The Coldstone Conflict (8 page)

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 marching feet: lots of them.

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

G
ORDO 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.”

“Hmm … troglodytes, then. Weird: I ain’t seen none o’ them for donkey’s. Which way they ’eadin’?”

“The same way we are, by the looks of it.”

“Reckon you can attack one ’n’ steal his armor?”

“No!”

“Didn’ fink so. Best you follow ’em, then.”

Diek glanced despondently at the passing marchers, then waited a few minutes and crept along in their wake.

“What if they’re about to go to war or something?” he whispered, desperately trying to avoid the more crackly of the twigs that cluttered the path.

“They are, prob’ly. I ain’t never ’eard of an army marchin’ to peace.”

“Good point.”

Diek tried to sneak a little closer to the last rank of troops, but found his confidence shaken when two of the creatures repeatedly glanced back toward him. It was as if they had second sight!

“Don’ let ’em get ’way,” Groan grumbled.

Diek mouthed a silent curse at the box, but continued to trail after the marchers, being careful to distance himself from the back pair, whom he now strongly suspected were psychic.

“Whass ’app’nin’ now?” asked Groan.

“Shhh: nothing!”

“TELL ME WHASS ’APP’NIN’!”

“All right! I can’t see at the moment; I need to—”

Diek suddenly stopped talking: a troglodyte had stepped out of the trees and was standing in front of him, a bemused expression on its face.

“Let me give you some advice, kid,” it said, as the warband shuffled to a halt. “When you’re following people, it’s really best not to TALK IN A LOUD VOICE … because the people you’re following tend to hear you.”

Diek didn’t know what to say. He looked down at the box.

“See what you’ve done now? I told you to be quiet!”

“Yeah, an’ I tol’ you I’d kick yer stinkin—”

“Er … HELLO,” said Burnie, waving a hand between the boy’s face and the box he was carrying. “I’m still here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, yes,” Diek replied, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“Why are you following us?”

The boy looked down at the box again, but no voice came from within.

“We … I … was just walking through …”

“The Carafat Jungles,” Burnie finished. “Pound for pound, the most inhospitable pocket of terrain in the whole of Illmoor. Out for a stroll, were you?”

“No! I … we …”

“You keep saying we, I notice. Who’s in the box, a demon of some sort?”

“Who you callin’ a demon, trogsnot?”

Burnie stared fixedly at the box.

“I don’t know—who
am
I talking to, exactly?”

“Gr—”

“I’m Diek Wustapha,” came the unexpected interruption. “Very pleased to meet you, Mister …?”

“Burnie,” said Burnie, taking the boy’s free hand and shaking it vigorously. “I take it you’re not
the
Diek Wustapha?” he added. “As in, the evil sorcerer who kidnapped the children of Dullitch … hahahaaha!”

Diek thought for a moment, then decided to plump for honesty.

“Actually,” he said, “I am.”

The troglodyte’s grin remained.

“You are …?”

“Diek Wustapha. Though, to be honest, I don’t actually feel all that evil.”

“But you are the rat-catcher?”

“Yes.”

“The rat-catcher who mysteriously showed up in Dullitch, rid the city of rats, then came back for all the children.”

“I was under the influence of some very dark magic at the time.”

“I know
that
,” said Burnie, hurriedly. “I was just starting out on my first council job when it all happened. Aren’t you a little … young to be Diek Wustapha?”

“I’ve been … in an alternate dimension,” the boy explained.

Burnie flashed him a disbelieving smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Well, Mr.
Wustapha,
please stop following us—or you’re going to end up having a very bad day.”

The little troglodyte turned and began to walk away.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Diek yelled after him. “I’m sick of nobody believing me when I’m telling the truth! I am Diek Wustapha, damn it, and I really
have
been trapped in an alternate dimension!”

“Of course you have!”