The Coldstone Conflict (7 page)

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?”

“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 …”

V
ORTAIN 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.