Stone Cold Bastards

by Jake Bible

  Xue sat on his stony haunches as whiffs of smoke drifted out of his large, wide nostrils. A product of one of Byrne’s trips to San Francisco, the G had been imported from China, rumored to have been plucked from a pedestal outside a crumbling palace or monastery. Byrne hadn’t known or cared; he’d just liked how exotic and mean the thing had looked.

  And the lion/dog looked mean. Nearly as large as Morty, but lacking the height due to his quadrupedal nature, the G was muscle upon muscle upon muscle. If he were flesh and bone, he would look like a bull mastiff on steroids.

  “Thank you, Xue,” Artus said, carefully pronouncing the name correctly—like shoe with eh at the end. “We have gotten off track, as happens so often with this group.”

  Geffe and Deek began to respond, but Xue gave a harsh bark and the two Gs shut their stone mouths fast.

  “We must prepare ourselves for what is coming. Valac’s presence is proof that time is short,” Artus said. “We will need to venture outside the sanctuary for supplies. Our wards will not last long with only the provisions on hand if we do end up under siege.”

  “You ever been under siege before?” a small gryphon asked. With the head and front talons of an eagle, but the body, tail, and legs of a lion, the G could have been quite intimidating. If she wasn’t only a foot high and her wings weren’t broken nubs. “Well, I have. I would prefer not to do it again. Any way we can head this off, Artus?”

  “No, Scythia, I am afraid it is inevitable,” Artus replied.

  “So, whoa, hold your horses here,” the last of the Gs present said. “Nothing is inevitable, boss. Nothing. We all got choices. One of them being we leave this place and set out on our own.”

  The group groaned and began shouting him down.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” the G said. “Let a man, speak will ya?”

  Four feet tall, the G was the perfect likeness of a 1920s Hollywood gangster. Pinstripe suit, fedora cocked to one side, even a stone coin that he continuously flipped with his thumb over and over, catching it with ease each time, the G was rumored to be the likeness of Byrne himself.

  Except that he insisted he was carved in the 1990s, not the 1920s. No one believed him, since there was no way a Stonecutter still lived in the 1990s. It was said the last Stonecutter had died sometime in the mid-twentieth century, when American corporate prosperity changed the world and mass-produced cement replaced cut and shaped stone.

  The Gs quieted down, but not completely. There were still some low grumbles as the G continued.

  “Listen up,” Coins continued. “I know we have some spiritual obligation to protect this sanctuary and whatever meatbags wander in here.”

  “Wards,” Artus said.

  “Wards, meatbags, whatever,” Coins replied and shrugged, not deterred by the admonishment. “We all feel that obligation in our rocky guts. I know I do. I woke up with it just like the rest of you. But that don’t mean we have to die because we get a little indigestion whenever we leave the sanctuary grounds. I know I could learn to live with some cramps here and there. The key word being live. We stay here and we’ll end up so much gravel in no time.”

  “Thank you for your perspective, Coins,” Artus said. “But leaving is not an option.”

  “Leaving is always an option,” Coins said, flipping his stone coin into the air.

  “Not for some of us. Not all of us can move about.” Morty caught the coin and it probably looked like he was about to crush it in his massive clawed hand, but instead, he slammed it against Coins’s chest. The smaller G stumbled back, but didn’t say anything, just took the coin from Morty and gave the big G a tip of his hat.

  “We don’t leave,” Morty said.

  “That is not quite true,” Artus said. “Some of you will have to leave in order to scavenge supplies. I only hope you have the decency to return.”

  “The luck, you mean. The luck to return,” Geffe said. “If there are a ton of possessed heading this way, then we’ll be sitting ducks out there.”

  “Very true,” Artus said. “Which is why we are having this meeting. Mordecai will leave at first light and survey the closest towns. He is the only one of you still gifted with flight. Also, his leaving will not cause a panic amongst the wards. When he returns, a team of you will accompany him out to the area he believes will hold the most promise for needed items.”

  “Like that ain’t gonna cause eyebrows to be raised,” Coins said.

  “I’m not the only one who can fly,” Morty said and the group grew uncomfortable quick. “I’m only saying. There’s one other who can fly just as well as me. Faster even. If this is as grave as you say, Artus, then he should come with me. We can cover more ground that way.”

  “He has not left his perch since being placed there the year I was placed here,” Artus said. “But, of course, you are welcome to ask him. I wish you all the luck in the world.”

  Throats were cleared, feet and claws were shuffled, eyes averted.

  “Worth a shot,” Morty said and shrugged. “Maybe he’ll change his mind?”

  No one responded to the half question, half hope.

  4

  ROAN WAS A Welsh dragon. Pure and simple.

  With four legs, two wings, and a sharp, pointed tail, Roan was as dragon as any carved creature could be, even down to being hewn from some brick-red rock that had slowly faded to a deep pink over the centuries. Made of stone or not, he was the perfect likeness of the dragon that had adorned Arthur of legend’s banner. The curls of smoke coming from his slitted nostrils certainly aided in his authenticity.

  “Roan?” Morty called out as he climbed onto the roof, quickly striding across the tiles to the spot where the dragon was perched. “You up here?”

  “Where else would I be, Morty?” Roan replied. “This is my spot. At the peak between two towers.”

  “Yep,” Morty said, oblivious to the pitch of the roof as he plopped down next to the dragon. “This is your spot. Problem is, pal, I think I need you to leave your spot for a few hours tomorrow.”

  Morty puffed on his cigar and waited for an answer. None came.

  He hadn’t expected one.

  “Listen, I know we’ve talked about this before,” Morty began.

  “Yes, we have, Morty,” Roan interrupted. “I remember each and every time we have discussed the subject of me leaving my spot. Can you tell me what the results of those conversations were?”

  “Nothing,” Morty answered.

  “Wrong,” Roan responded. “The results were that I stayed right here. In this spot. Like always.”

  “This isn’t like always,” Morty said. “I need your wings and your strength. We’ve got to put in some supplies.”

  Roan was much larger than Morty, but crouched low to the peak of the roof so his size was not as evident. When he uncurled himself, his full stature was quite impressive. A couple of embers popped from his nose and floated up into the early night’s sky, the sun having fully set during the meeting of the Gs below.

  “Put in some supplies?” Roan grumbled. “Do I look like a pack mule to you, Morty?”

  “No, pal, you don’t,” Morty said. “You’re too ugly to be a pack mule.”

  Roan snorted and smiled, showing two rows of very, very sharp obsidian teeth. The Stonecutter who had made Roan had prepared for all contingencies, knowing full well that obsidian could be used on other grotesques, if needed. Morty hoped he’d never witness that.

  “I will remain right where I am,” Roan stated.

  “Yeah, except I really need your help this time,” Morty said. “Would I be up here asking if I didn’t?”

  “If you were bored enough,” Roan said.

  “Oh, come on,” Morty said. “Give me some credit. I visit when I’m not bored and I visit when I just want to hang out.”

  “True
,” Roan said. “But not tonight.”

  “No, not tonight,” Morty said. “The wards are making a list of supplies they need and—”

  “And you are almost out of cigars,” Roan chuckled.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m almost out of cigars,” Morty said.

  “If you could breathe fire like me, then you wouldn’t be a slave to that habit, my friend,” Roan said and belched three smoke rings then sent a narrow stream of flame shooting through them. “See?”

  “Show-off,” Morty responded. “Like I was saying, the wards are making a list of supplies. But it ain’t gonna be just a normal shopping list. We’re putting in provisions for the long haul.”

  “The long haul?” Roan asked. He sighed. “A siege.”

  Morty furrowed his rocky brow. “Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. Artus seems to think the possessed will be knocking at the gates pretty soon and won’t go away until they get inside.”

  “They have tried that before,” Roan said. “They went away.”

  “Artus doesn’t think they’ll go away this time,” Morty said. “New York fell and Valac’s down there at the bar, keeping an eye on us.”

  “Valac?” Roan asked. “What does the Treasure Hunter want with our sanctuary? Seems a strange choice for demon management to make if they are planning a siege. I could see Leraje or Separ, possibly, but Valac? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless they are looking for something,” Morty suggested.

  “Such as?” Roan asked.

  “The way in,” Morty replied. “Valac hunts down treasure. Maybe management has decided that they need him to hunt down the key to opening our gates.”

  “The gates below cannot be opened, nor can the grounds of the sanctuary be breached, as long as Artus remains intact,” Roan said. “That is the Law of Sanctuary.”

  “Artus is getting tired,” Morty said. “I can feel it.”

  “As can I. As can the demons,” Roan said. He turned and fixed his full gaze on Morty. “Which is why I cannot leave my spot. Do you believe our magics are infinite? Nothing is infinite. I must remain in place so Artus can continue.”

  Morty nodded, making sure he didn’t turn his eyes from Roan’s gaze. Welsh dragons were very particular about eye contact. After a minute, Roan returned to staring out into the night. The two of them were silent for a long while.

  “You’re giving Artus some of your power, aren’t you?” Morty asked.

  “I am,” Roan replied without hesitation.

  “Dammit,” Morty said and stood. “How long has this crap been going on?”

  “Not too long,” Roan said. He patted the tile under his front claws. “I sensed his weakening when the last batch of refugees came to us.”

  “Too many wards,” Morty said.

  “No, it’s not the wards,” Roan said. “It’s just that Artus’s magic is old and this sanctuary is built upon new land. He would be so much stronger if the cathedral was still set in Wales, upon its original base and land.”

  “Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” Morty said. “How long you got?”

  “How long do I have, what? Before I tire and can no longer assist Artus?” Roan replied. “Long enough.”

  “What does that mean?” Morty asked.

  Roan responded with a shrug of his red shoulders and a puff of smoke from one nostril.

  “Great,” Morty sighed.

  “All is not lost yet,” Roan said. “Maybe Valac is here for some other reason besides the key to breaching our gates. If we find that other reason, then we might be able to forestall management’s plans.”

  “You’re grasping at straws there, pal,” Morty said. He drew on his cigar then carefully put it out, tucking it away inside a hidden spot in his carved body. “But I guess we’re all doing that. Only a matter of time before we fall and the last humans are taken to be possessed like the rest of humanity.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” Roan asked. “Morty? Have you given up?”

  “Me? Give up?” Morty laughed. The sound echoed out across the acreage and was responded to by a high cackle from down by the gates. “Valac must be gone, because that’s Gorb on duty down there. I can tell by the cackle. Olivia hates that demon. I feel for her.”

  “Yes,” Roan said. “But, we will not change the subject. Answer my question, Morty. Have you given up?”

  “If I have, would I be asking you to come on a supply run with me?” Morty replied.

  “A question does not answer a question,” Roan stated.

  “No, Roan, I haven’t given up,” Morty said. “I may not love the wards as much as some of the other Gs, but there’s no way I’ll abandon them to the demons. I take my job very seriously.”

  “I know you do,” Roan replied. “I just wanted to make sure.”

  “Well, now you have,” Morty said. He patted Roan on the left flank. “Listen, good talk, but I have to get below and sleep for a couple of hours. If I don’t, I’ll go solid in mid-flight tomorrow. Nothing like a half ton of granite plummeting from the sky to get the possessed laughing.”

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Roan asked. “Which town you’ll try? There can’t be much left close by.”

  “I’m thinking of heading into Bryson City,” Morty said.

  “I thought it was overrun with possessed,” Roan said.

  “That was months ago,” Morty said. “They should have cleared out by now. I’ll see if they’ve left anything to pick over, then head east to Sylva then cut up to Cherokee.”

  “The casino?” Roan asked then grinned. “That’s where you’re getting the cigars from, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” Morty said and gave Roan a quick wave as he retraced his steps back across the tiled roof to a small hatch. “You want anything while I’m out? Maybe some marshmallows to roast?”

  “You are so amusing,” Roan said and shook his head. “I can think of nothing I need.”

  “You should take up cigars,” Morty said as he climbed down into the hatch. “I’d be happy to share.”

  “I already have my own source of smoke,” Roan said and sent a flame shooting toward Morty.

  “Hey!” Morty cried and swatted at the flame even though it couldn’t hurt him. “No scorch marks, pal!”

  “Be careful out there,” Roan said.

  Morty paused just before disappearing over the lip of the hatch. “Yeah, thanks,” Morty said. “You be careful up here. If Artus is draining you too much, let me know. Between the rest of us we may be able to help.”

  “You can’t, but thank you anyway,” Roan said and went completely still, making it obvious the conversation was done.

  Morty finished climbing through the hatch and descended a tall ladder of iron down to a series of catwalks that crisscrossed the attic of the cathedral. Physics would dictate that a creature of his size and weight would crack the catwalk beams the second he set foot on them, but magic insured no harm came to any part of the sanctuary by one of its protectors. Good thing, or there’d be Morty-sized holes all over the cathedral ceiling.

  He thought he was home free, ready to take his place in a shallow vestibule on the second floor of the south alley so he could get enough rest to keep him animate during his trip out foraging. But Hannah was waiting for him, leaning against the stone wall, her eyes expectant.

  “I didn’t forget my promise,” Morty said even though he had. “I’m just beat, is all. I’ve been animate for over twenty-four hours now. I need some shut-eye before I shut down.”

  “I know, I know,” Hannah said, bowing her head in apology. She held out a slip of paper. “I just wanted to give you this in case I didn’t see you in the morning before you left.”

  Morty took the slip and opened it, his eyes narrowing at the words.

  “Books?” he asked. “What a
bout all the books in the library?”

  “They’ve read them,” Hannah said. “At least the ones that are interesting. Most of those look like they were collected for show. Pretty leather binding, but boring words inside.”

  “Hannah, do you know how much space books take up?” Morty asked.

  “You’re strong,” Hannah stated.

  “Well, yeah, I am, but strength isn’t the issue,” Morty said. “It’s a matter of bulk. I can only hold so much while I fly.” He held out his arms then wrapped them across his chest to demonstrate. “See? I can’t waste the cargo space on books.”

  “We have to do something,” Hannah said. “The kids are getting bored. Bored teens are not a good thing. They’ll end up causing trouble which, from what I hear, is not something we can afford right now. I’d ask you to bring video games, but no power means no game systems.”

  “I could look for one of those handheld thingies that one kid brought in last year,” Morty said. “Maybe I can find a few of those.”

  “It’s been six years since the possessed took over,” Hannah said. “There aren’t going to be batteries to power the games. Books don’t take batteries and all you need is a bright patch of sunlight or a candle at night to make them work.”

  “Hannah . . .” Morty sighed.

  “If you can,” Hannah said, bowing her head again. “That’s all I ask.”

  “How much trouble can bored teens cause?” Morty asked. “It’s not like they can go anywhere. And they don’t have the power to harm the sanctuary.”

  “Has Elisa spoken to you?” Hannah asked.

  “Elisa? Yeah, she talked to me earlier,” Morty said. “I don’t see how that matters.”

  “She told you what she needed you to get?” Hannah pressed.

  “Yes, but what does. . . . Oh,” Morty said as he suddenly realized just what kind of trouble bored teens could get into. “Pregnancy test. Crap. Stupid biological beings.”