“Phlegm?” Effigy exclaimed. “Against its own king?”
“Well, once we explain that it is not their king, Steward Lambontroff may acquiesce …”
“Possibly.” Effigy cast a worried glance at Obegarde and Jimmy, who were looking equally concerned. “But what about the dragons and Vanquish himself? We need to raise an army!”
Earl Visceral folded his arms and let out a deep sigh.
“I agree that an army will be required in order to take back the capital,” he said. “But dragon killing is a job for barbarians and mercenaries … and from what you tell me, the best three of those in Illmoor are already working for the other side …”
Effigy shook his head in despair. “Are there no wizards you can call on?”
“I know of none that remain.”
“What about the ice giants?”
“That race has been extinct for many years.”
“Orcs, goblins …?”
“Only work for themselves.”
“What about the two men you hired last month, Father?” Vanya said, patiently. “The ones that killed all the trollkin?”
Earl Visceral’s gaze traveled from his daughter’s innocent expression to the looks of astonishment on the faces of his guests.
“You have two warriors up here who can kill trolls,” Effigy gasped, “and you didn’t think to mention that?”
Earl Visceral dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.
“Well, I’m still a little hazy on exactly where they came from,” he muttered. “One was the archetypal barbarian, all muscled up and with a jaw you could ski off. The other one … I didn’t like very much. He was quiet and I got the feeling he wasn’t … quite the ticket.”
“Where are they now?”
“They were heading west—apart from that, I have no idea. It’s probably just as well: such people are at best unreliable, at worst downright dan—”
“If you have names to go with the direction they’re traveling, we could send word to the local towns and villages,” Jimmy ventured. “Some scouts can find just about anyone, given a name … I know I could.”
Earl Visceral gripped the arms of his throne. “Look,” he snapped. “I’ve just told you …”
“Thungus,” Vanya announced. “The barbarian was called Grid Thungus. He wasn’t very smart; he told us all that he traveled from town to town, killing trolls and giants, and fighting for the highest bidder. His friend didn’t say much, but I always got the feeling that he was the brains of the group: he was very strong, too. I saw him throw two men through a brick wall, down at the tavern. He wore a green cloak, as well—he was always covered up.”
Earl Visceral winced, but the rest of the group were mesmerized by this information.
“Do you remember his name, by any chance?” Effigy asked.
Vanya frowned with the effort of recollection.
“I’m not absolutely certain,” she said. “No one was actually allowed to ask his name, but I’m sure I overheard the barbarian referring to him as Moltenoak.”
Part Two
Moltenoak
One
FIRE CONSUMED THE BARROWBIRD, and it fell in a flaming mess of feathers from its perch.
Moltenoak sighed.
“I don’t like to be reminded of my name,” he muttered, walking around the dead avian. “It brings back … memories.”
The hill stretched on before him, all the way out of Cambleton Valley. Up there somewhere was the legendary Charney Rise, a view that was said to take in most of Grinswood and even afforded a glimpse of distant Fogrise.
He would be up there too, of course, but then every positive came with a negative these days … and he was company, of a sort.
Moltenoak took one glance back at the dead wolves, shifting his gaze from the sprawled carcasses to the still smoldering remains of the barrowbird.
Fire and death, he thought. Just like the old days.
He climbed on, snatching up a stick from the path as he went. It wasn’t that he needed the walking aid, he just felt that a traveler in these hills would be expected to have a stick … and he certainly didn’t want to attract any more hostile attention.
Too late.
“Oi!” came a cry from the edge of the woods. “You there! Halt!”
Moltenoak rolled his eyes, and craned round to get a glimpse of the figure emerging from the trees. It was tall, broad and incredibly muscular, and it carried a two-handed axe. It could have been one of any number of northern barbarians but for the network of scars and the patchy ginger beard.
Moltenoak turned from the warrior and continued up the path. “Oh,” he muttered. “It’s you.”
Grid Thungus took two giant leaps forward and blocked his companion’s path. His lopsided grin preceded an extended palm and a raised, quizzical eyebrow. “Well?”
Moltenoak looked down at the barbarian’s open hand, then up at the man himself. “What do you want?”
“The twenty crowns you owe me!”
“For what?”
“The bet!” Thungus made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Or have you forgotten already?”
“The bet,” Moltenoak growled, “was that I couldn’t walk through the village of Charney without encountering any major problems.”
“Yeah, and you were attacked by a pack of werewolves!”
“But they didn’t cause me a problem.”
“You were still attacked!”
“That’s beside the point … I emerged unscathed, and I still win the bet. Therefore, it is you who owes me twenty crowns.”
Thungus sniffed. “You’ll get your twenty crowns, don’t worry. I know what your lot are like when it comes to gold.”
“There is no ‘my lot,’ ” Moltenoak pointed out. “There was only ever me.”
Thungus muttered something under his breath, and the two companions moved on through the hills.
“Where’re we heading, anyway?” the barbarian grumbled. “There’s nothing beyond these hills except Grinswood Forest, and we really don’t want to be trudging through that dump.”
Moltenoak sighed. “Where, then?” he complained. “I’m definitely not going back to Spittle.”
“Why not? We’re practically heroes there!”
“I told you already: I don’t want the attention. I want to go somewhere … quiet.”
“How about Legrash?”
“THAT isn’t quiet!”
“Fine,” Thungus agreed. “In that case, we’ll go to Beanstalk: it’s a stopping point for all kinds of creatures, plus it’s known for its congenial atmosphere: They reckon that during the Dual Age, a princess—”
“… got trapped in Beanstalk Tower by a giant. Yes, I know that. I was there.”
Thungus raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t look that surprised. “Killed it, did you?”
“No,” said Moltenoak, quietly. “But I certainly gave it something to think about.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
“As old as I feel.” Moltenoak peered up at the gloomy sky and shuddered. “And I feel terrible.”
A crack of thunder split the silence, and a fine rain began to fall from the sky.
“You realize, of course, that heading for Beanstalk means we have to go back through Charney?” Thungus produced an infuriating grin. “S’alright,” he said. “I’ll deal with the werewolves this time.”
Two
A GREAT ARMY OF the possessed gathered in Oval Square. They were greeted by Vanquish, who strode between the palace gates, mouthing something silently. He spoke no actual words, though every man and boy could hear him as clearly as if he was standing right next to them, whispering into their ears.
Listen, now. The time has come for my loyal servants to dominate Illmoor once again. Turn now, and face the city gates, secure in the knowledge that I am with you.
He turned to the vast swarm of heads that occupied the right side of the square.
You will follow the lead of this servant.
<
br /> He raised a gauntlet to indicate Gordo Goldeaxe, who swooped low on the obsidian dragon he now rode.
You will go to Legrash. Destroy everything en route, and all who get in your way.
An eerily quiet cheer went up from the crowd; it sounded like the rustling shrouds of a horde of tortured ghosts.
In anticipation of the dark god’s next command, Gape Teethgrit brought the second dragon to ground.
Vanquish addressed the group on his left.
You others will march for Spittle: every death you cause on the way will drape your immortal soul like a medal. Go now: all will fall! ALL WILL FALL.
As the former citizens of Dullitch turned and headed for the gates, their masters riding the skies above them, a series of black clouds bubbled over the land.
Vanquish glanced down at the bedraggled rabble who lingered in the center of the square.
The rest of you shall remain with me. Guard the harbors … and the gates. No one leaves.
Vanquish turned and marched back toward the palace, his red eyes glowing in the moonlight.
Summoning one of the possessed that staggered along in his wake, he made an indicative sweep of the palace with his hand.
Amass a selection of my finest souls here. They may enter the palace and watch over me, but I am not to be disturbed. I need time to contemplate and to search the land … When I have discovered the location of my imprisoned body, I will be able to cast off this pathetic human shell. Then all of Illmoor will fall beneath my wrath.
The enchanted citizen bowed his head.
“Yes, master,” it mouthed.
Effigy and Obegarde had spent a pleasant if somewhat slanted night at Spittle Tower. The beds were comfortable enough, but both of them had woken up on the floor. This morning, following a carefully juggled breakfast, they were ready to face a new raft of challenges.
“Are you sure Jimmy will be able to find those two warriors?” Effigy whispered to Obegarde as they followed Earl Visceral and a troupe of soldiers through the Spittle Tower Gardens. “I mean, he’s not exactly—”
“From what I know of Jimmy,” Obegarde interrupted, “he’ll find them all right. He was working as a scout during the Rat Catastrophe, and he was the one who found Groan and Gordo and managed to enlist the pair of them. He’s more than capable, Effigy. You really should give him more credit.”
“I suppose so; it’s just that he tends to antagonize people. He’s not much of a fighter, and I’d hate it if he got hurt or killed because—”
Jimmy’s as quick as a cat, and twice as lucky. He survived the Yowler, and a lot more since. Besides, Visceral’s given him the fastest horse in the city! I seriously doubt he’ll run into anything he can’t handle.”
“Well, I hope to the gods you’re right …”
“If I may interrupt, gentlemen, we’re nearly there.”
Earl Visceral led the group to the door of a large cottage on the grounds of his tower.
“This is the place where most matters of great importance are usually discussed,” he said, as one of his soldiers unlocked the front door. “We tend not to put important or regal visitors through the endurance test the tower tends to be …”
“It was all right for us, I notice,” Obegarde whispered to Effigy, who made every effort to avoid laughing.
“In here,” Earl Visceral continued, leading the way into the cottage’s expansive meeting room. “I’m told our guests will be with us shortly?”
The page beside him nodded. “We have confirmations via ravensage: within the hour.”
“Good, good! Obegarde, do take a seat. Effigy, you should definitely sit near the top of the table: your account of things will be vital.”
The freedom fighter nodded, and took the proffered seat.
“Who’s coming again?” Obegarde wanted to know.
“Well,” Earl Visceral began, “as I said before, we can expect the support of Viceroy Funk, Lord of Beanstalk, and Baron Muttknuckles of Sneeze—mainly because their towns would be swept through en route to ours. The big question hangs over Legrash. I have been assured that Prince Blood is coming to the table, but getting him to commit his army to any kind of enterprise will be tricky.”
“Why?” Effigy snapped. “Vanquish is as likely to head for Legrash as he is for Spittle!”
“Indeed—yet Blood can be very difficult about these things. His ravensage reply betrayed little real concern, and he’s inevitably the last to contribute anything to a national cause.”
“Because he’s too wrapped up in his own affairs?” asked Effigy.
Visceral shrugged. “Perhaps he believes that Legrash’s defences can withstand any invaders.”
“But he’s laboring under a misapprehension. Vanquish would annihilate Legrash in a heartbeat!”
“I know that, and you know that,” said the earl, with a sigh. “Our job is to convince him of the imminent threat Vanquish poses to the whole of Illmoor.”
The horse thundered across the landscape like a rogue missile, taking every twist and turn as if it was capable of predicting the land.
Jimmy dug in his heels several times, then brought the animal screeching to a halt beside two beggars on the Mavokhan Road.
“I’m on royal business,” he said, producing two crowns from his pack and holding them in plain sight, “and I’m looking for two men: one a barbarian, the other cloaked.”
The beggars shared a glance before one stepped forward slightly.
“I seen two men,” he said. “One was definitely a barbarian.”
“And the other?”
“Wore a big cloak—jus’ like you said.”
Jimmy smiled humorlessly.
“What color?”
“Eh?”
“What color was the man’s cloak?”
“Oh, it were … red …”
“That’s wrong.”
“… to start with, it were red,” said the second beggar, sensing that his friend had lost the edge. “Then it changed to black, depending on how you looked at it.”
“I see,” said Jimmy, knowingly. “It didn’t go through any shades of green, then?”
“Funny you should say that,” the first beggar began, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything else: the horse was already a speck in the middle distance.
Jimmy’s next two stops were equally disappointing: an old lady with a long, warty nose swore blind she’d seen the duo leaving Plunge, while a portly bartender at an inn just north of Fogrise reckoned he’d seen both men heading toward Chudderford. Unfortunately, neither of them had picked green for the cloak, leaving Jimmy right back where he started.
The horse slowed to a trot as he progressed through the Mountains of Mavokhan. Jimmy rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. He didn’t want to enter Grinswood Forest, that was for sure—but what choice did he have? If the pair had genuinely continued to head west, they could only be in one place, and that meant—Jimmy looked up, suddenly. A traveler was approaching, mounted on horseback.
He carefully urged his own horse onward.
“Well met,” came a shout, when he was just a few meters away from the rider.
“And you,” Jimmy called back. “I am looking for two men who were said to be on this path: have you seen anyone?”
The man reined in his horse. He was middle-aged, and somewhat vacant-looking.
“Either of your two men an elf?”
Jimmy hesitated. “No,” he said, with a sigh. “Neither is an elf, as far as I know.”
“Well, the chap I passed was wearing a green hood, and I usually associate that with the forest-folk.”
“It could be him I’m after!” Jimmy confirmed, quickly producing a crown and tossing it to the traveler, who caught it immediately. “Was he traveling with a barbarian?”
“Nope; he was on his own,” the rider muttered. “But I wouldn’t bother looking for him—he’s dead.”
Jimmy’s face fell.
“By your hand?” he wondered aloud.
“I’m no murderer,” said the man. “But the man you seek was heading into Cambleton Valley, on the western beard of Grinswood. It’s a place folk don’t return from—werewolf country.”
Jimmy thought for a moment, then shrugged.
“The man I seek is a troll-killer,” he said. “There’s a chance I can still find him alive.”
The rider smiled, sullenly.
“You go in there,” he said, pointing behind him, “and you’ll find nothing but your end.”
He sighed and urged his horse onward, calling back: “Good luck. You’ll need it!”
Jimmy ignored him, and focussed his concentration on the wood. It wasn’t exactly a big deal, he told himself. After all, his friend and fellow thief, Grab Dafisful, had ventured into Grinswood a few years back, and he had come out alive.
The wood did look menacing, but they all did, until you went in a little way … then it usually turned out to be a walk in the park.
Jimmy swallowed a few times and dug in his heels. The horse moved forward, and plunged into the wood.
Three
FOLLOWING DIEK’S ENCOUNTER WITH the troglodyte warband, Burnie had managed to persuade Slythi to change direction and march for Spittle. The troglodyte king wasn’t exactly happy about the situation, but even he had relented at the thought of a legendary hero like Groan ending up in a small box.
Groan, for his part, had been silent since the memory of Gordo had resurfaced. And Burnie’s suggestion that he’d lost his physical body to Vanquish hadn’t helped matters.
“I’m sure you didn’t kill your friend,” said Diek, quietly wondering if he could leave the box with the troglodytes and sneak back home. He was sure his parents would be pleased to see him … if they were still alive. “I mean, your memory is still fuzzy from the possession, or whatever it was … you don’t actually know you hurt him, do you? It’s all guesswork, isn’t it?’
No sound came from the box.
The Coldstone Conflict Page 8
