StoneDragon

by Adrian Cross

“You said people with power write the rules and everyone else is a victim. Are you a victim after all?” Clay was pushing it, he knew, but he didn’t have any good options left. The girls and JP were getting farther away by the second.

  “You have no idea,” Raol hissed, his fists clenched. “You don’t know what Candiman is.” He turned away, drew a deep breath, and then turned back. “Let me tell you a story, about a poor boy growing up in a long ago African country.

  “It was a violent and scary place. People died, all the time, all around the boy. Life was cheap. But the boy also found out he had a special talent. He was good at violence, very good. He learned to use a knife and pistol, to kill when he had to, and he learned the best way to protect his village was to make himself scarier than anyone else, to make the consequences of crossing him so bad, no one dared.”

  Water dropped in the pause. Raol’s eyes burned, and he leaned forward, his voice rasping with the emotion of his words. Clay could guess who this boy was.

  “That talent was recognized. A well-funded mercenary troop recruited the boy and trained him to use better tools, become an even better killer—world-class. They gave him lots of money, which also made it easier to protect his village. He was determined that other boys would have the chance to grow up without being killers.

  “He thought he’d succeeded. But then one day, at the height of his success, people of his tribe started disappearing. One evening, a lumbering pregnant woman. The next, two giggling girls, and early in the morning, three babes from different houses.

  “The warrior armed himself, laid traps, and scoured the forest, determined to find the predator. He was filled with rage and vowed to wreak a bloody vengeance on those foolish enough to target his village. He was a fool. That night, he found vampires.”

  Raol’s pain-filled voice stopped and then started again, slowly.

  “The warrior was smart enough to be wary. He spied on the unnatural predators, learning as much as he could, before attacking. He also managed to survive his initial mistakes. He killed four vampires over three nights, all that he had seen. He thought he had won. He hunted the forest all through the next night but found no more pale predators. In the pink light of the warming sky, he stumbled back to his hut.

  “When he opened the door, a stranger waited for him: a vampire, neat and dapper, wearing a plumed hat and a red scarf. He sat beside the warrior’s sister, on the small single bed, with one hand around the back of her neck. She stared at her brother with dull, stupid eyes, dried blood at her throat.

  “‘I could kill you,’ the stranger said pleasantly. The warrior carried a machete and a handgun full of wooden bullets, but the vampire appeared unconcerned. ‘I could kill all your precious villagers and leave your little collection of huts a fly-infested graveyard. But I don’t want to. Not because it would bother me, but because I need soldiers.” His head tilted. “You are the only thing I care about here. You are more valuable to me alive than dead—well, mostly alive anyway.’

  “The warrior knew the benefit of surprise. He attacked, using all his talent and the tricks he’d learned in his years of battle. He shot wooden bullets and swung with the machete, trying to drive the thing away from his sister. But all the shots missed. It was like trying to net a ghost. The machete scratched the vampire’s arm but was then snapped in half.

  “A cold hand closed on his arms, lifted him in the air. ‘Enough!’ the vampire hissed. ‘Any more and the girl will pay.’

  “The warrior sagged, knowing he was defeated. He had never met anything so fast. ‘You want me to join you,’ he said finally. The monster wanted him to be something else and leave his village behind. But it was the only way to save those he loved. And maybe he could harness the power offered to be something even more. ‘Will I become like you?’

  “The vampire smiled. ‘One day. If you wish it. Yes. Are you saying you accept my offer?’

  “‘Yes,’ the warrior whispered. ‘But not forever.’

  “The vampire laughed. ‘Done.’”

  Raol’s voice died away. Then he lifted a hand to his scarf. “I underestimated the bargain,” he said and pulled down the fabric.

  A thin silver chain wrapped around his neck, barbed at each link with an inward facing point, hooks that sank deep into his skin. Blood circled the barbs and trickled slowly down his neck. The gaudy scarf was a symbol of ownership, but it was something more, too: a bandage to soak up the red stains of his bargain.

  Raol let the scarf drop. “You have no idea what Candiman is capable of.”

  Desperation filled Clay’s chest. “What if it was your sister they were taking away now?”

  “She is gone anyway!” Raol shouted. “Something else Candiman didn’t mention. How can I return to my village if StoneDragon never visits the same place and time again? And even if it did, could I fight the blood lust forever? I could slaughter the very people I swore to protect!” He slammed a fist into the wall and then went through the door, so fast its opening and closing was a near blur.

  Clay pressed his forehead to the bars and exhaled slowly.

  The only bright spot he could see was that things were about as bad as they could get.

  Which was exactly when a rough chain looped over his throat and jerked him backward, choking off his air.

  36

  The Black Rider

  Clay had lived with violence for a long time. His reactions were reflexive. He swiveled his chest, even as he was dragged back, elbow lashing around. It glanced off something soft. From the gagging sound, he guessed a throat. The chain slackened.

  He dug his fingers under the links, dragging the chain down. Air trickled back into his lungs.

  He still had his back to the attacker. Clay wrapped his fingers around the chain, hunched his shoulders, and leaned forward. Then, without warning, he reversed direction, lashing his head back hard. He felt the back of his skull smash something hard and the chain dropped away.

  Clay ducked and twisted under it, crabbing away from the attack until the bars of the cell pressed into his back. He stopped, breathing hard, facing his attacker.

  The man had coal black skin and robes, making him nearly invisible in the darkness. He had a hand to his forehead, and the silver glint around his wrist made Clay realize the man was chained to the back wall. The stretch of the chains wouldn’t let him reach Clay where he was.

  The man’s head slumped forward. Clay noted two things. First, the man was hurt, and not just by Clay. Crusted blood marred his neck and wrists. Second, he was familiar. It was the Black Rider that Clay had noticed in the Hairy Lady, the day Mama Brogi had offered him the job with Karen. It seemed so long ago.

  Clay shook his head slowly. “Why?”

  “I had to try,” the Black Rider said. He didn’t look up.

  “Yes, but why?”

  “When the Great One commands, we must obey.”

  The Great One. Madesh. The leader of the Desert Riders. Essentially royalty of their clan. But…

  Clay struggled to remember the last time he’d even talked to a Rider. They were so self-contained they rarely had problems with Rhino. And if Rhino had issues with them, it wouldn’t be a single Rider that Madesh would send to deal with it. But what Clay did remember was the new Boss of that district was barely old enough to shave. “Isn’t your Great One only fourteen years old? What could I have done to offend him?”

  Clay’s head ached. As if there weren’t enough people trying to kill him. Maybe he would get lucky and they’d all trip and accidentally stab one another instead.

  A thought struck him. “Wait, when did you get your assignment?”

  The Rider looked at Clay but again didn’t answer.

  Clay was thinking it through. “I saw you at the Lady. You must have been on the mission then. So it was before the Earth gods attacked.”

  “Who are the Earth gods?”

  “That doesn’t matter now. Is that true?”

  A slow nod.

  “So why not just
kill me then?”

  The tattooed Rider hesitated. For a moment, Clay thought the man wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “The Great One was told by someone that a Fist would betray Rhino, in a way that would hurt all of StoneDragon. Since everyone knew Candiman coveted your services and since you had abruptly left Rhino… Well, you were the most likely suspect.”

  Someone. Even a teenager wouldn’t start killing people just on the word of someone. Whose prediction would carry that much weight? Clay remembered a line of skulls in the darkness.

  “The Prophet said that?”

  Silence was answer enough. A sick feeling settled in Clay’s stomach. The problem was the Prophet had some real forecasting skills. So if his statement were true, it just meant they picked the wrong Fist as the traitor. He knew who would top his list of suspects. Snake. Clay shook his head.

  “So why not attack me then? Why wait this long?”

  The Rider’s eyes met his. “I saw you try to rescue that girl. It was not the action of a corrupt man. I followed you instead.” A look of pain crossed his face. “But what I didn’t know was that the Great One followed me in turn.” He closed his eyes. “I didn’t know until it was too late. The vampires caught him. I could not fight them all; I tried. They subdued me and dragged my master away. I failed my task and failed to protect my master as well.” His head dropped. “When you came into the cell, I thought I could correct at least one of those failures.”

  God help him, Clay actually felt sorry for the man who only seconds before had tried to kill him. He grimaced. “Where is your master now?”

  “The same as your companions.”

  Clay tensed. “You know where my friends are?”

  “The pits below, where the Swarm sleeps.”

  That didn’t sound good. “The Swarm?”

  “The newly Turned vampires. They do little more than feed and sleep. But when they wake, they are hungry indeed.”

  The words were like a knife in Clay’s gut. “Why did they leave me here? Why didn’t they take me, too?”

  A sharp laugh. “Too valuable. Candiman wants more soldiers, willing or not. The others will be food. Our torment will be much longer.”

  The thought of being infected and collared, like Raol, burned like acid. Clay felt sick. “What’s your name?”

  “Sendham.”

  “You know where the others are. If I could get you out of this cell, would you lead me to my friends?”

  A sharp shrill laugh. “If you do that, I will owe you more than that. I’d owe you my life. If, that is, we can reach Madesh before the Swarm awakens. Of course, if Madesh is dead, your chance to collect will be short indeed. I will start killing vampires until I wash clean their caves with their own blood.” His eyes glinted. “Or they kill me—which is the more likely outcome.”

  Clay nodded and rose to his feet.

  Sendham’s burning eyes watched. “You still haven’t said. How could you do such a thing?”

  “It’s not that I know I can do it but that I still have one hope.”

  Clay drew in a breath, filling his chest. “Jonathan! Show yourself!” His shout rang up and down the stone hallway.

  A long silence met his exclamation. He could almost see the Rider deflate against the wall, his eyes sliding shut. Probably, the man was replaying his attack, wishing he’d had it over.

  Clay didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the darkness. Surely there was a chance?

  In the silent darkness, a whap carried to Clay’s ears, followed by a slap, as if a body striking stone. But it was utterly silent, so much so he questioned his own hearing. But then he heard a slow step approach, and a few feet away from the cell bars, he saw a dark puddle ripple, where nothing should have stirred.

  Fierce hope flared in his chest.

  The air shimmered, and Jonathan appeared, lit by the fierce glow of his sword. His face was strained and his eyes blazed.

  “Where is she?” he snarled.

  “Karen and the others are below us. We need to go after them. Open the cell.”

  Jonathan scowled at Clay.

  A new voice, a deeper voice, rolled around the stone walls. “What about Bernetta?”

  Three short, heavy figures walked in behind Jonathan: dwarves. Led by Brock, of course, who glared at Clay.

  His two companions were younger, one a lean and graceful youth, with the cords of elegant single-edged axes looped around his wrists. The second was taller and heavier, with his hair shaped into a shockingly blond mohawk. His arms bulged with muscle, and a canvas backpack peeked out from behind his broad back. He quirked a good-natured eyebrow at Clay.

  “I needed their help,” Jonathan said, his voice wavering between apology and rebellion. “It was the only way in. The creatures on the sign chased me away the first time.”

  Brock hadn’t looked away from Clay. “I asked you a question. Where is Bern?”

  Clay’s stomach clenched. For a moment, he’d almost forgotten. The desperation rushed back. “They have her,” he said. “We need to track her down. Now!”

  Brock’s face iced over. “You lost her?”

  Clay had had enough guilt. It was nearly shattering his skull. “Yes, but we don’t have time to dwell on it. She’s hurt. I will get her to help or die trying.”

  Brock’s features twisted. “Agreed,” he said. “If she dies, so do you.”

  His axe shattered the lock with a single blow. The door creaked open, and the dwarf stepped in, then stopped. His face darkened as he saw Sendham. “Assassin!”

  “A fellow prisoner,” Clay said, “willing to lead us to Bern.”

  Brock drew back the axe and swung it hard. The Black Rider didn’t move, even as the blade shattered the bracket beside his head. The chains rattled into coils at his feet.

  “Do you have extra weapons?” he asked.

  “Not for you.”

  Clay stepped toward the shelf with Resh’s dagger and the black pistol. Brock blocked his way.

  “Or you. Not until we know exactly what happened.”

  Frustration spiked in Clay. He clenched his fists. He didn’t want to fight the dwarves, not after they’d just rescued him and they were still in a stronghold of his enemies, but he couldn’t just leave his weapons there. “At least bring them with us. You can decide if you trust me later, but there won’t be another chance to take them.”

  Brock frowned but then gestured impatiently. Within seconds, they were moving again, Clay’s weapons in the pack of a blond dwarf. Any glow of success quickly dissipated, however, as they descended deeper and deeper.

  “Where we going?” Clay whispered.

  “The heart of the vampire infection,” Sendham said.

  After that, Clay didn’t feel like asking any more questions.

  Brock and the other two dwarves moved fast in the darkness. If it weren’t for Jonathan’s sword, Clay would have quickly been left behind. But he stumbled after the bodyguard in the weak blue light, occasionally catching a glimpse of one of the others ahead.

  The air grew colder and the walls damp. The rough stairs degenerated into a rough path that at times seemed little more than a natural fracture in the stone, the stone on either side buckled and uneven. They must have passed out of the basement of the structure above into the natural stone beneath.

  An unexpected rock caught Clay’s shin, sending him pitching forward. His heart raced as he imagined a drop off before him, but instead, his knees and palms slammed into stone. It was a flat part, and he exhaled gratefully.

  A strong hand took his arm and helped lift him. “Stay close,” Jonathan said, and he set out again, the blue light questing before him.

  A shadow loomed beside them, and the sword was jerked out of Jonathan’s hand, its light quenching. A hand clamped on Clay’s elbow.

  He smothered a fast and violent response when he recognized Brock’s squat and heavy frame. The dwarf pulled Clay into the shelter of a tumbled chunk of stone.

  “Quiet,” the dwarf hissed. />
  Blackness flooded back in. Clay had an awful taste of what it would feel like to be buried alive. The rock and soil seemed to press in from all sides. He forced himself to breathe deeply.

  “The pits are close,” Sendham whispered. Clay had no idea where the Rider was, his tattooed skin blending into the darkness. “It is getting close to the cold heart of the night, when the Swarm awakens and feeds. If the prisoners are alive, the fledglings will start to smell them now. It will be drawing them from sleep. One wrong noise and they will be after us, and that would be a bad thing.”

  “My gun,” Clay hissed to Brock.

  “No.” Brock never even hesitated. “Mills, Ebanair, it’s your Tempering; you take the lead. I will watch the rear. The rest of you stay quiet and do what you’re told, or I’ll make you regret it. Keep that sword sheathed, boy!”

  Clay couldn’t see Jonathan but could almost feel his rage, like a banked flame. “All right, let’s go,” Brock rumbled.

  The small group moved forward carefully. Sendham guided Clay by the elbow, but Clay’s eyes were adjusting and he could make out some shapes on his own.

  Brock’s two young dwarf companions drifted out in front like shadows. The blond one—Mills—moved with the graceful power of a bull, his feet touching the ground with surprising care, while the dark-haired Ebanair was liquid grace, moving as fluidly as a matador’s cape. At one point, when a rock blocked his way, he planted a foot on the wall and seemed to float effortlessly over it. If Clay didn’t know better, he’d have thought the dwarf a vampire.

  Brock snorted. Apparently, he wasn’t a fan of Ebanair’s showmanship.

  Mills stopped, lifting a hand, and Ebanair froze. The rest of the group eased up beside them.

  About ten feet away, around a slight bend in the tunnel, a line of fire blocked the path, from wall to wall. Real fire, not the swirling energy of the city’s Wall. Flames lurched up from a black stream crossing the path, dark as oil. It was a subterranean river of some sort, Clay guessed. A hole in the roof of the tunnel drew the smoke up, feeding the blaze and keeping the tunnel from filling with smoke.