across the dark god’s central mass.

Vanquish took seconds to absorb the fire before disgorging three separate sprays of its own dark death-ray.

Moltenoak swooped and swerved, only avoiding the final jet by the narrowest of margins. Then it dropped from the sky … and crashed into its maker with the fury of ages.

Groan Teethgrit appeared in the throne room’s devastated doorway.

“I ’ate dragons,” he said to Jimmy, as Burnie and Diek carried Effigy to the far end of the room. “It don’ matter ’ow many I kill, there’s always anuvver one comes along, finkin’ it’s ’ard. Any o’ you lot got a sword?”

Jimmy raised a shaking hand and placed his blade in Groan’s giant palm.

“Looks all righ’,” said the barbarian, calmly. “Is it ’ny good?”

“Groan!” Jimmy screamed. “The dragon! Can’t you see it?”

“That thing?
Yeah,
but I seen ’em all before. They’re rubbish. You lot bedda get out of ’ere, though.”

The dragon was snorting out plumes of smoke, feeling a deadly flame begin to brew in its stomach. It looked on, eerily passive as the group of humans hurried from the room, leaving their large companion behind.

The dragon’s slit-like eyes widened: to its mounting astonishment, the warrior was walking
toward
it.

Feeling the flames rise up, the dragon rushed forward, breathing out a blanket of fire that engulfed both the room
and
the corridor beyond.

When the smoke cleared, the beast smiled with satisfaction at its victory: where the barbarian had been there was nothing but dust and ash.

The dragon’s great eyes swept over the room, then flickered and froze, a thin trickle of blood appearing at the corner of each pupil.

A sword was protruding from the top of its head. Plunged in beneath the jaw, the blade had eviscerated the dragon’s brain.

Groan rolled out from beneath it as Burnie and the rest of the group appeared at the entrance to the throne room’s antechamber.

“S’ like I said,” the barbarian boomed. “I ’ate dragons.”

Burnie and Diek hurried over to Obegarde. To their relief, he was merely unconscious.

“It’s OK,” Burnie called to Effigy, who still lay dazed in the doorway. “He’s breathing: he’s going to be fine.”

“Effigy! Effigy!” Jimmy appeared from the depths of the antechamber, a look of delight on his face. “I think I’ve found them: I think I’ve found the soul-caskets!”

Effigy Spatula dragged himself to his feet.

“C’mon, gang,” Jimmy continued. “You too, Groany … I think we might need your strength to smash these open.”

T
HE BATTLEFIELD WAS PRACTICALLY
deserted, save for a few stragglers who’d either lost their horses or had deliberately decided to run away on foot.

Gordo Goldeaxe was among them—
he
woke up running.

“Wh-what? Where am I?” he shouted, skidding to a halt as he managed to reclaim his limbs. He glanced back at the battlefield, where a giant monster with swarming tentacles was locked in close combat with the biggest dragon he’d ever seen. Gordo blinked a couple of times, then shook his head to check that he wasn’t dreaming. On the contrary, when he reopened his eyes the scene became much more vivid.

The two leviathans ripped great and bloody chunks from each other, Moltenoak’s iron jaw working as ferociously as the razor mouths that had opened up all over the mass of Vanquish in order to consume his opponent.

The sound of the battle was like the rending of ten worlds, but it was certainly giving the battlefield’s walking wounded a chance to stagger away from the scene.

Gordo’s eyes watched the scene with increasing disbelief, but his mind had wandered as his memory had begun to return to him. There was a hammer … yes, a hammer … and … and Groan had been acting strangely. Yes, that was it! His best friend had attacked him!

“Groan? Where are you?” Gordo ripped his gaze away from the unreal horror before him and looked up and down the battlefield. The big barbarian was nowhere to be seen. Moreover, the entire plain was covered in some sort of dark discharge from the …
thing
on the ground. Gordo’s mind swam with different terrors, some imagined and some real. Then he summoned enough sense to return his main attention to the horror at hand.

CRASH.

Gordo started as the dragon brought its unspeakable enemy to the ground. From what he could make out, it appeared that the dragon had managed to clamber atop the monster, causing the legs of the black mass to buckle beneath it.

Gordo shook his head in amazement, rubbed his prickly beard … and reached for his battle-axe. It was gone.
So much for fighting, then
, he thought.
Still, probably just as well. I don’t fancy my chances against either of those things. If only Groan was here …

Thanks to some much-needed help from Burnie and Diek, Jimmy had managed to smash every single jar, flask and bottle in the room. A lot of the vessels looked ancient; they just had to hope that they were the
right
ones.

“Hey,” Jimmy said, suddenly. “Where’s Groan?”

“I’m not sure,” Diek managed. “I thought you asked him to help us?”

“I did! Where’s he got to?”

Jimmy hurried back into the throne room, the others trailing behind him.

Groan was crouching beside the far wall. The wall itself, the only one bordering the throne room to remain completely intact, was glowing ever so faintly.

Moving closer, Jimmy saw that Groan was crouched beside some sort of mural.

“So much trouble,” Groan boomed, his forehead creased with the effort of thought. “An’ it all started wiv this fing.”

“No!” Jimmy cried. “Don’t touch that!”

The great barbarian reached into the mural and gripped its centerpiece: a golden-headed hammer. Then he yanked it out.

A stream of light illuminated the room.

It began as a moan—a long, low moan that developed into a roar and slowly became a deep and resonant scream. As Gordo looked on, a tiny pinpoint of light appeared under the bodies of the two grounded beasts. The pinpoint was joined by several others that widened as shafts of brilliant white light erupted all over the black giant and the dragon writhing around beside it.

Vanquish cried out, not just from his invisible mouth, but from the depth of his soul. Struggling under the force of the dragon’s determined attack, he fought madly to escape the sudden, inevitable pull of the dimensional prison that opened up beneath it—a matrix gate that appeared from nowhere to form a net in the crater from which it had risen. A burst of energy enlarged the net, encasing both Moltenoak and his master in the breadth of its cast.

How can this be …?
Vanquish cried, as his cursed soul fell with him.
How can this
beeeeeeeeeeee …

A mystery to me also
, Moltenoak boomed, his thoughts searing into the dark god’s mind like fiery arrows.
But I’ll go with you this time. This time, I’ll make sure you never escape again
…

Argghhhhhhh …

There was one final flash of light. Then the beast dissolved into a network of light, taking the great dragon with it … and a lengthy silence settled over the plain.

Gordo Goldeaxe stood on a nearby hillside, rubbing his head. It felt like he’d just woken up from a terrible dream—and now he just wanted to see his friend again … see him and ask him what the hell he thought he was playing at by trying to kill him! And speaking of mindlessly violent idiots, where in the seven hells had Gape got to?

Three horsemen rode past, their faces awash with glee.

“The soul-caskets are destroyed!” one cried. “The soul-caskets have been destroyed!” Seeing Gordo, the group suddenly reined in their charges. “Hey,” said one, sternly. “Aren’t you … the dragon-rider?”

“Me?” The dwarf sniggered at the suggestion. “I doubt it: I hate heights. My name’s Gordo Goldeaxe—I’m a mercenary.”

The soldiers shared a glance, then shrugged and resumed their gormless smiles. “Ha! We destroyed the soul-caskets! The mindless folk of Dullitch are free once more!”

Gordo nodded at them. “Good on you,” he said, masking his confusion with a friendly smile. “You haven’t seen a battle-axe by any chance, have you?”

But the group had already moved off.

Gordo sighed, and waddled back toward the battlefield. En route, he passed a lone warrior standing beside a horse. The man looked more like a ploughman than a soldier.

“All right,” said Gordo, conversationally.

The man turned to him and smiled, his eyes brimming with tears.

“I’m me again!” he exclaimed. “I’m me!”

Gordo tried to put two and two together.

“Anything to do with a soul-casket?” he hazarded.

The ploughman put his head on one side and regarded Gordo.

“Are you a dwarf?” he asked.

Gordo nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered. “And you’re a perceptive sort, aren’t you? Hmm … you’re, er, you’re not from Dullitch, by any chance?”

The man beamed. “Yes, yes I am!”

“Going back there?”

“Oh yes—this instant!”

“Care to give me a ride?”

The man nodded emphatically.

“Today,” he said, with relief. “Today I’d give you the shirt off me back.”

Gordo chuckled under his breath.

“Just the lift’ll do,” he said.

The light in the throne room died away.

“Well, I dunno,” Groan sniffed. “
That
din’t seem ta do much.”

The big barbarian stepped away from the wall.

“Fink I’ll break this ’ammer up,” he muttered. “S’bin nuffin” but hassle eva since we found it in ’at ol’ cave.” He looked up at the assembled group, and nodded at Diek.

“Fanks for carryin’ me box,” he boomed, then turned to Burnie. “An’ fanks for ’oldin’ on to it. I’d prob’ly ’ave ended up in Trod uvverwise.”

His eyes moved from the group to the relieved face of Jimmy Quickstint.

“What you lookin’ so pleased ’bout?” he said.

Jimmy smiled weakly … and tried very hard not to faint.

Behind him, Effigy, Diek, Burnie and Obegarde began to laugh. They continued to do so for a very long time.

A
ND FOR A TIME,
Illmoor enjoyed a fragile peace. The throne of Dullitch was declared permanently vacant, much to the delight of the remaining citizens. The lords of Legrash, Spittle, Sneeze and Phlegm returned to govern their own kingdoms with the same mutual resentment that most of them had harbored for years.

Diek Wustapha went home to his parents—who were so shocked to see him that his father spent several months visiting the apothecary and his mother reverted to her old habit of talking in rhyme. The villagers of Little Irkesome forever referred to him as “the boy that went bad,” but he didn’t mind that: it was just so good to be home.

Obegarde and Jimmy Quickstint remained in Dullitch, where they were quickly appointed to the city council. Burnie promptly stepped down from his position as council-chairman, advising the group to take Effigy Spatula as his replacement. Effigy himself wasted no time in accepting the position, and became the first and most popular Prime Minister in the history of Dullitch.

Groan Teethgrit and Gordo Goldeaxe tried to settle down to a life without adventure, but were soon lured to the heathen land of Trod in order to deal with a crisis that no one in Illmoor could ever have predicted …

THE END

I
WOULD LIKE TO
thank my editors at Hodder for their dedication to Illmoor, especially Anne McNeil (who fought my corner long before the deals were signed and who tirelessly edited Illmoors 2–6) and Venetia Gosling (who commissioned the series and baby-stepped me through the editorial stages of Illmoor 1). I’d also like to mention Joanna Moult and Naomi Pottesman, who have both slaved on my behalf over the small stuff. Last but not least, I again give thanks to mum, Barbara Ann Stone, for constantly picking me up when I was down … and always believing I had an important story to tell … even when I was ten years old.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by David Lee Stone

Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

Cover illustration by Bob Lea

978-1-4804-6152-9

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com