The Coldstone Conflict (6 page)

Burnie marched on determinedly, leading the snake-formation of troglodotion inquisitiveness to the very foot of King Slythi’s roost.

There were no houses in Ungst: troglodytes preferred roosts. It wasn’t hard to obtain a roost: you merely gathered together all your belongings … and sat on them. In Ungst, a king was elected at the end of each year, after measurements had been taken to discover who sat atop the biggest pile of accumulated junk. Slythi Toe had been King of Ungst for nearly fifty years—and he was so far up that it was practically impossible to see him.

Burnie arrived at the base of the giant mound and quickly peered around for the inevitable speaker-on-a-stick. There was always such a device at the base of the larger mounds: as most troglodytes barely bothered to walk, climbing down to talk to visitors was out of the question.

“King Slythi!” Burnie bellowed into the speaker. “It is I, Burnie, son of Hyburni and Hyburnia. I return to Ungst at a time of great peril for all.”

There was a moment of frantic scrabbling in the background as the crowd realized something big was happening and began to get comfortable.

Silence.

Burnie looked up at the mound, squinting to see if he could make out any movement on top. There was nothing.

“Did you hear me, King Slythi?” he called again. “I said, It is I, Burnie, son of Hyburni and Hyburnia. I return to Ungst at a time of great peril for all!”

There was another long silence. Then a voice cried out:

“I know who speak. What want you?”

Burnie took a deep breath: it had been so long, he’d almost forgotten the ignorance inherent in his race.

“I need your help!” he screamed. “The city of Dullitch is in dire peril: a terrible enemy has arisen! You must assist those above … or ALL will be lost to darkness.”

An echo died away with the words.

“You leave here long ago, Burnie, son of Hyburni,” boomed the reply. “You no come back long time. You
them
now: you no us. You high them; you
robe.
”

As the crowd gave a collective sneer, the little troglodyte rolled his eyes and raised the speaker once more to his rubbery lips. He was going to have to speak to the king in his own language.

“Listen me!” he screamed. “I you more them! Me no you soon, you no you longer! You no you for great evil come! Me no you save, you no me save. All perish in black fire! Vanquish you know me know you know. Vanquish enemy old! Vanquish walk in giant step back up top. Bad: you know me know! Teethgrit legend tribe great—Teethgrit body hero Vanquish take! Groan! Groan! Groan!”

Burnie smiled as he finished: a collective gasp had risen up with his words.

“You no lie?” exclaimed the king. “Vanquish walk Teethgrit now: you tell true?”

Burnie nodded and bellowed: “I tell true, Slythi. I tell true. Friends mine go help seek: Visceral Earl Spittle! Others too; great army form, maybe hopes me.”

“Hopes you army great?”

“Hopes me.” Burnie nodded, squinting up at the top of the pile. “Hopes me lots like.”

There was a commotion of some kind at the top of the pile. Several pieces of junk clattered down the heap as King Slythi came thundering down the constructed mountain. At nearly three times the size of his citizens, Slythi was a sight to behold, his scaly muscles glistening with excretions.

“Weapon want!” he slithered. “Weapon WANT!”

Sunlight streamed into the palace, penetrating every nook, cranny and keyhole, streaming under doors and sneaking around corners.

Diek Wustapha’s head swam with horrific dreams and echoed with nightmare images. He had been trapped in the black dimension for what felt like centuries, floating through darkness while the
talons
of the void clawed at his soul … and all because of the voices.

Diek’s eyelids flickered as the light spilled over them. His mind was racing, flowing back through the hidden corridors of his subconscious, showing him the contents of all the locked drawers. How long had it been since the voice had left him? Minutes? Hours? Days? Months? It was difficult to tell. He certainly remembered its arrival: he’d been sitting in his father’s field, playing a tune on … a tune … the rats … the children … Dullitch!

Diek started, shocked awake by the sudden horror of the memory. In a blink, he saw
everything
… and the knowledge that came with it washed over him like a flood. The old wizard had done something … opened a door … and they had both gone through … into nothing.

Diek Wustapha opened his eyes …

… and found himself in what appeared to be a cupboard. A warm smile split his lips as he reached out and touched a broom-handle. The solidity of the object almost brought him to tears: this was a
real
broom, an actual, everyday wooden broom! How long had it been since he’d seen one? How long had it been since he’d actually
touched
anything?

Diek used the broom to get himself to his feet, noticing that the handle glowed in the darkness when he gripped it. He still felt dizzy, but the nightmares that had plagued him for so long had been dissolved by the arrival of a thin shaft of light, which shone through the keyhole. No more spiteful shadows, no more
dead
air
.

From what little he could tell from the washy reflection in the cupboard’s cracked and broken mirror, he hadn’t grown old; his face was still pale and unblemished, though his eyes were strangely dark. His hair, which had always been short, dark and spiky, was now long and matted, with a single strand of white among the black.

So … time
had
taken its toll. But how much time … and where was he now? Well,
wherever
he was, he had to get home. His parents would be … what? Missing him? Ancient? Dead?

And then, in the blink of an eye, the world went white as the door opened and an unstoppable torrent of light streamed into the broom cupboard.

“Who the hell are you?” said a voice.

Diek, one hand covering his eyes, could just make out a pike and some tarnished armor.

“I said, who the hell are you?” the voice repeated. “And what are you doin’ in ’ere?”

The boy straightened up.

“My name is Diek Wustapha,” he muttered. “Where is this place?”

“Dullitch Palace. How did you get in here? Are you homeless?”

“What? Er … no. I come from Little Irkesome …”

“Unlikely: that’s
miles
away. How did you sneak in?”

Diek rubbed his head: he had so many questions himself; how could he answer someone else’s?

“I … arrived here,” he managed.

“You bein’ funny, kid?”

The guard stepped back, dimming the light enough for Diek to get his bearings. He’d had an awful day, so far. The palace was on high alert following the explosion, and all the senior officers had been gathered in the main courtyard for the last eighteen hours, to no apparent end. He just wasn’t in the mood to let some young joker try his luck.

“
What
did you say your name was?” he prompted, flexing his knuckles.

“Diek. Diek Wustapha.”

“Ha! You were named after the rat-catcher? Your parents must have a sense of humor, I reckon.”

“Rats?” Diek looked up, suddenly. “You remember the rats? I got rid of them!”

The guard smiled and leaned down to whisper in the boy’s ear.

“Nice try, kid: but you need some serious makeup if you want to pull off a con like that. The
real
Diek Wustapha would be about my age by now … and anyway, if it’s charity you’re after, you should pretend to be someone the city actually
wants
to see. Diek Wustapha kidnapped the children of Dullitch: if he walked back into the city right now, he’d probably be ’anged.”

“He would?”

“Yeah, or worse. Now step outta that cupboard or I’ll wrench ya out.”

Diek glanced sideways at the broom, which had stopped glowing but still felt oddly … alive.

“I—think this broom is magic,” he muttered. “Either that, or I’ve brought some magic with me from the … place where I was before. I hope not: magic gets me into trouble.”

“Get OUT,” snapped the guard, beginning to lose his temper. “Are you a mental patient or something?”

“It could be a wizard’s broom … or a witch’s, maybe. It feels … light.”

The guard rested his pike against the wall, and cracked his knuckles.

“You know what I reckon,” he growled, snatching hold of Diek and dragging both him and the broom out of the cupboard. “I reckon you’re just a crafty little street urchin who sneaked his way into the palace and got found out. Know what else I reckon? I
reckon
you’re just comin’ up with any old cock-and-bull rubbish, thinkin’ I’m just some dumb guard who’ll fall for everythin’ you choose to tell me. Well, let’s see about this magic witch’s broom, shall we?” The guard lifted Diek—who was still dragging the broom—straight off his feet, and marched him over to the nearest window.

“We’re three floors up,” he muttered. “So this here magic broom is
just
what the surgeon ordered, eh?”

He hoisted Diek over his head and threw him, bodily, out of the window.

The boy scrabbled on the air for a millisecond before he plunged, kicking and screaming, toward the ground. He snatched out at the broom as it plunged with him.

“ ’Ere, quick,” the guard snorted at a second sentry, who was approaching the window. “Come and see thi—”

His words died away as he looked back into the courtyard … where the broom had paused in midair, Diek still clutching on to it for dear life. There were a few twists and spins, and then the boy, broom firmly beneath him, rocketed back toward the window. Both guards ducked instinctively as the missile flew over them into the room … and then they regained enough sense to give chase.

A
MEANDERING QUEUE OF
troglodytes snaked away from the little recruiting table. Burnie couldn’t help but smile: his people might not be smart, but they were brave, loyal, quick and always, always up for a fight.

A particularly sturdy-looking example of the breed arrived before the recruitment officer.

“I’m join,” he croaked.

The officer looked up through jellied eyes. “Join you now want?”

“I’m join,” the volunteer confirmed.

“Flail you?”

“Me flail. See.”

The warrior brandished a nasty looking, three-whipped flail.

“Flail good. Who you?”

There was a lengthy period of silence.

The officer paused, looked up again.

“Who you, I say?”

“Me him brother.”

“Him brother?”

The officer glanced over at a second, fat troglodyte and pointed a gnarly finger. “Him brother, you say?”

“Him brother mine.”

“One next!”

The recruit shuffled off, and the line moved on.

“I’m join.”

“Flail you?”

“Me flail.”

“Who you?” came the (by now, predictable) question.

“Me him son.”

Burnie watched the proceedings with an increasingly doubtful expression. He tried to express his worries in troglodotion, but ended up resorting to plain tongue.

“Are you sure these army lists are going to make sense?” he muttered, turning to King Slythi. “I mean, there’s not a single
name
on there: how are you going to do things like roll call?”

The king gave him a look of defiance.

“Weapon need,” he snarled, brandishing a scimitar. “Weapon have.”

Burnie nodded.

“I think I understand. When this … enlisting procedure is done, do you think we may be able to head for Spittle?”

“Spittle no see, Dullitch danger.”

Burnie sighed.

“Yes
,
I know
that,
Slythi,” he managed. “But we need to join with
others,
we need to form a great army! Vanquish is incredibly powerful: only together can we see this through!”

“Spittle no go,” Slythi snapped. “Dullitch go. Dullitch go!”

Burnie muttered something under his breath, but continued to smile. Nevertheless, as the queue of volunteers moved on, he tried the path of reason once more.

“Look, King Slythi, there’s not ENOUGH of you to go straight to Dullitch! A hundred trogs against a dark god? It’s insane.”

“Say you trogs!” Slythi bared his pointed teeth. “Say you trogs and one you: one you!”

“I know
that
,” said Burnie, guiltily. “Look, I didn’t mean to use the slang term … I’m just worried that you’re all going to get wiped out. If you let me lead the group to Spittle, maybe we can join forces with Earl Visceral … That way, we might actually stand a chance of saving Illmoor from this … thing.”

Slythi looked down at his sword, then at the thin line of volunteers standing beside the table.

“Think I,” he muttered. “Think I now.”

Burnie nodded.

“Let me know what you decide,” he said, hopefully, turning back to the table.

“Think I done,” Slythi snapped, suddenly. “Long think I done.”

Burnie’s jaw dropped.

“That was quick!” he said.

“Quick think me.”

“I’ll say. So … what’s your decision?”

The king looked down at his sword, then back at Burnie, his teeth gleaming in the fiery glow of the underdark.

“Dullitch go!” he screamed. “Dullitch go! Dullitch go!”

The exhalation got a roar of approval from the recruits … and a sigh of despair from Burnie.

The enchanted broom was heading for the ground like a rogue dart. Diek tried to close his eyes against the rush of wind, but the memory of the darkness forced them open.

There was an audible
whoosh.

… And the broom suddenly jerked to a standstill. Diek peered, with mounting dread, over his shoulder. His trip out again through the palace walls had evidently gained him some baggage: there was part of a bookcase hanging off the brush-end of the broom, spilling its contents to the ground.

Diek spun himself around and kicked madly at the devastated wood, desperate to lose the weight before it dragged too heavily on the unpredictable transport.

Too late.

“No! NO!
Noooooooo!
”

The broom plummeted from the sky. As he flew inexorably downward, Diek tried to make out where he was. Far from the city, that was for sure … but how far could he fall before …