StoneDragon

by Adrian Cross

  “The Tower,” he said. “We need to hole up there.”

  JP had been walking nearby, his face pale and strained. If possible, it seemed to go paler. “I thought you called that a very bad idea?”

  “We don’t have any choice.”

  Brock had heard their words. He shot a hard look at Clay and then considered the darkness around them. The vampires had stilled, but Clay knew they were still out there, waiting for their moment.

  “We will shelter in the Broken Tower,” Brock said finally. “Then you will find Bernetta a doctor.”

  “We don’t know what’s in there,” a dwarf protested.

  “We know what’s here,” Clay answered grimly. “The vampires will pick us apart in the open.”

  “Maybe.” Brock growled. “Maybe not. Chains!” Mills and another heavy pulled lengths of silver chain from their packs. “To the Tower.”

  A few dwarves positioned themselves around Clay again, but even with the stunt he’d just pulled, and the unfriendly glances shot his way, their attention was more on the surrounding shadows and buildings than him. Things were getting serious fast.

  Jonathan and JP had drawn close again. Not that Jonathan would be able to help quickly, if there was an attack. He supported Karen, whose cheeks were pale as chalk. JP looked almost as bad, trudging forward with his head down.

  After looking at Karen, Clay’s eyes were drawn to Bern, carried by a dwarf with a black leather cap. Her eyes were closed but her hand was outstretched, as if reaching for something. A weapon maybe? Her fingers trembled and shook, as if from cold. Clay’s gaze met that of the black-capped dwarf. He looked worried. Then the mass of dwarves closed, and the two disappeared from sight.

  Clay swallowed. Brock was right; Bern needed a doctor. Soon.

  “What will you do if she Turns?” JP asked.

  Clay’s head snapped around. “We don’t know she’s infected.”

  “Mendonia planned on Turning her.”

  “He wasn’t there. Ripper might have killed him.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” Clay shouted. Faces turned to look at him.

  He bunched his fists and forced his voice lower. It still sounded rough and fierce, like the roar of a banked fire. “We’ll get her to a doctor. She won’t Turn.”

  He didn’t want to hear any more arguments. He wasn’t sure he could handle the alternative.

  JP turned away, his expression unreadable.

  Ahead of them, dark figures bobbed and started rising. They’d reached the Tower’s stairs. The vampires still hadn’t attacked, although the stairs were a long climb and were made to be exposed. Clay’s thighs trembled halfway up. He had driven his body for days on little more than adrenalin and resolve. It was starting to protest, his movements becoming slow and clumsy. The smoke burned in his lungs.

  The sky overhead was as red-tinged and menacing as the ceiling of Rhino’s antechamber. Clay wondered if that was some kind of omen.

  “Where are the damn vampires?” a dwarf murmured.

  Clay looked at the ragged fractures and pools of shadow. “All around us.” Some of the fractures in the stone looked like they could have dipped into the black heart of StoneDragon. “The real question is, how many of them are there?”

  Brock pushed forward, leading the climb. Four or five steps ahead, Clay could see Mills, still wearing the backpack with Clay’s weapons and the silver chain, and JP not far behind. The teenager forged up the stairs, despite his ordeals. He’d obviously decided not to spend more time dealing with Clay’s ill humor. Or maybe he was spurred on by the threat all around them. Clay’s pounding head was distracting him from the threat.

  The weight of Clay’s coat dragged at him. Dragon scales sounded great, but they weren’t cotton by any stretch. Clay’s hand touched the inside pocket, feeling the bulge of the Rib, still there. Brock didn’t know its value. Clay wasn’t sure what the dwarf would do if he did. Was it possible Horan would be satisfied with its return, even without Karen or Clay, and leave StoneDragon alone? Was Clay being dangerously short-sighted about this? Was he trying to save Karen or re-live the failures of his past?

  Without warning, the shadows belched a vampire.

  He raced over the rough stone of the Tower’s slope, planted a foot on the low wall, and then flew over the dwarves’ line in a dark flash, his sword licking out. A young dwarf collapsed in a gurgle and clatter. His throat had been neatly sliced.

  A grin flashed across the vampire’s face, even as he landed on the other wall and kept running.

  A spinning hand axe punched into his back. He pitched forward but then rose almost as quickly. He turned with fangs bared.

  He should have kept running. A glittering silver chain curled around his neck, causing his skin to hiss and burn red. The vampire screeched and clawed his neck.

  The chain didn’t kill this vampire immediately, not like the fledglings. He must be older and stronger. But he couldn’t get away either. Mills dragged the chain back, pulling the vampire within reach of the dwarves. Heaving axes flashed, bringing the creature to a final death.

  One dead on each side. Clay guessed the body count was about to get higher.

  “Up!” snarled Brock.

  The clan heaved forward.

  More vampires materialized out of the shadows, pale and lean, blades bared. They might have lost the advantage of surprise, but the infected were still fast, strong, and difficult to kill. Mills and his partner spun out their chains, but they were only two fighters, and it took three or four other dwarves to chop the older vampires into enough pieces to remove them from the fight.

  A female vampire with only one leg and hand managed to sink her teeth into the calf of the other chain wielder. The dwarf screamed and staggered and then brought his fist down on her forehead, crushing the skull. He staggered on, spinning the chain, even as she collapsed twitching. Blood streamed down his shin.

  “Give me a weapon,” Clay shouted at the dwarves. “You need all the help you can get!”

  They ignored him.

  The attack of the vampires from the front had ground the advance to a halt. And vampires found holes in the line that the mongooses hadn’t been able to. Directly ahead of Clay, a black sword punched through a dwarf’s back with such force its tip nearly touched Clay’s chest before it stopped. He jumped back.

  The dwarf dropped to his knees and then fell sideways, bloody spittle spraying. Clay faced his killer. The vampire, who was marked by black hieroglyphics along his cheeks, licked the tip of his blade dry, smiled, and then stepped forward. His blade swung back, ready to carve into Clay.

  Clay tensed, but a small, familiar noise stopped him from moving.

  A red patch marked the vampire’s bare chest. He frowned down at it, more confused than concerned. Then the skin around the mark bubbled.

  The vampire’s eyes flared so wide they were rimmed with white. He howled. Another hole appeared in his forehead, rocking his head back. Skin seared and rippled back, blackening as acid chewed at infected skin. He clawed at his face, sword dropping.

  Another sword seemed to extend out of thin air, plunging into the vampire’s ribs. When the vampire’s hands gripped the new wound, the sword drew back and separated his head from his shoulders.

  Jonathan reappeared, even as the infected body flopped to the ground. JP stepped up beside him, Clay’s black pistol in his hands. His jaw was set, but the weapon trembled.

  “Thank you,” Clay said softly. The words were insufficient, but they would also have to do. JP hadn’t been trying to get away from Clay after all. He’d gone looking for Clay’s weapons. It also looked like the pistol was none the worse for their swim.

  JP handed him the pistol, butt first, then the glowing blue dagger. “You can use these better than me.”

  The dwarves were no pushovers. Brock led a single-handed mission of destruction above, and slowly, his followers regrouped and repulsed the attackers. They started up the stairs again, step by step. Whene
ver a cape fluttered overhead, a silver chain would spin out, discouraging them. The group gained steam again.

  Then Clay bounced off a muscular back and lifted his head to see why.

  Brock had stopped again. Candiman sat calmly on the steps before them, a small cane in one hand. The head vampire’s shoes gleamed, and spotless gloves covered his hands. He looked as regal and elegant as when Clay had last seen him in the Emporium—and no less dangerous.

  On either side of him, crouched in ranks like lines of blackened trees, his vampires stood. Each one held a sword, but the only movement was the swish and crackle of their cloaks as the wind danced around them.

  Clay had never seen so many vampires before. All there to kill them.

  Brock tilted his head. “You’re in our way.” If he was worried, he didn’t show it.

  Candiman smiled. “If I thought I could say it without laughing, I’d ask you to lay down your weapons and surrender, but we’ve moved past that point. I plan to take down every one of you and let my fledglings drink you dry.” His gaze found Clay’s. “I really did find the idea of infecting Rhino’s favorite an amusing one, Clay, but I’ve run out of patience. I will enjoy watching you die a slow and excruciating death.” The monster showed itself at last.

  Clay smiled back. “That’s okay. I’d rather die than let you dress me, Candiman.”

  The vampire’s face flushed with anger. “Kill them!”

  The vampires scrabbled across the rock like a wave of skeletal crabs, even as others dropped out of the night, cloaks flaring out as they landed. The leading edge hit Brock and swept past. He gave no ground, bodies flying away from him.

  Closer to Clay, swords and axes flashed. Some vampires were stopped by the shield wall, others leaped and clawed over it. Vampire and dwarf fought desperately, tangled in uncompromising battle, moving closer and closer to Clay.

  Then something twanged, deep and powerful.

  Candiman lurched forward, as if seized by an invisible hand.

  All the vampires twisted around, in unnatural unison.

  The vampire master lurched down the stairs, his body jerking and twisting, but not rolling. It couldn’t—not with the massive spear driven through his chest. A great bolt extended half its length through him, rough and blood-slicked. Finally, he came to a rest, propped upright by the spear, his face slack with shock and disbelief.

  The vampires screeched—all of them—a brutal, piercing sound. Dark shapes turned away from their own battles and piled around their master like black water spinning in a drain, forming an inky wall that hid and protected him. It stilled, all eyes turned up.

  Clay followed their gaze to where the shot had come from.

  Above, a massive figure stood on the uppermost level of the Tower’s stairs, silhouetted in the gap where the low stone wall ringing the Tower’s base merged into the stairs. Lining the wall on either side were grim-faced warriors squinting down crossbow bolts. The soldiers didn’t outnumber the vampires, but they didn’t look intimidated either.

  Rhino inhaled, his great chest inflating, and let drop the great ballista he’d been holding. A ballista Clay last remembered seeing mounted on the wall of Rhino’s castle. He drew his massive sword instead.

  “Leave,” he told the vampires.

  The infected had had their advantage flipped. They’d lost the high ground and their leader. They were caught between two sizeable and capable forces. The question was whether anyone was going to make a decision. Then, a panther-like warrior stepped out from the others, his sword sheathed and a red scarf around his neck.

  Raol inclined his head. “Another time.”

  He leaped away, over the broken rocks toward the Club District. His cloak fluttered behind him, like black wings. The other vampires followed by land and sky, like dark bats and bounding spiders. In a second, they were gone, including Candiman. Could he still be alive after that? A stake through the heart had a good reputation in stories, and the bolt had torn apart most of Candiman’s chest, but Clay would have more confidence in the outcome if he’d seen the master vampire’s head completely separated.

  Rhino stared down at them, first at Brock, then Clay.

  Clay felt a rush of reckless relief. “You took your own sweet time.”

  He thought he saw a flash of amusement, quickly veiled. Rhino brought his attention back to Brock. “A thank you would probably not be out of place.”

  Brock’s face was as sour as if he’d drunk castor oil. What kind of person would rather tackle a giant mutant bear than deal with awkward social situations? “Thanks,” he grunted.

  “So, is Clay a prisoner?” Rhino’s expression gave no clue as to whether he would consider that a good or bad thing.

  Brock wasn’t going to sugarcoat his answer. “Yes. He is my prisoner until he finds her,” he pointed at Bern, “a doctor. If he doesn’t, I will kill him.” His voice held no hint of request. He was stating facts as he knew them.

  Rhino considered this. “The Earth army will be here soon. If I can get you a doctor, will you agree to help defend the Broken Tower?”

  Brock tensed. Clay could only imagine the distaste Brock would have for defending the city that he hated and wanted to escape. But he was also bound to protect his clan, including Bern. The dwarf grimaced. “Fine. Until Bernetta is healthy or…” the pause was slight but noticeable, “dead. At that point, all deals are off.”

  Clay had to grudgingly admire the dwarf’s practicality. If Bern died, Brock wouldn’t be bound by his promise to stay in some losing battle. Brock faced up to whatever came his way with cold practicality. Bernetta’s death might devastate him, but that didn’t stop him from planning for the possibility.

  “Well, then.” Rhino smiled and stepped aside. “Welcome to my Tower.”

  39

  Climbing the Broken Tower

  JP’s hands shook. He could still smell the hot sourness of the pistol’s exhaust as he’d shot the vampire, hear the sizzle of its skin as the acid seized hold. For all the death he’d experienced, it had been the first time he’d ever actually killed anything. He felt thin, as if he were stretched to breaking. His refuge was falling apart; he was becoming something he’d never been before: an active participant in a battle rather than a reluctant tool. He’d killed someone for Clay. He’d chosen a side. Whether or not he’d chosen well would only be shown over time.

  His skin had chilled and tightened as he saw Rhino looming at the top of the stairs, great ballista in his hands, like some giant’s weapon wielded by a supernatural warrior. Which wasn’t that far from the truth. JP hadn’t been in charge of the DNA Reconstruction Program, but he’d heard enough to know their abilities were above the normal human limitations. Monsters of legend were not remembered for being ordinary. He wondered what nightmare had spawned Rhino.

  “You took your own sweet time,” Clay called out.

  But if Clay intended to re-establish the bond he and his old Boss had once had, he failed. Rhino moved his attention to Brock and kept it there. Only when Rhino had the dwarf’s commitment to defending the Tower were they allowed to enter.

  JP had a sick feeling in his stomach. Rhino was not some uninformed refugee from an earlier time. He had a good idea what JP could do, and whatever Rhino’s connection with Clay, JP had a feeling it was becoming frayed. Which meant Rhino might decide to take and use JP for his own purposes, just as the old General had done, before Clay stranded him in some in-between space and time. JP trusted Clay but wasn’t sure the cowboy could do much about the direction things were taking.

  JP moved up beside Clay. The dwarves glanced at them but allowed it. Clay looked down at JP. As usual, the gunfighter’s height and lean strength made JP feel small and frail, but Clay never spoke to the teenager with condescension or dismissal.

  “What is it?”

  JP weighed his words. Clay was in the eye of this storm. Neither dwarves nor Rhino would let him slip away at this point. But maybe JP could shift the odds on the margin. From what he co
uld tell, the greatest threats in the short term were internal not external. They were going into the heart of a storm, and the Tower itself might not be the least of the threats. JP was pretty sure its design was from his own futuristic time. And even more than that … it felt like his own hand in it, however that might have happened.

  And one thing JP knew for sure: everything he’d touched so far had been aimed at war.

  “Your weapons,” he said. “Maybe good to slip to me now, just in case the topic comes up again.”

  Clay considered and then jerked a nod. “Good idea. But don’t go too far.” He handed over the pistol and dagger, not without some reluctance.

  JP tucked both under his shirt, nodded, and slipped away. No one was focused on him, so he was able to work toward the edge of the crowd filing up toward the Tower. His gut got tighter every step he took toward the massive building, formed of gleaming black stone and torn at its apex. He probably could have hung back completely, disappearing into the city, but he wasn’t going to desert Clay. Not after choosing sides. And not that it would have been a lot safer in the city outside the Tower’s walls, either.

  Rhino’s soldiers watched the newcomers with cold eyes as they filed in. Brock’s men looked back with flat expressions. JP guessed they were wondering if they would be welcomed or attacked in the minutes following. He wondered the same thing.

  The heavy stone wall of the Broken Tower was pierced with a narrow corridor. The newcomers passed out of the view of Rhino’s guards and into its dimness. JP coughed as a gust of air blew dust into his nose and mouth. It tasted of age. He wondered when a force of this size had last occupied the great building. And what had stopped them from doing so.

  The stone tile underfoot wound in serpentine curves, lit by beams of red light from small alcoves. Mirror guided, JP suspected. The heaviness of the building and staleness of the air suggested it wasn’t direct access.

  Echoes of boot steps deepened as they exited the corridor and the walls opened. JP looked up in something approaching awe. He’d never seen anything like the Tower’s interior. Even so, it remained unsettlingly familiar, as if he’d known it all before.