Read The Coldstone Conflict Online

Authors: David Lee Stone

The Coldstone Conflict

BOOK: The Coldstone Conflict
9.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

The Coldstone Conflict
The Illmoor Chronicles
David Lee Stone

This book is for my agent, Sophie Hicks. If it wasn’t for you, the dream of Illmoor would never have been realized. Thank you for making me the author I always hoped I would become (and for putting up with my tantrums and increasingly bizarre sense of humor).

Contents

Selected Dramatis Personae

Prologue

Previously, in the Illmoor Chronicles

Part One: The Great Escape

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Part Two: Moltenoak

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Part Three: The Coldstone Conflict

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Epilogue

Thanks

Selected Dramatis Personae
(ye cast of characters)

Blood, Prince             - Ruler of Legrash.

Diveal, Sorrell            - A dark sorcerer.

Funk, Viceroy            - Ruler of Beanstalk.

Goldeaxe, Gordo       - A dwarf.

Hyburni, Burnie         - A troglodyte.

Lambontroff, Loogie - Steward of Phlegm.

Moltenoak                 - A hooded man.

Muttknuckles, Baron - Ruler of Sneeze.

Obegarde, Jareth       - A vampire.

Quickstint, Jimmy     - A thief.

Slythi, King               - Ruler of Ungst.

Spatula, Effigy          - A freedom fighter.

Teethgrit, Gape          - A barbarian.

Teethgrit, Groan        - A barbarian.

Theoff, Mr.                - Lambontroff’s aide.

Thungus, Grid           - A barbarian.

Vanquish                   - A dark god.

Vanya, Lady              - Daughter of Visceral.

Visceral, Vortain       - Earl of Spittle.

Wustapha, Diek         - An enchanted boy.

Prologue

C
ERTAIN STORIES ONLY NEED
to be told once: they get handed down, like old clothes, from generation to generation. Some get handed down because they’re frightening, or whimsical, or good for a laugh. Others get handed down because they’re true.

Everyone knew the story of Charney well—at least, well enough to know that it wasn’t one. So when the hooded man wandered into Cambleton Valley, he knew exactly what to expect. The town, which was referred to only in hushed whispers, supported the entire werewolf community of Illmoor … and strangers were simply not tolerated. In the latter part of the Tri-Age, an agreement had been reached that, in exchange for food provided by nearby Spittle, the wolves would never leave their town … or, more importantly, the valley that secluded it.

Every so often, a stranger would wander in, and become food or, in some extreme cases, a part of the pack.

The hooded man had absolutely no intention of becoming either.

He looked up. The signpost said: “You Are Trying To Leave Charney.” It certainly made its point, he thought.

A wolf howled in the night. It was joined by several more, and the sound grew into a cruel yet pitiful cry.

Stopping on the road to glance up at the moon, the hooded man quickly became attuned to the shadows moving around him, not by sight … but by the barely perceivable sounds they made.

“I am unarmed,” he said. “Move out of the dark, if you’ve a will to slay me.”

Three wolves detached themselves from the forest fringe and circled the stranger, growling low and slathering with hunger.

“I’ve never been bitten by a wolf,” said the hooded man, his voice still calm. “Is it VERY painful?”

The growls became synchronized as another pair of wolves emerged from the undergrowth and joined the pack.

“Hmm … this fight is a little bit one-sided, isn’t it?” the hooded man continued, dropping his knapsack and taking a step back. “Am I to face you one at a time, or all at once? Oh, I see, you’re preparing to—”

He was cut off as the first wolf leaped at him, knocking him backward. The hooded man tripped over his knapsack, and groped for the signpost in order to right himself … but the beasts were on him: all five, in fact, ripping at his flesh before he’d even hit the ground.

There was a wild struggle before the body fell limp and the wolves began to fight over it: all joined in the feast.

A few moments passed as the five wolves picked at their prey. Then something extraordinary happened …

The wolves began to die. Howling with pain and frustration, the first one scrabbled in the dirt, tongue lolling from the corner of its bloodied maws. As its eyes began to fix on infinity, its body changed back into human form … and it died.

The stranger, still lying in the middle of the road, began to laugh: a cold, cruel cackle that echoed through the surrounding hills.

The second wolf staggered forward on shaky legs … and collapsed in the dirt. This one didn’t revert to its human form, as the other had done, but simply died in the shape nature had gifted it. Two more expired in the same way. Of the entire pack, only the largest beast now remained … and even
this
magnificent terror was dying as it transformed.

“You …” the dirty, bloodied wretch said, pointing at the hooded man with a shaking, accusatory finger. “Murderer!”

The stranger, who’d staggered to his feet and was still bleeding profusely, pulled back his hood to reveal a face so grey that it could have belonged to a gargoyle.

“Ha! Why should I mourn your losses? You made a good
meal
of me!”

The wolf man scrabbled in the dirt, his strength beginning to leave him as the poison kicked in.

“B-bad meat,” he managed, weakly. “B-b-bad blood.”

The hooded man nodded, his skin re-forming. “Actually, it’s neither.”

“Y-you’re a necromancer, a demon, a—”

“Oh no, my friend. It’s much more than that: I’m …
old
.”

The wolf man, expelling his life’s breath, croaked: “Y-you’re a god?”

“Wrong again,” said the stranger. “Though I’ve always
wanted
to be.”

He kicked the corpse aside and reached for his knapsack.

“I
have
tasted the flesh of a ghoul, mind … and the blood of a vampire. I’ve never eaten werewolf before, but I’m told you taste … wonderful.”

He sighed, and opened his knapsack. Far to the east, another series of howls split the silence of midnight. More wolves would come, and quickly; they would all need to be dealt with. Still, there was time …

The hooded man produced a bread roll from the fathomless depths of his knapsack, broke off a piece and parted it. Then he ripped a leg from one of the wolves, put it into the roll and began to chew noisily on it.

“Water,” he muttered longingly, after the second mouthful. “I always like to have water with a meal: it’s good for the digestion.”

He rose to his feet and began to look around for the source of running water that he’d heard since his arrival in Cambleton Valley. Before he reached the forest fringe, however, a voice said:

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen a human take on a pack o’ werewolves and come out smilin’.”

The hooded man glanced up at a large, ugly-looking bird with a patch of mangy feathers and a sickly-looking yellow bill.

“A barrowbird,” he muttered. “How nice: which god have I upset now?”

The bird cocked its head.

“So you eat werewolves ’n’ ghouls, and you drink vampire blood; makes you a rare boy, that does.”

The hooded man’s scar of a mouth twisted into a smile. “Thanks for the compliment,” he muttered. “But really, I’ve met your kind before and I don’t
need
a traveling companion.”

“You must be … pretty much a one-off, in fact.”

“Yes, but—”

“You must be …
special.

“I am. However—”

“In fact,” chirped the barrowbird, hopping along its branch. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you must be Moltenoak.”

The hooded man froze. He hadn’t heard that name in a very long time … and this barrowbird was pushing its luck.

Previously in the Illmoor Chronicles

B
URNIE, THE TROGLODYTE CHAIRMAN
of Dullitch Council and founder of the city’s secret army, revealed a terrible truth about the death of Viscount Curfew and the existence of his impersonator, the necromancer Sorrell Diveal. Escaping with his life, Burnie fled Dullitch, and was forced to communicate with the rest of the secret army by ravensage. Inside the palace, famed barbarian Groan Teethgrit was tricked by Diveal into releasing a dark god from its cosmic prison. Possessed by the malevolent soul of Vanquish, Groan turned on his own companions and attacked them in a brutal frenzy. The attack was witnessed by three magically disguised members of the secret army who, fearing imminent danger, fled the scene …

Part One
The Great Escape
One

I
T WAS EVENING IN
Dullitch, and a sudden, terrible storm was assaulting the city. Lightning danced from the sky, followed by cracks of thunder so deafening that the city’s doomwardens had taken to their pulpits, and were proclaiming the end of creation.

Up at the palace, a determined multitude of guards, maids and cooking staff were deserting the grounds. This exodus was not the result of the storm, but due to the major explosion that had
preceded
it, ripping through the palace’s upper floor and throwing everyone into a blind panic. Rumors of Viscount Curfew’s death were already circulating widely.

Yet none of the citizens could possibly guess the true horror of the scene taking place inside the throne room at that very moment.

There was a gasp, and two enchanted swords clattered onto the stone floor.

Gape Teethgrit looked down at the sword protruding from his stomach, and his ever-present smile contorted into shock.

“G-g-groan,” he spluttered, staring up at the blood-red eyes of the
thing
that had until recently been his only brother. “What have you …”

His voice trailed off … and he slumped to the floor. Beside him lay the equally still body of a dwarf. Gordo Goldeaxe, famed mercenary and long-time partner of Groan Teethgrit of Phlegm, stared into the void of infinity, blood still trickling from his lips.

“Excellent, master! Excellent!”

A disfigured face emerged from the shadows of the room, followed by a stooped frame that insinuated itself forward. The figure was wrapped in a black cloak, still clutching at the bloody stump where its right hand had been. Sorrell Diveal, fell sorcerer and a highborn lord of Illmoor, hurried over to kneel before the giant form of Groan Teethgrit.

“Lord Vanquish, god of gods, I bow before thee in supplication. Indeed, I already feel myself becoming more powerful again in your presence. I beg you to grant me—”

“I grant you nothing.”

The voice was no more than a whisper, a rasp, but it spoke of an evil so great as to be unimaginable.

Diveal looked up, sharply.

“B-but I granted your desires, master! I gave you freedom!”

“The barbarian did that.”

Vanquish closed Groan’s mighty fist and looked at it, as if examining a rare treasure.

“Strong,”
said the god.
“So … strong. I need more like him if I am to return to power. People will listen to and obey strength … not the whining of a spindly wretch like yourself. Groan and his friends will …
broaden
my influence.”

“B-but you killed his friends, my lord.”

Vanquish turned away from Diveal and crouched over the fallen warriors. Then, running his hands along the mortal wounds that had claimed both lives, he began to speak in a low and arcane voice. There was a sudden pulse of sound, and red light streamed from the barbarian’s fingertips, surrounding the corpses and causing them to shake uncontrollably.

BOOK: The Coldstone Conflict
9.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

This Side of Providence by Rachel M. Harper
Witch Silver by Anne Forbes
Lo sagrado y lo profano by Mircea Eliade
Princess in Peril by Rachelle McCalla
A Special Relationship by Thomas, Yvonne
The Darkest Whisper by Gena Showalter
Leaving at Noon by Jess Dee