StoneDragon

by Adrian Cross

  How were they supposed to cross that?

  It didn’t look like the fire was guarded. Sendham padded forward until the fiery river silhouetted his lean robed form. He turned, his expression grim.

  “I believe the pits to be on the other side,” he said. “It will be filled with fledglings. They are the newly Turned, weaker and more confused than full vampires, but still fast and strong and filled with blood lust. If they are woken, run. Do whatever you can to make it back to this side of the stream. They will not cross the river of flame. But you won’t get a second chance, if you delay.”

  “But how are we supposed to get across that?” Ebanair asked.

  The flames nearly touched the ceiling; they must have been ten feet high. Heat beat at Clay’s face. The fire looked too fierce for anything to survive its crossing.

  “The stream will protect you,” Sendham said. “Just don’t take too long.”

  He dove into the stream, flames rushing up around him and then snuffing out as he disappeared. Clay heard a shocked inhalation of breath beside him.

  They watched the fiery water for some commotion, Clay dreading the sounds of screams. But nothing came, and Sendham didn’t return.

  Brock rumbled in his chest. “Are you going to let a Rider show you up?” he said sourly, looking at the dwarves.

  Dark and light dove in together, disappearing into the darkness. Flaming ripples lapped against the stone lip.

  “Bernetta’s waiting, cowboy,” Brock said.

  Clay dove head first into flame.

  37

  The Swarm

  The heat lasted only a moment. Dark water extinguished it, although the water was warm. Overhead, red and orange light danced. Clay pulled himself deeper, the water cooling slightly, before his fingers slid across slick stone. He stroked forward, feeling the air already press against his chest.

  How far across was the fire? How far did he have to swim? He glanced up again, but orange flame still swirled above him.

  Clay wasn’t a strong swimmer, but fear was a strong motivator. He shoved his arms forward, raked them back, thrashed his feet, and dragged himself clumsily through the water. His lungs burned. Where was the other side?

  Another beat of arms and legs. He fought an instinctive urge to suck in breath. Another stroke. Panic clawed at his brain. Again. A kick.

  His knuckles banged rock. Instinctively he clawed upward, hands breaching water and curling over warm stone. He burst up out of the water, gasping air.

  Something seized his wrist and pulled him fully onto the stone bank. Clay rolled over on his back, chest heaving.

  Heat warmed one half of his body. He was on the other side of the stream, red fire sketching out boulders and stalagmites and casting deep shadows farther from the stream.

  Mills stood over Clay. The blond dwarf must have lifted Clay out of the water. No small feat, the chunky warrior was strong. His backpack was soaked. Clay hoped the black pistol hadn’t been damaged by the water. Ebanair faced the shadows, axe drawn. Sendham stood several feet past, his head lifted like a hunting dog’s. His body was tense with bridled energy.

  Jonathan slid effortlessly out of the water and onto the bank, as if he were part eel. Clay had forgotten Jonathan came from a city by the sea. He’d probably been swimming since he was a babe. The bodyguard put a hand on his sword but left it sheathed.

  Brock floundered out next, much less gracefully. He hissed angrily as the water coursed off him. His armor had probably made it an awkward crossing. He spat out water and then glanced around. “Where are they?” he hissed.

  Sendham walked forward. The younger dwarves followed, not quite as quickly, and then Clay and Jonathan. Brock stalked behind them, one hand on his axe. Clay just wished he could be confident Brock would use it on an enemy instead of Clay.

  He would have killed for a weapon, any weapon.

  The darkness deepened, pooling around the broken ground, even as the cave seemed to expand, the smallest scuff of stone echoing. Clay caught a whiff of blood. He hesitated but then continued on, fists balled.

  He heard a scrape of movement, and something brushed his ankle. He froze and looked down.

  A pale hand seemed to glimmer in the darkness, palm up against the rock, black-tipped fingers curving. Tracing the arm back, Clay made out a pale face, eyes closed but mouth opening, again and again, like a hungry bird. Each time revealed small sharp fangs.

  The eyes snapped open and stared at him.

  Clay held absolutely still.

  Slowly, the fledgling vampire’s eyes slid shut again, as it dropped back into sleep.

  Clay’s heart hammered. After a long couple of seconds, he eased past the arm. It didn’t move again.

  The rest of the group had stopped to watch him. Sendham shook his head slowly and then they started moving again. Clay picked his way more carefully after that.

  Once he knew what to look for, he could see the Swarm all around, pale shapes curled in black holes and deep cracks, stirring restlessly as the group passed, as if able to smell the fresh blood…

  Clay stepped around a ridge of stalagmites, and the far end of the cave appeared, revealing a narrow circular crevasse around that part of the cave, like a moat that had been dropped into impenetrable darkness. In that small stone circle, a slumping group of shapes had been deposited. Three of them, Clay knew: Karen, Bern, and JP. A slender dark-haired boy in a torn white robe was most likely Madesh, Boss of the Riders.

  All four were bound and tied, back to back. Their heads were bent and no one moved.

  Clay fought a rush of fear and rage, forcing himself to breathe slowly. This was no place to rush forward carelessly.

  Apparently Ebanair, the young dark-haired dwarf, didn’t agree. He took a few quick steps and launched into the air, laughing softly as he curved over the crevasse and landed lightly on the other side, near the edge.

  Brock hissed.

  Something cracked loudly, like ice breaking, and a strange expression crossed the young dwarf’s face. Then it became clear he wasn’t weightless after all. Dark lines webbed out from under his feet and a hole opened. Ebanair disappeared into it. He never made a sound.

  After the crack, silence settled again, except for hoarse ragged breathing from Brock, who still stared at the hole in horror. Sendham was looking around, his body rigid.

  Clay felt fear dance fingers up and down his spine. Would this wake the Swarm?

  A sputtering groan rose around them, low at first, but then gathering steam, until it lifted and echoed, shaking the walls and hurting Clay’s ears.

  The Swarm had woken.

  A flurry of activity broke out. Brock raced forward and edged closer to the crevasse, axe drawn. He looked down, looking for Ebanair.

  Sendham followed, but instead of slowing down, he leaped up, arcing even higher and farther than Ebanair, dropping in the midst of the prisoners. He spun. “A knife!”

  Brock didn’t respond, his face flat of expression. But the young blond dwarf, Mills, took a look at the pale creatures rising all around them and tossed Sendham a dagger.

  Sendham sliced loose the prisoners. The only one who appeared able to stand, though, was Madesh, and even he swayed drunkenly. The others didn’t move.

  Shapes stirred all around. Clay looked at the stirring Swarm, then the ring of stone. Sendham wasn’t going to be able to bring everyone over by himself. Clay took a breath, ran forward, and heaved himself into the air. He came down beside Sendham. A spider web of cracks spread under his feet, but the rock held. He stepped forward quickly. Beside him, a thump signaled Jonathan’s arrival.

  The keening grew louder. The echoes were confusing, but Clay realized the sound came from within the crevasse as well as without. He looked for Brock, only to realize the dwarf was gone. He must have followed Ebanair down. Clay spared a prayer for both of them.

  Sendham was supporting Madesh. “Are you all right?”

  The teenager nodded. He had the unblemished skin and slender lim
bs of youth, but his eyes looked almost as old as JP’s. He pulled his arm free.

  Sendham looked at the crevasse. “Can you jump it?”

  Without a word, Madesh took off running, leaping as he reached the edge of the stone. Several stones tumbled into the depths. He staggered on the other side, barely, and then recovered, his chest heaving.

  He was on the same side of the crevasse as uncounted members of the Swarm, unarmed. A red-eyed fledgling sprinted at him, traveling on all fours, saliva spinning out of his mouth.

  “Ruin’s End,” Sendham cursed and jumped after his master.

  “I’ve got Karen.” Jonathan said, throwing her over his shoulder. He barely seemed to notice the extra weight as he took off, thumping back down again on the other side. His frame packed a lot of muscle.

  Which left Clay alone with JP and Bern. He couldn’t carry both of them, not all the way to the stream, not in time. His stomach clenched.

  Mills landed on the stone. “Need a hand?” He swept up Bern.

  “Thanks.” The word wasn’t sufficient, but they had no time for more. Clay lifted JP—limp but warm, still alive—and followed the dwarf over the crevasse.

  When he landed on the other side, he started running. Sendham had warned them about this. Time was short.

  Then the first wave of the Swarm hit.

  Clay’s vision narrowed, time slowed, and details became razor-sharp. The first fledgling was tall but thin, like an animated scarecrow, his limbs carrying him forward with ungainly speed. The glow of the stream showed a gaping hole in his cheek, its skin curled and blackened, as if someone had tried to fend him off with a burning torch. It obviously hadn’t taken. He leaped into the air and slashed at Mills with black nails.

  Mills’ axe smashed into the fledgling, snapping ribs and organs. Blood spurted. It bounced down into the rock and rolled.

  It gave them only a second’s respite. Behind the first were a hundred more, gathering speed.

  And the first one wasn’t finished. He tried to claw Mills’ ankle. Clay swept his boot into the side of its head, snapping the neck. It stopped moving then.

  “Don’t kill me,” Clay shouted. Then he grabbed at Mills’ shoulder, where Bern hung, her eyes closed. Her axes were gone, but Clay was looking for something else. His fingers curled around it, even as a dark shape hurtled toward him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mouth stretching wide, white fangs glowing, the fabric of a diseased cape billowing behind like great wings.

  He drove the Dragon knuckle into the fledgling’s face.

  Fangs and bone shattered, but momentum still carried the body into Clay, knocking him a step backward, before it collapsed.

  Clay’s fist ached. Blood spattered the front of his coat. He ignored both and stumbled after Mills and Jonathan. From the shadows around them, pale monsters appeared, eyes gleaming red. Clay glanced back. Behind them, the Swarm had reached the fledgling Mills had killed. Instead of flowing around it, there was a slight pause, and then the shadows closed in. Blood sprayed. Apparently hunger knew no loyalties.

  “The stream,” Clay grunted. He looked for the others, Brock and Sendham, but all he saw was the Swarm, getting closer.

  “We know,” Mills grunted and waded into another wall of fledglings. He hacked and hammered them down. Each victim was replaced by a new one. Each step was bought with pain and blood. The dwarf’s face grew white and strained.

  The wall closed in on them. The fledglings might not be as fast or powerful as their brethren, but they had a fanatical single-minded hunger, felt no pain, and appeared numberless. They flowed at their prey in a wave.

  Clay drove the Dragon knuckle into another fledgling’s throat, seeing it drop away, only to have his wrist caught by a lean hand. His arm was jerked sideways and teeth drew close to the arteries of his elbow. Clay drove his other elbow into the fledgling’s temple and then snapped his fist up, breaking its grip. Even as his attacker fell away, another flew at him. Clay caught its neck in his hands, but the weight of the attack carried him to the ground. He felt JP slide off his shoulder; long teeth gnashed over Clay’s face.

  The world shrank to keeping the creature’s face away from his throat. Hot saliva dripped on his cheek. This fledgling was incredibly strong, its infection raging in it like a fever. They must be close to the stream of fire because red light painted the creature’s gaunt face in stark, ghastly shadows. Its mouth crept inexorably closer, hot breath against Clay’s face. He twisted his head to the side, struggling to get distance, the muscles of his shoulders and arms straining in effort.

  The creature’s body jerked. Its eyes glazed, and then its head slipped away from its body, bouncing off Clay’s shoulder, blood spilling.

  Clay scrambled away, his pulse frantic. He saw JP and planted a leg on either side of the teenager’s tumbled form, fists clenched, preparing for the next attack. Preparing to sell his life as dearly as he could.

  Nothing came—or at least nothing made it through.

  Brock and Ebanair were back, somehow having survived the depths of the crevasse. Their axes spun in deadly curves, driving the Swarm back. Brock looked cool and deadly as ever, although blood creased his forehead and he panted, the first sign of exertion Clay had ever seen from him. Ebanair, however, looked insane. His eyes were wide and white, his teeth bared, and his limbs so crusted with blood he looked like he’d swum from the crevasse. He screamed as he hacked down fledglings.

  “The chain!” Brock snapped.

  Mills scrabbled in his backpack.

  The Swarm backed away slightly, not as if in fear, but rather as if it were gathering itself for a final attack. It had cut the group off from the stream. A thousand burning eyes tracked them. The group formed a circle around Mills. Clay drew a deep breath, knowing no further reprieve was coming.

  With an ear-cutting scream, they surged closer. Nails and fangs stretched out.

  A glittering line of silver snapped out, like a great spider’s streamer, sparkling in the fire’s glow. It reached out lazily to touch a fledgling’s chest.

  Flame and blood exploded out.

  The line of fire and silver swung around, in a graceful circle, scything through the Swarm with devastating effect. Bodies flamed and fell, decimated by the glowing line.

  Mills pulled the line back in to him. It appeared to be a tight-linked chain of heavy silver, weighted at the far end, and its entire length filed to a razor edge. Silver appeared to be even more effective on new vampires than old, Clay noticed.

  Screams of outrage and agony rose. Some of the Swarm tried to scramble back; others lunged forward, trying to get to Mills before he could swing the chain again. The rest of the group jumped into action, making sure that didn’t happen. Their lives depended on Mills’ chain. With blades, boots, and a Dragon knuckle, they broke everything that came at them.

  The line spun out again, silver glittering. The Swarm parted, revealing the fiery stream not far off.

  “Go!” Clay shouted. Brock grabbed Bern, Clay grabbed JP, and Jonathan Karen. The young dwarves ran interference on either side. In a tight pack, they raced for the stream.

  The Swarm surged forward. Black bodies flooded after them. They flowed over the rocks like a killing wave, like night extinguishing the world. The Swarm reached the group even as the group reached the water. Violence exploded. Blades and blood flew, bodies splashed, and screams echoed, human and fledgling alike.

  Something landed on Clay’s back and carried him into the water. He kicked out, tore lose, and struck deeper, dragging JP under the water. Clay refused to think about whether the teenager was drowning. There was no choice. Clay hadn’t pulled in a decent breath either. Heat and noise faded, and Clay’s lungs ached for air.

  With a gasp, he burst up out of the water. Heat singed the back of his head. He splashed frantically, grabbing the side of the stream and heaving up, pulling JP’s dead weight with him. The teenager’s eyes were closed, his mouth open.

  With a cough of rage and fear, Clay
pounded JP’s chest, using both fists. Water spilled from his mouth. Clay snarled and hit the teenager again.

  JP jackknifed up, coughing, eyes open and confused.

  Clay sagged in relief and then looked around to see who else was there.

  No one. They were alone.

  Dread coiled in his stomach.

  Then water burst up as Jonathan dragged Karen onto the bank. She was awake and gasping. Clay helped them up.

  One by one, the others surfaced, miraculously alive: Brock, Bern—pale but breathing—Sendham, Madesh, and Mills.

  A break. Silence settled over them.

  Brock stared at the water, his face impassive, until Sendham finally touched the dwarf’s shoulder. “It’s too late. He’s gone.”

  Everyone looked at the dark water.

  Ebanair hadn’t surfaced.

  Brock shoved Sendham’s hand aside and headed for the water.

  Mills grabbed the dwarf’s arm. “You’ll die, too!”

  Brock pushed Mills aside, not even looking at him. But as Brock reached the edge of the water, a moan rose from the stones. He looked back, muscles rigid with tension.

  A trembling hand lifted. “Brock,” Bern whispered. “Where are you going?”

  “You can’t desert her,” Mills murmured.

  Brock bowed his head. “I can’t leave him.”

  “Too late.” Sendham’s voice was unyielding as iron. “Even if he’s alive, it’s too late.”

  A tingle ran through Clay. If Ebanair was alive, he would be infected. The fledglings didn’t have the same control an older vampire did, who might drink without contaminating. Ebanair was beyond help, either way.

  Brock’s gaze met Clay’s. It burned with rage and despair. “This is your fault.”

  Clay was silent. What could he say? He couldn’t deny it.

  Brock turned and stumbled back toward Bern, his normal grace gone.

  It was like time restarted. Out of the corner of his eye, Clay saw Mills trail after Brock. Sendham and Madesh whispered, the Black Rider still holding the knife Mills had given him. And Jonathan set Karen down gently.