STONE DRAGON: A Prison Moon Series Romance Novel

by Marell, Alexandra

  Yes. No time to stop and bow for the cameras and earn a few extra rewards. A trick like that would only have them baying for more.

  She heard faint echoes of the mocking laughter ringing out across the sector at the unaware wyvern’s humiliation, and by association, the bastard warlord.

  Well, they could only kill her once. Only here they had ways of making a single death feel like a thousand years of torture. Time to go while that wyvern delivered an imaginary Claudia back to Othrid.

  Her trape-skin bundle, containing a few remaining strips of dried zegon flesh and a handful of berries, felt pathetically small as she retrieved it and made her escape. The wyvern promised her rations, a decent oiled and waterproofed cloak, and sturdy boots for their adventure. When the opportunity came, he brought only a small bag of berries, dried crusts, and a waterskin.

  In his own pack, he harboured a dragon scale. The most coveted currency on this moon. The yellow-hued scale now lay secreted in her own bundle, stolen when she finally convinced the wyvern to lie down and sleep after a long trek to the great forest. He caught up with her two days’ later, but it might be useful to barter her a few days of extra freedom.

  A quick tap into her intuition told her to keep heading west, to the mountains rising from the edges of the red Wastes. Above her, the wyvern showed off his imaginary victim to the larger, prism-shaped boxes, until the audience grew bored with laughing and demanded to see the warlord’s reaction when the creature turned up with a rock instead of the expected healer.

  A smaller orb shadowed Claudia’s dash to the west. The larger box led the wyvern to the east, over the gleaming malevolence of the Black Lake, the forest rim, and on to Othrid’s camp. And straight into the face of his legendary temper.

  Part of her longed to see Othrid choking back that temper for fear of bringing a wyvern apocalypse down on his head. For all their bluster, few of the warlords would risk such an insult.

  Shivers raced over her skin when she thought of where Othrid would spend all that displaced anger. But for now, she’d earned another audience reprieve, and the chance to put more distance between them.

  Panic propelled her on. Here, felons and abductees held audience favour, only as long as they offered something worth watching. Ratings were the Corporation’s only concern. The mantra they intoned like a prayer to some warped, decadent god.

  They’d be watching out for the moment her tenuous hold on the wyvern’s mind broke, and it came screaming back with vengeance in its eyes to finish her off.

  Sharp stones stabbed through the soles of her soft moccasins pounding the cracked soil. One, two three, she counted the steps, and with each painful stride a numbing calm seeped into her soul. Not much of a future out there, but it was hers to make.

  Another year in Othrid’s camp meant certain death, but somewhere on that looming range was a dragon who might offer life.

  Yes, life. Choose life, Claudia. The voice whispered, while all around her, glittering dragon ghosts haunted the wasteland on silent wings, their gleaming scales catching rainbows in the late-evening light.

  The dragons were dead, so they said. Gone, never to return. But they all lied.

  The fire said they lied.

  The hard soil turned to grit and looser dust, and then to a carpet of the thick, wiry stalks of the brolla plant that grew in the foothills of the ambracite mountains.

  Claudia slowed her pace, catching her breath, heaving air into her burning lungs. No sign of the wyvern, and with the sun melting fast into the horizon, she pictured the hunting parties in her wake hunkering down around campfires, confident a small, Earth female could not evade them for long. The thought brought a rare smile to her lips.

  They had no idea.

  At least another hour’s walk to the lower slopes, perhaps another to find somewhere relatively safe to lie down for the night. Holding back her flapping hair, Claudia checked out the camera orb, sparing some of her meagre energy reserves to visualise the operatives on some far distant world, controlling and deciding her fate. Only a small fish in this vast sea of virtual-reality stars, was she really important enough to let the audience meddle with the outcome of her little drama?

  Like emperors at the arena in ancient Rome, the more-elite paying public purchased the right to decide whether a victim lived to reap a reward, or died a grisly death. She could only hope they preferred a dragon reunion over her being beaten to the edge of death by Othrid or Veton.

  He was too far away to see the beast clearly in her mind, but she sensed the wyvern putting even more distance between them. If she made the mountain before it noticed her trick, she might find a hiding place.

  A traitorous thought filtered through the noise in her head.

  Validate this affinity with dragons and grab her chance to enter the Corporation hall of fame. To earn rewards that might even find their way into her pockets instead of Othrid’s.

  Oh, Dio. To even think such a thing. Give them dragons, and she betrayed a whole race.

  No, she hadn’t been ripped from her home to do that.

  Squinting her eyes against the dying light, she let the visions from the past fall away and studied the high peaks. One thing was certain in all of this. The fire that called her did not burn. This fire was sanctuary.

  She laughed softly. As long as the dragon didn’t take one look at her after his long sleep and promptly eat her as Serllia predicted.

  Behind her lay the warlord camp, and a life of slavery. Ahead, fire, and an uncertain future.

  No contest. With a deep breath, Claudia struck out for the rising mountain path.

  Chapter Three

  If the gods meant him to return, then they must send him the means.

  From his position, curled in what should have been his eternal repose, Tharius had a clear view of the steps leading down to his chamber. As he faded from life, his vision dimmed and his eyelids closed, but by some cruelty or jest of the gods, he retained the ability to see the steep rake of the carved grey stone, the dark opening at the crest leading to an upper chamber.

  To see was to hope for a saviour. To listen meant long days and nights spent tense and aware of every soft drip of water onto the chamber floor. Every scuffle of small paws scurrying along the walls. He heard the rattle of stones tumbling from the chamber roof, and the larger creeping boots of his few visitors.

  Those who chose to speak, to beg his pardon for disturbing his rest feared him in vain. Unless they came to touch to test whether they held the key to his release, they were quite safe from this petrified dragon’s wrath.

  Ten seasons into his dreaming, the floating eyes appeared, creeping into his chamber of rest, and lingering by the door as if ensuring a quick escape if he twitched or blinked. And then they grew bold, edging closer, roving over his still form, seeking signs of life.

  His life force dimmed now to a single spark locked tight and so deep it gave no heat, shone no light on the world. Bolder still, the orb-shaped eyes searched his chamber, sometimes aiming beams of white light into dark corners while seeking the golden hoard stolen long ago by the boldness of thieves.

  So many times Tharius dreamed of battling this unknown foe, but the floating eyes lost interest in the stone dragon that never moved. Then they came only in the pursuit of intruders too foolish, or perhaps too brave, to know the danger of invading his sanctuary.

  When the intruders ran away, some clutching a hastily snatched dragon scale lost when he was still flesh, the eyes followed them, interested only in their terror. No longer attracted by his great majesty.

  Word spread that this ancient temple yielded no more rewards. The glittering treasure, laid so reverently about him by his comrades to pay his way to Paradise, all gone. The wyverns found no more amusement in spitting on his inert form. With nothing left to steal, the temple grew quiet and still, the only sounds the drip of water on stone, faint echoes of the past and the occasional weary dragon sigh winding upwards through the chambers to mingle with the seeking wind.r />
  Stone mellowed with age. The great carved sagas, once bright with colour, began to blur to smudges on crumbling walls and within the silence, legends grew.

  Legends that said the female dragons were indeed no more. Gone, and with them, any hope of the touch that might bring him to life.

  The gods promised him life, which meant the legends lied, but where was his saviour? Did she not hear his silent screams? Sense his yearning on the air?

  Patience, the gods said. A lesson you have yet to learn. Had he known patience in that terrible war, they might have planned better. The females might have been saved.

  No! He acted while others talked. Something he would never regret.

  And softness, Tharius. You are too stern, too forbidding for the path we have chosen for you.

  Softness? He sneered at that. What need did a warrior have of softness? Such fancy notions fled with the coming of the invaders and the need to fight back and kill.

  Think on it, Tharius. For that is why you linger here.

  For so trivial a reason? The gods insulted him, a dragon with the intellect to debate the greatest and most rigorous works of philosophy. The dragon who saw no need of a mattress when sleeping on the hard ground taught better lessons.

  His mate had complained more than once about that. Until his stern refusal earned him a stoical acceptance and forbearing sighs. And when he listened to her silent pleas, she shunned his gift of a great bed, leaving him with no clues how to please her.

  He did what he thought best, but after a hundred years in his stone cage, he would admit that had he employed a little softness, his mate may have smiled more. Might have found cause to laugh with him.

  But what could he do? A union in time of war left no room for frivolity. The optimistic young dragon who wooed his mate like the best of them, was relegated to history the day the invaders came.

  But if these lessons were keys to his release, then he would heed them. What other choice remained to him?

  Over the years, the gods drew great amusement from his attempts to keep an impassive face. To quieten his tormented mind with images of flowers and fluffy juvenile creatures. This did not help his cause.

  To his shame, he remembered barely two lines of the love-sagas sung at the festivals of joining. He was hard. Meant for war. Though he treasured her and held her in the greatest of respect, looking back, he wondered if Ekala, his mate, might secretly have craved a little tenderness in their union.

  Why? he asked of the gods. When it is too late now, to make amends?

  What did he know but blood and war?

  You will see, Tharius. When she comes for you, then you will understand.

  * * *

  They said that Prison Moon One was a planet of ruins and old stones left to majestic decay by the first people. Stones with stories to tell, and histories written in blood. Those stories swirled around Claudia now, whispering, talking, and sometimes screaming for her to listen. She would. She had no choice.

  As she trudged the mountain path, she caught her first glimpse of the ancient temple crumbling into the high, ambracite mountain plateau. A monument to a dead dragon? She could only keep walking and find out.

  The more she thought about dragons, the more she questioned her sanity. Wyverns made no secret of their love of maidenly flesh. From the legends on Earth, the dragons didn’t seem so different. In stories and movies, they were rarely the good guys.

  Only here, history said they were.

  And now she might be one of them?

  Insane.

  Damp hair clung to her cheeks. She pushed it back, pausing on the mountain track to check out the distant pillars hung with creeping plants. If she climbed up there, the cameras would follow, and she’d lead the Corporation to what might be the best kept secret on Prison Moon One.

  She cast a quick glance at the camera orb waiting on her next move. During their escape, the wyvern told her the stone dragons were sometimes princes. More often fallen warriors awaiting transition to the next world. A kind of purgatory, he said, red eyes gleaming with malevolence. A time in which to contemplate their sins. Because no dragon deserved a swift ride to Paradise.

  This one had been under surveillance for enough years without moving that the authorities believed him dead and gone. A few brave mystics had laid hands on the statue to no avail, and when the viewers became bored with waiting, the Corporation moved on. Claudia turned away from the spying orb. Did this dragon know about her powers? Her possible connection to his race? Is that why his plea found her?

  Did he realise that of all the mystical beings on this moon, she’d be the last one to betray him?

  If she went up there, she’d give him away for sure.

  Claudia rubbed the goose bumps pricking her arms. Fingers numb from the chill of the late spring day, she grabbed at her flapping cloak, soaked by a day of steady, drizzling rain, and murmured a quiet prayer of grateful thanks for the breaking cloud and the sun finally peeking through.

  Blood spotted her hide moccasins, her feet stung from the long trek over sharp, stony ground. What wouldn’t she give for her Gucci boots with that little kitten heel right now? Terrible for walking this unforgiving mountain path, but Dio, she looked good in them.

  Memories of her former life kept her alive in the early days of her captivity here.

  Did her fans mourn the mysterious disappearance of Claudia Galrese, concert pianist and social media sensation? Were they making videos in tribute to the musical prodigy who’d simply vanished without a word of goodbye?

  Music still played in her imagination, but she’d resisted every impulse to pick up any of the surprisingly sophisticated instruments made in the camps and tease out its magic. Othrid the Grim stole her talents, but she refused to give him her music. That was locked inside her forever, now.

  Come on Claudia, smile for the camera. Things could be worse.

  Not every maiden got to rescue the dragon. She laughed. But then, when had her life ever been normal?

  Exhausted in the failing light, she perched on a ledge rubbing her sore feet, one eye on the track falling behind her, listening for sounds of pursuit. They hadn’t given up. Too valuable a commodity, too much drama left in this particular story for the Corporation to allow that.

  Think. She hadn’t come all this way to unlock a two-hundred-year-old secret for those bastards to hunt him down and kill him all over again.

  He’s been in that shell for hundreds of years. One night more will make little difference.

  Her orb-shaped friend hung out over the ledge, blinking and watching. An image of a cave formed in Claudia’s mind, a little way up the mountain, halfway to the temple ruins. Others had used it recently. Perhaps the people she met on her journey here. It felt safe enough to spend the night.

  Or it could be home to some carnivore waiting to cheat the dragon of his maiden. Dio! Why was everything concerning her own future always so clouded in mists and riddles? The camera orb made a little twisting dance, turning from side to side, as if listening in on her whirling thoughts. Thousands, maybe millions, of eyes were out there in space, waiting for her next move.

  Eyeing the malevolent little orb, Claudia considered offering a trade. The Corporation liked trades. Put on a good show, preferably with sex and blood, and they gave back with parcels of food, bolts of stiff cloth to make into clothing and use as shelter in the summer season. Medicines were particularly prized here in this place of easy death, and sometimes they threw in a few luxuries like bathing foam, and brushes for hair and teeth.

  Incentives for the prisoners to keep providing them with prime time fodder for the masses. Reality viewing was this moon’s only reason for being on anyone’s radar, now.

  From the chatter in the camps, the Corporation were obsessed with finding dragons to capture and fight in the arenas. Rumours ran rampant like wildfire, of the wyvern’s four legged kin flashing through the skies on shimmering wings.

  Awesomely beautiful, according to some stories,
and so far completely elusive. But if that fire really did turn out to be dragon shaped, things might be about to change.

  Tease that audience with promises of dragons, and she’d have to deliver. Or they’d take her head.

  Lifting her bundle, she flashed the camera a weary sigh and slumped her shoulders to add a little drama. No harm in leading the Corporation to the hidden cave. Likely they knew about it, anyway. A few spindly shrubs clung to the mountain path and hung from the steep mountain wall. Stripped bare by the birds, only a scattering of edible berries remained, but they’d keep her alive. After a year on the moon, experience as well as her gift told her the fat, juicy-looking, purple berries of the kialtha shrub were guaranteed to stop a living creature’s heart dead, while the shrivelled black pods hanging from grey, wiry stalks on the thorny shrubs they called rathene, provided enough energy to keep a large male walking for half a day.

  Claudia gathered as she walked, stashing the meagre rations in her pouch. Ahead of her, the stark mountain path narrowed, and wound around the mountain. Now, it was barely wide enough for two Earth-sized men to walk side by side. She hugged the sheer mountain wall, feeling the darkening path with her hands. At some points in the winding S shape, she glimpsed the plateau and the temple, drawing her on. The old ambracite stones, mined from the mountain, the smooth, marble-like rock particular to the moon, spoke to her.

  This temple suffered the same fate as all the monuments left by the first people. Stripped of its wealth and anything small enough to carry or haul down the path, the stones taken for building, it fell into decay and legends grew around it.

  Her seeking mind wound through empty chambers, over broken stools, implements, and cracked stone tablets. Descended the steps carved in the stone into chambers lit by flying, luminous bugs and beams of reflected light.

  Fatigue weighed her down. The images crackled and broke up, like static on a stuttering screen. Enough for tonight. If she managed to evade the camera, tomorrow, she’d take a walk up to the temple to discover if more than ghosts lived there.