StoneDragon

by Adrian Cross

  The bodyguard smiled. “My heart,” he whispered, and then he pressed his lips to hers.

  It felt like someone smacked Clay’s chest with a cloth-wrapped hammer. The sound around him seemed to muffle, except the slow beat of his pulse. He looked at the blur of blond heads, close together. Karen pulled away, her gaze sliding to Clay’s, then away, as if in guilt.

  Karen and Jonathan were a couple. Clay didn’t know how he felt about that. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away. Embarrassment and confusion warmed his cheeks, muffled the sound around him. Had he cared? Seeing her lips against another man’s, he realized that somewhere inside, he hadn’t forgotten her lips on his cheek.

  Karen buried her head against Jonathan, shoulders shaking.

  Clay drew a breath. It made sense. Karen had been desperate, knowing she needed help if she was going to enlist a warrior to get her back to her people. It must have seemed like a little thing, another lure to bring him to her side. Clay wasn’t even sure he blamed her. Her whole world was at stake.

  God, he felt a fool.

  As if a magnet pulled it, his gaze slid sideways to where Bern lay. She watched him. Her eyes were dark with pain, not all of it physical. She had seen his reaction, he realized. It meant something to her, too. Clay started to reach a hand out to her, but too late. Her eyes closed again, her body going limp.

  He sighed.

  Pain. Pain was all he got for letting himself feel again. And if there was a worse time for any of this, he couldn’t think of one. He levered himself to his feet. He felt numb, inside and out. It reminded him of when Horan had driven the wooden stake into his shoulder. His body had recognized the brutal shock, the force of the blow, but not the pain. That had come later.

  Sendham and Madesh were gone. He hadn’t seen them leave. But it was time for the rest of them to follow the example. JP had recovered enough to sit up, rubbing his face.

  “We need to go.”

  Brock looked up, eyes like black flame.

  “Yes.” He pointed at Clay. “You carry Bern. Mills, I want you at the cowboy’s side. No weapons, no escape. We will deal with him later.” He drew his axe and stalked forward.

  Clay and the others followed into the darkness.

  38

  Pursued

  One of Clay’s earliest and most difficult memories was of the wagon train that had brought him and his parents west, across the empty plains.

  He had been small and the wagon big. He remembered clinging to the back of the wagon, his body jolting with every dip, dust making his neck itch where it had crept beneath his high collar and grating in his teeth.

  He could remember his father walking in the wagon’s trail, his collar open and face flushed. He held his rifle with awkward unease and tried to watch all directions at once.

  Behind him, the sour-faced trail guide watched Clay’s father, the guide’s eyes dark and reflective as black marbles. A yellowed-stained moustache twitched as the man spat tobacco juice into the rust of the wagon wheels. He never saw the Comanche rise from the grass behind him.

  The Indians’ ambush was nearly perfect. The members of the wagon train had been lulled by the empty rolling landscape. With days of seeing no one, and the seeming impossibility of anyone sneaking up on the team, it was easy to let attention lag. The Comanche knew this well, and a dozen painted warriors had settled patiently in the wagon’s path. There they waited, almost invisible.

  The Comanche warrior that Clay saw had been lying face down in the grass, just beside a wagon rut. Clay must have been right above him. After the guide walked past, the warrior rose like an earth-colored ghost, tomahawk rising to split the guard’s skull.

  Clay had choked out a sound. His father just frowned in confusion, but the guide was quicker. He twisted, throwing up his rifle, and managed to deflect the blow so it only grazed his shoulder. He heaved the Indian away and swung up his rifle.

  Before he could fire, an arrow sprouted from his shoulder. The gun thundered. Both Comanche and guard staggered. War cries rose all sides. The Comanche jumped forward again, tomahawk raised.

  Something roared and the brave pitched forward.

  Smoke rose from the muzzle of Clay’s father’s rifle. He helped the guide back into the shelter of the wagon. The two crowded beside Clay, pushing him back. He still remembered the harsh smell of gunpowder, the heat and fear as he crouched in the swaying wagon.

  The settlers had beaten off the Indians, although with significant losses. Clay’s mother had returned to the wagon, dirty and white faced, and held him tightly. Clay’s father had joined them shortly after, wrapping his arms around both. “I think they’re gone,” he said. “It’s over.”

  Which had been true, at least for then. It wasn’t the Indians that eventually killed Clay’s parents. The tobacco-stained guide and his friends killed Clay’s parents and stole everything they had. Clay still didn’t know why the mustached man had let him go. Perhaps out of some sense of gratitude for Clay’s warning on the trail. Or maybe because he thought a seven-year-old no threat. If so, Clay had proven him wrong. Seven years later, after gathering hard-won skills with a gun, he’d hunted them all down. The Comanche had even been an inspiration, with their unflinching patience and cunning.

  Deep underground, in the dark tunnels under the Emporium, Clay found himself thinking of the Comanche again. This time, it was the actions of the dwarves that triggered the thought. Despite their muscular bulk and iron entrapments, Brock and Mills moved silently as shadows through the tunnels. Everything was secured and oiled, not giving away their presence until they chose.

  In that darkness, Brock brought down vampires with almost frightening ease, before they even knew he was there. He took down three, the last one in the narrow confines of the stairs under the Emporium.

  Everyone gathered before the door into the building, muscles tense. If any vampires were on the other side, there would be nowhere to hide. Clay stood in front of JP, wishing not for the first time that Mills would give back his weapons.

  “Get ready,” Brock ordered Mills.

  Mills nodded and slid the silver chain out of his backpack. He also retrieved a smaller, thicker bag out of a shadowed crack in the wall. He must have tucked it there on his way in. The bag squirmed as if something were inside. Mills set it near his foot, then nodded, chain ready.

  Brock pushed the door open slowly. He stepped through, axe raised.

  The Great Hall was empty, even the figures on the walls gone. A deep ominous silence pooled in it, like something physical.

  Brock gestured for Mills to bring him the smaller canvas bag. Brock pulled out a small silver needle and jabbed it into the bag. Squeals erupted. Brock used a dagger to cut the cord around its neck and upended the bag’s contents onto the floor.

  Rats fled in a dozen direction, smears of blood on the dark stone floor.

  “Smart,” JP murmured. His eyes had regained a shade of their normal brightness. “That should confuse our trail.”

  Next, Mills handed Brock a bottle, which he splashed in a wide circle. The eye-watering smell of bleach brought tears to Clay’s eyes. “That should take the smile off their face,” Brock said. “Stay ready, Mills. Let’s go.”

  They stepped out onto the Strip.

  The light of the Emporium’s facade pushed back the red tint of the Wall, washing the street front in a swath of gold. But a few feet farther, the shadows coiled again, with the Earth army’s damage still darkening the rest of the street. The group moved quickly into the shadows, creeping carefully alongside awnings and alleys, watching the roofs as carefully as anything else. They reached the end of the Strip with no sign of detection. It was eerily quiet.

  “Where are they?” whispered Mills.

  Brock shot a dark look and shook his head. No talking.

  Brock led them a little farther and then turned sideways into the mouth of a shadow-filled alley. A shimmer of silver and black stepped forward.

  Clay tensed, ready for fight or fl
ight, as well as he could with Bern in his arms, but then he relaxed. The shapes materializing out of the shadows were not vampires, but dwarves. It looked like most of the Brogi clan had joined Brock to save Bern, bristling with shields and weapons. There must have been close to a hundred warriors, with the elderly and wounded behind, most of whom stared at Clay with cold hostility. Probably blaming him for Bern’s predicament, he guessed. Where was Mama?

  A dwarf took Bern out of his arms. Brock glared down at her, his knuckles white around the axe handle.

  “She needs help.” Brock growled. “More than we can give. She was your responsibility, cowboy, and that hasn’t changed. Where can we find a doctor?”

  Clay knew only one doctor in StoneDragon, Doc Tully, Rhino’s doctor, but Clay had no idea if the man was alive or dead. But Brock was in no mood to hear that, and Bern needed help. Soon. Fear tightened Clay’s chest as he looked down at her pale face. She couldn’t die on him.

  “The Free Zone,” he said. It was his best guess as to where Rhino and Doc Tully would go next, if they survived the battle. They wouldn’t want a war on two sides by trying to cross into another Boss’s territory.

  JP shot Clay a look. Probably thinking Rhino and all his men were dead, but the teenager said nothing. They had no better options. And there was an even bigger question mark in Clay’s mind. The Free Zone was Ripper’s territory, bought in blood. But Ripper was a Creeper—the very enemy Rhino had been created to hunt and kill. Clay guessed Rhino didn’t know that, or they would have come into conflict long before this. Rhino hated the Enemy with a fierce and unrelenting passion. His entire life revolved around it. What would happen if he found out? As he would if he marched his army into the Free Zone for any length of time, assuming Ripper had survived his battle with Mendonia, which Clay did. Mendonia was tough, but the Ripper looked to be something more.

  But if Rhino and Ripper fought, Clay honestly didn’t know who would win. Unworldly as Ripper was, Rhino had been built to kill Creepers, and he wouldn’t have survived as long as he had if he hadn’t exceled at it.

  Of course, they could both be dead, as well as Doc Tully. Clay could see only so far forward, and he could only make his best guesses and live with the consequences.

  A blood-chilling howl rose up behind them, from the Strip, rising into the night like a flood of black wings.

  A chill crawled down Clay’s spine, and he shivered. No matter how tough he was, it was something beyond the norm to hear the hunting sound of the greatest predators of the night: vampires. He set his jaw. Clay hadn’t picked this fight, but he would make damn sure Candiman regretted it before it was over.

  “To the Free Zone, then,” Brock said. He pointed at Clay and turned to two dwarves. “Keep him out of trouble.” They flanked Clay, looking hostile. “Let’s go.”

  In a grim double line, the dwarf clan followed their leader back out onto the street. Clay was hurried along, his companions seeming to spend more time watching him than their surroundings. Which might have been why he was the only one who noticed the shadow flashing across the red and black sky.

  He stopped.

  The dwarf to Clay’s left nudged him with the butt end of an axe. Clay ignored it, eyes sweeping the sky. Vampires.

  The blow came again, harder. Clay grunted.

  Brock twisted around. “What?”

  Before Clay could answer, a dark shape materialized out of the dark mist, planted in the center of the road. It wasn’t a vampire.

  The creature was huge, armored in fat and swaying fur, with a heavy steel bar trailing from one paw. It stood erect, intelligence flaming in its eyes. It roared, exposing teeth like short swords. Clay swallowed. He barely came to the creature’s chest.

  A giant bear in front, vampires above: not good. It got worse.

  From the darkness behind the bear, a stream of mongooses flowed forward and around, aiming for the dwarves. Furred fists clutched short blades, and red eyes glowed maliciously.

  Clay’s pulse pounded. He clenched his fists.

  “Shield wall, up!” Brock barked. The dwarves shifted smoothly, the heaviest warriors stepping to the front—Mills among them—extending their shields and dropping to one knee. A second line formed behind them, axes held ready. Brock stood in the center of that line, watching the enemy approach calmly. He hadn’t yet drawn his axe.

  Clay’s gaze was drawn to the sky. It looked empty again, streaked with smoke and darkness.

  Wood splintered and steel rang as the mongooses smashed into the shield wall, drawing Clay’s attention back to the battle. Swords and claws hammered shields. Blades sought flesh. A dwarf staggered back from the line, a mongoose hanging from his shield. The dwarf behind swept the creature off with a vicious backhand swing and pushed into the gap, denying the attackers an opening.

  The second line stepped forward, as the first crouched down, bringing their shields lower. Axes swept over top, cleaving furred flesh. The front line of Earth warriors staggered back. But a second wave swept in behind them—and this time the great bear came, too.

  The beast swung the steel bar with an almost lazy carelessness, but it had several tons of fat and muscle behind it. A row of shields splintered, dwarves sprawling. The bear roared in triumph, eyes gleaming red, white spittle flying.

  Brock stepped into the gap. He was as calm as Clay had ever seen the dwarf, as if some of the daily frustration he lived with had ebbed. His legs were spread and his axe balanced in a loose two-handed grip. Clay shook his head. Brock’s poise—or lack of touch with reality—was awe-inspiring.

  But Brock didn’t see the dark shadow hurtling out of sky, dark cape fluttering, sword extended to plunge into his back.

  There was no time for explanation. Clay sank a fist into the belly of the guard to his left. He had to admit to some minor satisfaction when the dwarf who had jabbed at him gasped and sank to his knees, curled around his stomach.

  Clay then reached sideways and yanked the axe out of the belt of the other dwarf beside him. The dwarf turned, eyes widening in shock.

  Clay jerked the weapon closer, pulling the dwarf with it, and then head-butted him in the face, driving him backward again. The axe stayed where it was.

  Clay spun, tight and hard, building momentum, and then released. The axe spun up into the night, blade flashing—

  And buried itself in the chest of the vampire, knocking him off trajectory. He slammed down hard on his back, flat on the cobblestones, between Brock and the bear. Both stared at him in surprise. A shocked hiss came from the dwarves around Clay.

  The axe quivered in the vampire’s chest as he lifted his head and blinked stupidly at Brock.

  Brock never moved. He didn’t have to. The bear took off the vampire’s head with a vicious swipe of a paw. He roared again, the road vibrating.

  Dwarves hit Clay from all sides, dragging him down. Pain hit from various punches. He tried to ignore the blows and see through the field of stout legs. He did notice none of the dwarves used the sharp ends of their axe on him, which was a positive. It had been a risk.

  With a flash of dark fur, the bear lurched forward, jaws snapping.

  The flurry of blows slowed as the dwarves turned to watch the fight. Clay spat a stream of blood onto the stones and did the same.

  Brock rolled out of reach, axe slicing around to catch the bear’s shoulder. It didn’t bite deeply enough to pierce the layers of fur, fat, and muscle. Blood spattered, but the bear barely seemed to notice as it reared up on its hind legs. It stared down at Brock for long seconds, as if evaluating him. Its bulk dwarfed the axe-wielding figure in front of it, like an iceberg would loom over the tallest ship.

  Brock stepped forward, into the bear’s range, seemingly unconcerned.

  The bear shook its head, blood flying from the fur of its shoulders and chest. The bear brought its steel bar back, both paws wrapped around it.

  Brock let his axe head drop slightly. The dwarves around Clay moaned softly. It was hard to see how Brock could dod
ge the bar from where he stood.

  The bear swung, the bar accelerating incredibly fast. Grey metal blurred in a wide arc.

  Instead of ducking back, Brock jumped forward. With smooth grace, he spun the axe, hands sliding out on the shaft, legs spreading to brace himself. With a guttural shout, he met the bear’s blow head on.

  Metal rang on metal. Brock shuddered, his whole body tightening. But he held.

  The bar twisted out of the bear’s grip, clattering on stone. The creature’s eyes widened. It was off balance, leaning forward, its expression stunned.

  In a flash of metal, Brock’s axe reversed and tore open the bear’s throat.

  Blood drenched the ground in a curving line.

  The beast staggered and then crashed to the earth.

  The dwarves roared, pumping their axes in the air.

  The mongooses hesitated, wavered, and then ran, disappearing into the darkness.

  Brock cleaned his axe on the bear’s fur. He glanced at the dead vampire, at Clay, and then turned away with no change in expression.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “We’re wasting time.”

  The tension didn’t ebb from the group as they moved on. Both Candiman and the Earth gods would soon know where they were. Clay had no doubt they would both send reinforcements, in force. He remembered the pits of fledglings and the army seething outside the Wall and felt a weight settle in his stomach. Sooner or later, their group would be pulverized by sheer numbers, unless something changed.

  Clay pushed that concern out of his mind. He couldn’t afford to worry about it at the moment. He had to get the girls to safety. After that, he’d try to figure a way out of the rest of the mess.

  Unfortunately, not thinking about it didn’t make it go away. From all around, he could hear an ominous fluttering rising and could see flashes of movement in the darkness above. The vampires had caught up.

  Clay felt sick with frustration. They were close to the Free Zone, but the Tower still blocked their path, looming overhead like a dark mountain. There was no way they’d get past it, not with the vampires this close.