StoneDragon

by Adrian Cross

  Bern nearly lost her footing in the muck.

  “Move,” Clay snapped.

  She picked up her pace again.

  The vampire fought hard, but he was trapped in a tangle of fighting, unable to pull loose. Swords and clubs chopped and stabbed at him from all sides. He roared, flailed, and struggled to escape.

  Then his motions faltered and he slid down under the press of bodies without resurfacing. Apparently a body could take only so much punishment, even an infected one. The Earth warriors barked and howled in triumph.

  The Viking and girl in black slipped through the Wall with barely a ripple, like birds into the mist.

  Bern, Clay, and Jonathan were roughly halfway to the Wall, mud slopping under their feet. With her shorter legs, Bern had fallen behind.

  Visible over the heads of the army, Latine turned and stared at Bern, as if feeling her gaze. The breath froze in Bern’s chest, and she stumbled again.

  Latine roared. Followed by another spine-chilling sound: the baying of hounds.

  “Run,” Clay barked.

  Bern bent her head and churned her legs, mud flying behind her. Pain started to stitch in her side, air whistled in her throat, and the axe made her shoulder burn, but she refused to drop it.

  A shape loomed at her side, and she almost swung, but it was only Clay. He’d slowed to match her pace. She noticed a blue flash in his hand. He’d drawn Resh’s dagger.

  “Almost there.”

  The sound of paws in the mud slapped behind her. Low snarls. Too close. She refused to look back. Sweat stung her eyes. A red haze in front.

  “Jump!” Clay yelled.

  She caught a flash of Jonathan, his sword drawn, facing the hounds.

  She hurled herself forward. She felt as much as heard the snap of teeth behind her, hot breath, and then she was in the Wall, red light surrounding her. She tumbled as if in slow motion. Heat and ice sliced her, and then she was out. Cobblestones scraped her shoulder as she slid and came to rest on her back, staring up at a smoke-filled haze.

  She sucked in air, limbs trembling. She’d made it. Then she coughed. The air stung her throat.

  Something growled, low and deep, close to them.

  “Uh oh,” Clay said.

  14

  The Pit

  Karen was used to underwater caves. The water that slicked the walls of Resh’s castle was warm and reassuring, evidence of his protective power. Even when she grew so angry at her father that she couldn’t form words, she knew he would die to protect her. Lately, she just wished he wasn’t so resigned to it.

  These caves were different. The cold and wet sucked the hope out of her, leaving only icy fear and stomach-clenching despair.

  She coughed, pain radiating through her body. Her ribs were bruised, as were her wrists and ankles. Purpled skin showed where her attackers had casually gripped, lifted, and thrown her like a bag of trout. Her dress had been split over her hip, and she was cold. Very cold.

  Only the faintest of smoky yellow light leaked from the hallway, past the hunched shadow of her captor. At least, that’s what she assumed it was, rather than an outcropping of rock. The shape’s absolute stillness made her occasionally second-guess herself.

  She thought she heard a noise in the darkness behind her and pulled her legs in close. It hurt.

  She wondered if anyone knew where she was. Probably not. The last thing her companions would have seen was her being carried off by Grok’s creature. Grief knotted her stomach. She’d hoped Clay and Bern would be able to protect her if things went bad, even if she didn’t tell them what they were up against, but the tree had knocked them aside almost casually. Karen had thought nothing would stop it from delivering her to Horan, and an ugly death. Fear had paralyzed her.

  So when shadowy figures blocked the tree’s path, at first she’d rejoiced. Had Clay marshaled allies to take it down? But then she saw the strangers’ faces, and her blood went cold. They were misshapen, hate-filled, and had eyed both her and the tree with dark violence.

  When their blades started hacking into the creature’s bark, ducking the swings of its limbs, she’d managed to fall free and scramble to get away.

  The back of an attacker’s fist put her back on the cobblestones, ears ringing and mouth sharp with blood. The men, or whatever they were, ignored her threats and entreaties. They roughly bound and gagged her. They only released her in the dark cell, which was silent in a way that spoke of a long distance from anyone who might hear her noise.

  Maybe she’d been mistaken. Maybe that dark shape near the hallway was a rock, and she’d been left unattended. Maybe she should test the strength of the bars.

  She poised to rise, her dress rustling slightly.

  A shadowy head turned slowly, eyes flickering with reflected yellow. Inhuman.

  She hunched back down, her hand tight around the gem of her necklace. It was cool, with only a tenuous grip on her father’s magic. She drew a breath.

  Someone could still save her. The dwarves. Clay. Or her father, although she remembered the way he had huddled in the caves, pulling in his power tighter and tighter, as if only waiting to die, his people with him.

  Iron scraped from beyond her captor. The sound of a door opening. A shape filled the hallway.

  “So you’re his prize,” a voice rumbled.

  She strained to make out the newcomer’s face, but it was silhouetted, its features shrouded in darkness. She could see only thick muscles and the gleam of a metal helm and blade.

  “I wonder what he’ll do when I break you.” The man stepped closer. Reflected torchlight hinted at his features. Heavy, cruel. Armor a deep blood red, grooved and scarred, a sword on one hip, and a curved bone swinging on his chest.

  Reflexively, her hand brushed her boot. Empty. The man had stolen the Golden Rib.

  “Give it back,” she said desperately. “You don’t know what it’ll do.”

  “And so I should give it to you?” Cruel amusement laced his voice.

  “I have some protection.” It wasn’t good for her, either, but she’d had no choice. “Please.”

  He chuckled, the light gleaming off upward curving fangs. “I like what it’s done so far just fine.”

  Fear and horror bubbled in her throat. “What do you want with me? What did my father do to you?”

  “I don’t know who your father is nor care.”

  “Then why take me?”

  The man leaned close. “Because the Dead Dragon Cowboy wanted you. I don’t need to know more than that. He will come for you, sooner or later.” The heavy teeth gleamed. “But when he does, he may not recognize you anymore.” He turned away.

  “Wait!”

  But he was gone, faded into darkness, the Rib with him.

  In the silence, she heard a faint scuttling from behind her, like soft legs brushing against each other. Thousands and thousands of soft legs.

  The stone in her necklace burned brighter, reacting to the presence of evil. She raised it and saw a horde of segmented bodies scuttle backward, like a dark wave. Retreating from the light. But not far, and creeping back slowly. Thousands of spiders.

  “Dear father,” she whispered. “Keep me safe…”

  15

  The Past Attacks

  In the ten years he’d spent in StoneDragon, Clay had learned a few things about the city. It was in constant flux. Each time StoneDragon Shifted, people from different times and cultures came through the Wall. It wasn’t clear why some were called and not others, but one thing was clear: those called were survivors.

  And so power in the city was in a constant churn, with the deadliest fighters clawing their way up the ladder toward the Bosses. The Bosses, for however long they could, clung to the top, either because they were already the deadliest fighters in StoneDragon or because they had the support of those who were. Weak Bosses were pulled down, usually in a bloody and permanent fashion.

  The interesting part was, if one group in human history might reasonably be expec
ted to flourish in such an environment, it was the Spartans. Their colorful and militaristic reputation had outlived them by centuries.

  But surprisingly, that hadn’t been the case.

  It wasn’t entirely their fault. The group of Spartans who entered StoneDragon had undeniable martial skills. Spartans trained for battle from the age of seven, enduring hardship and sometimes shocking depravation, drilling unceasingly with sword and spear until they had few equals in technique or discipline. However, their culture also bred its share of arrogance, which led the leader of the StoneDragon Spartans into a major mistake.

  He offended all the Bosses at the same time. It was an almost unheard-of accomplishment. Yet Mendonia managed it. He pissed off the Desert Riders—literally, relieving his bladder on their shiny white wall—aggravated Candiman and his vampires, upset the Ten Rich Men, and even aggravated Svenson, the usually jovial—and happily drunk—leader of the Vikings.

  But the message Mendonia sent Rhino was perhaps the most offensive of all: he declared that sub-human abominations were no longer welcome in StoneDragon—soon to be called New Sparta—and Rhino had until nightfall to leave, while he still had the legs and heartbeat to do so.

  That night, twelve StoneDragon warriors faced fifty Spartans beneath the crimson glow of the Wall. The red-clad Spartans stood in neat ranks, bronze shields and spears ready, grinning with battle-tested confidence.

  The grins didn’t last long. Two vampires dropping out of the sky shook the front line, and Snake’s wide open third eye shattered it. The battle broke into swirling pockets of violence. As Spartans corpses fell, the flow of battle brought Clay face to face with Mendonia. The Spartan leader’s shield was half stone, caught by Snake’s glance, and his breastplate was scored with deep cuts, possibly from a vampire’s nails. Blood covered his breastplate and arms, but it wasn’t his blood, not yet. He threw himself at Clay, sword and shield against pistol and knife and coat, and Clay found out just how fast the Spartan could move, despite his bulk.

  The struggle surged back and forth, until Svenson appeared beside Clay, his face painted black and crimson. The Viking leader’s axe swung like leashed lightning, shattering Mendonia’s shield into chunks of stone and bronze. Mendonia staggered back, exposed.

  Before Clay or Svenson could take advantage, another Spartan stumbled between them, a black-eyed vampire on his back.

  In that second of distraction, Mendonia turned and ran. What Spartan survivors were left streamed after him.

  Clay had thought he’d never see a red and bronze warrior again after that day. He was wrong. First, the sight of Mendonia in the Hairy Lady and here, in the smoke and stone of StoneDragon, he faced another red and bronze figure. One that stood too still and stared at Clay.

  The hair on his neck rose.

  Bern lay near the Spartan’s feet, although the soldier’s gaze was locked on Clay. She slowly crabbed back and climbed to stand.

  “Cowboy,” the Spartan rumbled. He was a big bastard, his chest straining the leather straps of his scarred bronze armor and biceps bulging like watermelons. He had gore in his beard, and white fangs poked out from his bottom lip, like a saber-tooth tiger.

  “What is he?” Bern asked.

  “Infected,” Clay said. “A vampire. But … the teeth are wrong.” He shook his head.

  Weather-worn brick buildings rose on either side, walling them in. Behind the Spartan, Clay could see a wider street and hear the echoed sounds of fighting and confusion. Smoke thickened the air and obscured the indistinct figures rushing past. No one looked in their direction.

  The Spartan’s smile broadened and dread coiled in Clay’s stomach. A Spartan vampire? What was Candiman thinking?

  “Dead Dragon Cowboy.” The Spartan seemed to savor the words. Something in his voice triggered Clay’s instincts, and he dropped to one knee, dagger sliding into his fist.

  The reflex saved his life. The bronze sword sheared empty air over his head.

  The Spartan charged forward, his shoulder catching Clay as he tried to duck away. He fell but managed to convert it to a roll. The Spartan didn’t slow but instead lunged at Jonathan, sword extended.

  Bronze clashed against steel, and Jonathan flew backward, crashing into a brick wall. He sagged and then disappeared, just as he had with Bern.

  It didn’t faze the Spartan. The infected warrior’s nostrils flared, his eyes closed, and his sword snapped sideways. A scrape of metal announced he’d deflected an unseen attack from Jonathan.

  The Spartan’s other fist lashed out, something smacked, and Jonathan reappeared, flying backward. His sword rattled across the cobblestones, and Jonathan scraped after it.

  The Spartan turned toward Bern.

  She was settled into a defensive pose, her face calm as she watched Jonathan get bounced around. Her knees were bent, her weight back, and her hands wide on the axe shaft.

  The Spartan’s sword whipped around in a tight arc, crashing against Bern’s axe. She sank lower into the position, knuckles white and back foot sliding. The shaft of the axe flexed. Clay could tell the blow had been more powerful than she’d expected. Vampires gained strength as well as speed with their disease.

  The Spartan had forgotten about Clay.

  Clay slipped forward, dagger in hand, and reached for the Spartan’s shoulder, ready to slice the blade across his throat.

  Bern’s eyes flicked sideways.

  It was all the warning the Spartan needed. He drove an elbow back, crashing it into Clay’s ribs.

  Clay’s breath exploded in white pain. He staggered back. If he hadn’t been wearing the dragon-scale coat, the blow would probably have killed him. It still hurt.

  The Spartan spun, sword lashing out. Clay threw the blue dagger up, but the impact knocked him back another step. His hand went numb. He jerked his knee back, barely avoiding the Spartan’s backswing.

  Good God, he was fast.

  Bern’s axe smacked into the Spartan’s heavy neck. He roared and twisted, ripping the axe handle from her grip. He lurched forward, attention pulled from Clay.

  Clay spun the dagger in his hand, darted forward, and slapped it down, hilt up, against the back of the creature’s neck. It really did make a nice cross.

  Skin bubbled and spat. Blue flame licked out from the blade. The Spartan screamed, sword dropping from his grip, and buckled to his knees. His back hunched and his fingernails carved grooves in the stone. Bern lifted a hand, metal flashing around her fist—the Dragon knuckle—and then brought it down on the Spartan’s skull.

  Bones cracked, blood spattered, and the Spartan dropped forward, hands spread wide, face inches from the ground. But some inner force, whether disease or hatred, refused to let him drop completely. He tilted his head to glare up at Clay, grinning with red-stained teeth.

  “You’re dead, Cowboy.”

  A red line quietly drew itself across the Spartan’s neck. His head toppled from his shoulders and rolled awkwardly away. The body finally collapsed.

  Jonathan reappeared, his blade wet with blood, his face tight with revulsion. “What the wave was that?”

  Clay looked down at his dagger. It was cold and dark again. A token, Resh had called it. The blade had certainly reacted to the vampire’s taint with more power than Clay had ever seen.

  “Something new.” His legs trembled in reaction, even as his pulse slowed down. “I don’t know why Candiman did it. Spartans would not be easy to control.” Candiman was all about control.

  “Who’s Candiman?” Jonathan asked.

  “StoneDragon’s head vampire.”

  “He was very angry at you,” Jonathan said, staring down at the body. “Are there more of them?”

  “Good question.”

  All of the Spartans would have a grudge against Clay and the other StoneDragon warriors that had embarrassed them. If they were out for revenge, that could be a problem. Clay tried to remember how many survivors had been left. Ten maybe? What had they done all this time, out of sight? Was it possi
ble they had all Turned? Clay remembered Mendonia watching him at the Hairy Lady. Coincidence? And did it mean anything that a Black Rider had been there too?

  He shook his head. Nothing he could do about it at the moment, anyway. And he had more important things to worry about. Like rescuing Karen. But that meant finding her first. With less than three days before StoneDragon shifted and her world was lost to her. Less than three days, with a hostile army trying to hammer its way into the city and steal her, led by crazy Earth gods. What could go wrong?

  “We need to keep moving.”

  “Where to?” Bern asked.

  “My office. Maybe my roommate can give us some advice.” He knew JP preferred a low profile, but what good was having a genius roommate if you couldn’t sometimes ask for help?

  Clay led them into the street, the blue dagger still in his hand, then deeper into the city. While StoneDragon had never been a safe or stable place, the invasion of the Earth army had made it worse. Violence and destruction swirled around them—not all of it started by the invaders.

  Clay saw a teenage boy in black eyeshadow trying to drag a mule out a broken store window. The beast was piled with gaudy clothes and loops of jewelry and had some kind of frilly underthing in its mouth. It had locked all four legs and was chewing slowly, resisting any efforts to move.

  Not much farther along, a small pack of rat men attacked a brightly colored sushi restaurant, scrabbling over the delicate fans and through the softly trickling waterfall. They were met by a pack of knife-wielding chefs that emerged from the kitchen. Bright carving knives made short work of the Earth warriors, and the last rat squealed as it was dragged inside by the tail. The restaurants of StoneDragon were notoriously open-minded about their menu, given the unpredictable nature of Shifts and the related food supply. Clay preferred not to think about it.

  They turned a corner, the second to last one before the office, and faced a row of brick and stone homes. Clay hesitated.

  “Something’s wrong.”