by Adrian Cross
StoneDragon
Adrian Cross
To my parents, who never chained a restless imagination.
Copyright © 2017 Adrian Croft
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof including both text and artwork may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Karen Robinson of INDIE Books Gone Wild
Proofread by Jessica Nelson of INDIE Books Gone Wild
ISBN: 978-1-7750907-0-0
Adrian Croft
33 Pringle Ave, Markham ON, L3P 2P3, Canada
www.adriancross.ca
Contents
Map of StoneDragon
1. Hunted
2. The Job
3. Horses Are Evil
4. Through the Wall
5. Betrayal Battle Confusion
6. Pain
7. Prey in the Dark
8. Escape
9. Facing the Dark
10. Out of the Water
11. The Black Pistol
12. Resh Is a Pain—And a God
13. Gods at the Wall
14. The Pit
15. The Past Attacks
16. Rhino’s Cage
17. Out of the Fire
18. Monsters in the Night
19. Attack on the Lady
20. Mendonia Feeds
21. In the Wreckage
22. Black Rose
23. An Unwelcome Friend
24. The Castle
25. Accusations
26. What Did It Mean?
27. Down Shadow Way
28. The Blood Bowl
29. The Caves
30. To the Tower
31. The Club District
32. Wasteland
33. Spiders Way
34. The Castle Falls
35. Chained
36. The Black Rider
37. The Swarm
38. Pursued
39. Climbing the Broken Tower
40. The Tower Cell
41. Dark Wings
42. Exorcism Goes Bad
43. Clay Loses His Mind
44. Hunted by Angels
45. Living Gargoyle
46. Some Cold Hard Truths
47. Face Off
48. Out of the Tower
49. Grok Returns
50. Three Down
51. Fires of Hell
52. World Flares Red
53. Reunions
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Map of StoneDragon
1
Hunted
The back of Clay’s neck tightened under the weight of a hunter’s gaze.
Clay turned and put a hand to his pistol. He’d been using the knife in his other hand to nail a bill into the half-rotted corner beam of an old building. The half-secured paper flapped nervously behind him
Across the black cobblestones, a hole gaped in the facade of a crumbling three-story Victorian. The hole looked empty. So did the lots on either side, only ash stirring in the cool wind. They had been visited by violence in the distant past but showed no sign of ill intent that night.
The tightness between Clay’s shoulder blades didn’t loosen. He eased along the wall of the old building, listening for the scuff of a boot, the creak of a crossbow string. Anything to give him a split second’s warning.
Who hunted him? Kane? Clay was behind on his mortgage payments, but he doubted the moneylender would take such drastic action. One of the Bosses? Several might welcome a shot at Clay since he was out from under Rhino’s protection. But Clay hadn’t noticed any of their usual suspects.
A gust of wind brought a scent of fresh leaves and soil, reminding him that StoneDragon had Shifted earlier that night, which raised yet another possibility. The fire-ringed city called dangerous things to it after a Shift. Was something new hunting him?
A flutter of movement. Clay’s arm tensed but then relaxed.
White paper with blocky dark letters tumbled past. Dead Dragon Cowboy, it read. Problems Solved. One of Clay’s bills. His lips twisted. If only he could solve his own problems.
Still no sign of the pursuer. If someone hunted him, they had real skill. Clay started walking, his nerves on edge.
Four armed men turned a corner ahead of him.
In a blink, Clay’s pistol was aimed at the head of the man in front, but again Clay hesitated. He caught the tic of muscle in the man’s jaw, a waft of beer and smoke, and the awkward set of the man’s feet. These men were strong but untrained. Not predators but laborers out for a celebration. A dangerous thing to do in the deep night of StoneDragon.
“A Fist,” the man exclaimed, his eyes widening.
“Not anymore.” Clay let the pistol drop. “Go home. Before something worse than me finds you.”
He pushed past them, guiding a halberd aside with one hand, and kept going. He wondered idly if they would make it to their destination but then shook his head. He had enough of his own problems. Including who might be tracking him.
His building appeared. It wasn’t much, barely big enough for the faded office squeezed into the main floor and two tight bedrooms on top. Its wood and brick frame sagged slightly, like a listing boxer, but Clay felt a warmth spread through his stomach when he saw it. It was the only place he’d ever owned and one of the only real homes he’d ever had.
His stomach tightened. For as long as he could keep it anyway. Business wasn’t good, and Kane wouldn’t wait forever. At some point, the moneylender would sell Clay’s debts to someone who could better collect.
Light spilled from the bars of the second-floor window. Clay’s roommate was awake.
Clay paused. It was time to make a choice: either enter the building, which would put four walls around him, slightly crooked or not, or stay out in the night and try to turn the tables on his hunter.
It wasn’t much of a debate. The whole reason he’d taken JP as a roommate was to keep the teenager safe, which argued against leading danger to the building. Plus—Clay grinned, the wild wolfish streak that had gotten him into so much trouble rising up—he didn’t like to be hunted.
He headed northeast, moving into the center of the street.
Come and get me.
Not long after, a sign appeared in the shadows of a side street, a line of chiseled stone letters lit by a row of torches, all set into the front of a squat stone building. The Hairy Lady. Not a refined or even particularly safe establishment but one that well suited his needs.
He lengthened his stride. Following someone unnoticed required care and slowed a person down. Clay wanted to open some distance, to make what he planned next harder to notice.
Just before the Lady’s front door, he ducked sideways, letting the darkness of the narrow alley swallow him. Hopefully his pursuer would believe Clay had gone inside. He pressed his back to the stones and drew his pistol. The plastic was warm against his palm.
Long seconds later, he heard a scrape and then a whisper of cloth. A shape appeared at the mouth of the alley. Large and hunched, moving with deceptive speed. It disappeared again.
Clay came out, fast. He took two quick steps forward, ready to push his pistol into the back of the pursuer’s neck. He had questions to ask.
Shadows flared from the man’s head and hissed.
Clay jerked back.
The red light of the Wall illuminated the hunter’s face as he turned: wide lips, a broken nose, and a circular depression in the center of his forehead, like the puckered scar of a spear-thrust. If the snakes weaving around his scalp hadn’t made it clear, the third eye announced the identity of this man. Snake. One of Rhino’s
deadliest Fists.
Clay aimed at the third eye. “One twitch and I’ll drill another hole out the back.” At this distance, the icicles the pistol spat were as effective as any bullet.
The Fist showed his teeth. “Afraid, Clay?”
“I’m scared of rattlers and rabid dogs, but that just means I put them down fast. Be careful what you hope for. What are you doing here, Snake?”
Snake huffed a laugh. “I came to see if the charade was over.”
“Charade?”
“You know.” He lifted a crumpled piece of paper. “‘Problems Solved’? Now that I think about it, I get a burning feeling down below after I eat too much cabbage. You help with that kind of problem, cowboy?”
Clay drew a breath. “What do you want, Snake?” The Fist rarely wandered for his own pleasure. Rhino kept the man on too tight a leash.
“I’m here ’cause Rhino wants to know what the hell you’re up to.”
“I run my own business. Just like the paper says.”
“You think the Bosses will let you be a sword for hire here, just because it’s the Free Zone? That any of them will forget what you were?”
“No Bosses rule here.”
A snort. “Doesn’t mean it’s out of reach. You know as well as anyone. The guy who pokes a hole in you just won’t sit around eating cake and cookies after.” He crossed his arms, biceps stretching his jean jacket. “You’ve got no money and a target on your back. It isn’t going to end well for you.” He wrinkled his nose, as if the next words tasted sour. “But Rhino says he’ll take you back if you want.”
“Not interested.”
A smile. “Rhino also says to remember what happens to people who cross him.”
It would be hard to forget. It was part of the reason Clay had left. Rhino had accused Makko, one of his Fists, of colluding with the vampires. Makko had denied it, but the fat samurai knew as well as Clay did that the only truth that mattered was what Rhino believed. Makko went for his katana. Rhino snapped the man’s neck.
“Get out of here, Snake. I won’t tell you again.”
The Fist’s forehead furrowed, as if considering his next words. Clay frowned. He didn’t remember Snake ever talking this much on a job. It was almost like—
Clay spun, lining up his pistol with the chest of the man behind him.
Milton, one of Rhino’s darkest Fists. The black robe and scythe were not coincidental. Milton was obsessed with death. Reportedly stolen as a child by a death cult, he’d embraced its philosophy and climbed its ranks until, at the age of eighteen, he’d become a shining star. Then he’d slaughtered them all.
“Stop,” Clay ordered, “or you’ll get a free trip to your favorite destination.”
Milton stopped. His lips curved.
Clay drew his knife and swung the pistol back toward Snake. Knife on scythe wasn’t a great matchup, but Snake and his third eye were more dangerous. Marginally. By sending both Fists, Rhino had also sent the message that he was serious.
Clay’s lips drew back into something not a smile. “Let’s hear it.”
“Like I said, Rhino is giving you one last chance,” Snake said. “I’m not saying you should take it. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t. I always thought you were a scared rabbit pretending to be a wolf. Maybe I should skin you and see what’s underneath.”
“Dark days are here,” Milton whispered, “and death knocks at every door.”
Things were going downhill fast.
“So, Clay? What is it?”
The Fists had Clay caught between them. Snake was more likely to move first, so Clay would shoot him first. But then Milton would undoubtedly swing from the other side. If Clay dove and rolled, he might catch the blow on his shoulder. The scales of his coat were tough. They might turn the blade away. Might.
Clay smiled at Snake. “Suck dust.”
The skin of Snake’s forehead tightened. Clay tensed.
“Stop!” a woman barked.
Squat shapes spilled out of the alley. The Wall’s red light glimmered off axes, armor, and iron bars. The newcomers encircled the Fists and Clay.
About time.
A woman stepped forward, about as tall as Clay’s breastbone but hard as a century root. Her grey hair was drawn back into a bun, and two axes hung at her hips. Mama Brogi had inherited the leadership of the Clan through battle rather than popularity or blood, and it showed.
“Leave,” she told Snake and Milton. “Now.”
Snake turned back to Clay. “You think you’re tough. I’ll give Rhino your answer, little rabbit, but it’ll just be a matter of time before he sends me back. And when he does, I’m going to yank your ass out your eye holes.” He jerked his head. “Let’s go.”
Milton followed, the dark Fist’s movements as graceful and disturbing as any vampire’s.
Clay exhaled and put away his weapons. “Thank you.”
“You should send the cowboy away, too,” snarled the squat man at Mama’s side. Brock Brogi, Mama’s nephew, wore heavy silver armor etched with swirling dragons and a black axe strapped across his back. He glowered at Clay.
Mama ignored the comment. “You’re playing with fire there, you know. If you don’t settle things with Rhino, it’ll end badly.”
Clay inclined his head. “I appreciate the concern, but it’s complicated.”
“Your grave. Come inside. I have a job for you.”
Clay’s heart leaped but then sank as he guessed what she had in mind. “I won’t fight in the pit.” Not yet, anyway, he couldn’t help thinking.
Mama lifted an eyebrow. “Did I ask you to?” She entered the Lady.
What did the dwarves need him for, if not that? The Clan could handle most physical problems on its own. But he’d been pasting the city with bills saying he wanted a job, so how could he turn down the chance to talk about one? Even if his instincts were tingling.
2
The Job
A rumble of voices quieted as Clay ducked through the door. Smoke swirled around him, burning his eyes and tickling the back of his nose. He smothered a cough and forced his features into a look of cool unconcern. The Hairy Lady was not a place to look weak, not since being out of Rhino’s shadow.
Mama was already halfway across the room.
Clay trailed after her, hand on his pistol.
Guttering torches pushed shadows around the room, deepest within the maze of tables and booths circling the room’s center. Around that center was a ring of high iron torches and a heavy metal grate. The Pit was covered. Through the grate, Clay marked the churned-up dirt and a grainy brown smear along one wall. The Pit’s fights might be weaponless, but they were far from bloodless. People had died in that hole.
Clay’s entrance didn’t go unnoticed. To his right, a red light flared. In the shadows of a booth, a Desert Rider lit his drink aflame. His eyes lifted to meet Clay’s. The Rider’s face and neck were tattooed completely black. A Black Rider, one of the desert people’s assassins. As the flame faded, so too did the Rider, melting into the darkness. Clay wondered who the man had been sent to kill.
A few strides beyond, a big man glared openly. Blood slicked the wood of the table beneath his naked blade. His muscles bulged under scarred red and bronze armor. Mendonia had once been a Spartan captain, arriving in StoneDragon with fifty warriors and high arrogance, demanding the Bosses give way or suffer the consequences. Rhino and the other Bosses had replied with a handful of their champions. Clay had been one.
“Crush their balls” had been Rhino’s eloquent instruction.
Muscles jumped in the Spartan’s thick neck, and his hands twitched, as if he imagined closing them around Clay’s neck.
Mama disappeared through a small door in the back wall, followed by Brock. Clay went in next.
The narrow room on the other side was lit by a single window, its bars striping the crimson light of the Wall into long lines. Red highlights glinted over a rack of hammers and axes beneath the opening. Clay made out the shadowed outline
of a trap door beside the rack. An entrance to the tunnels under the Hairy Lady, he guessed. More of the Clan lived beneath the building than within it, from what he’d heard. The light of the window silhouetted a slender figure by the far wall, features shadowed.
“Clay Halloway, this is Karen Waters.”
The figure stepped forward. Clay exhaled, feeling gut-punched.
It wasn’t because the girl was beautiful, although she was. Tangled golden hair framed salt-white skin and blue eyes, the same vivid blue as the pendant on her chest, just below the swell of her collarbone. She wore a short red dress, which hugged hip and chest with distracting closeness. Even more distracting were the tears in it, especially along one graceful thigh. But that wasn’t what knocked Clay off-stride. It was the confident lift of her chin, the way she settled her weight on one hip. She looked like Sarah.
Clay closed his eyes. The scent of ash and smoke filled his nose. Imaginary. Illusory. A memory shouldn’t hurt so much.
“Are you a warrior?” she asked.
Clay didn’t have any words yet.
Mama replied for him. “Clay is known as the Dead Dragon Cowboy.”
“He can turn into a dragon?”
