by Adrian Cross
Despite its ominous name, the Blood Bowl was a small, nondescript courtyard in the center of the Free Zone, looming large in StoneDragon’s legends and history. History Clay was betting Mendonia didn’t know. The Blood Bowl was where Ripper had announced himself to StoneDragon.
It happened years before Clay’s arrival, before Rhino’s and Candiman’s ascendancy. What was known as the Free Zone had been the Red King’s territory.
The Red King had been a creepy man, with a reputation that made many people seek another Boss to rule them. Small and fat, the King would skip cheerfully through the city dressed as a picture book character, in floppy shoes and puffy hat. But his shiny eyes were not quite right, and dark rumors swirled around his late night appetites. No matter what was said about him, though, his soldiers were ruthlessly disciplined. He paid them well.
Two of his soldiers, one young, one old, first saw the tall figure in the courtyard. The stranger was lean, pale, and clad in unfamiliar armor. His eyes were so dark as to be nearly black, and he carried two unsheathed blades. The older guard challenged the figure.
“Mine,” the stranger said, and his blade licked out, slicing the old soldier’s throat.
The young guard stared in disbelief. Then he dropped his sword and ran, bringing the story to the Red King himself. The Red King looked at the young man thoughtfully, then ordered his guards to chop off the young man’s feet so he wouldn’t run again. Then the King led a dozen of his soldiers to the courtyard. He didn’t hurry. Surely the stranger wouldn’t be silly enough to stay there.
He was. The warrior stood in the center of the courtyard. “Mine,” he repeated.
Unsavory or not, the Red King had an ample dose of low cunning. He hung back and watched from a safe distance as his men attacked—and died. It didn’t take long for the Red King to emulate his young guard’s response.
He called together the other Bosses. All the major powers of the time attended: the Camelot Queen and her unearthly knights—later broken by Rhino with an eight-foot axe—the Prophet and his Disciple, before the dark truth spread and the Disciple rebelled; the Kenyan Aviator; the first four of the Ten Rich Men; and a scattering of lesser powers.
Together, they agreed to join forces against the new enemy. At the time, some of the lesser Bosses grumbled—well out of the Red King’s hearing—that it was overkill, a token sign of respect in the face of rampant paranoia by one of StoneDragon’s greater powers. But it wasn’t.
For six hours, Ripper fought everyone who entered the courtyard, one after another, then several at once, as the Bosses threw their toughest followers at him. Blood soon coated the stone walls: from shining knights, fanatical priests, and wily mercenaries. When the sun’s light paled the sky above, the Bosses faded away, beginning with the Red King. The Aviator was next, badly wounded. The Prophet trailed after the Aviator, seizing the opportunity to get rid of his rival, and then finally the Camelot Queen departed, after losing two of her five knights. She bowed to her opponent before conceding the field.
In a single night, Ripper carved himself a territory. He painted its borders in blood in the days that followed, killing any pack of soldiers that stayed too long in his territory. He restricted his actions within the borders of what would be called the Free Zone, even though he never tried to rule the land he claimed. He never bothered anyone who wasn’t a soldier. And he never gave a reason for his actions.
Clay leaped over a pile of tumbled stones and skidded to a stop in the center of a cracked and rundown courtyard. A weathered wall curved around them in a semicircle, its stones grey and faded.
“There’s no way out,” JP said, panic in his voice. He didn’t know where they were, of course—and Clay guessed the teenager wouldn’t have felt better if he had.
A shadow materialized in the courtyard’s open gate, blocking their escape. The Wall’s red light illuminated rough features and burning deep-set eyes. Mendonia smiled with an almost unholy joy. He was in no rush.
“Hello, Clay.”
Shadows moved behind Mendonia and formed into five of his followers, who spread out along the inside of the wall, circling Clay and JP. They all had the heavy limbs and up-curving fangs as their leader, although Mendonia remained the biggest, his chest twice as deep as a normal human’s, his arms thick and swollen as wooden kegs.
The other Spartans also seemed cruder than their leader, less finished. They lacked his fluid grace, but it went beyond that. Their mouths hung open in anticipation or hunger, their heavy shoulders slumped forward, and their beards and armor were fouled with chunks of gore. Two lacked clothing or armor completely, other than shreds of cloth wrapped around their waists. But every sword was burnished, every eye gleamed with hunger as they stared at their prey.
Clay pushed JP behind him. He had a feeling things were going to get ugly, fast.
Mendonia’s lips drew back. “Are you done running, little man?”
Clay looked around. He’d made it to his destination; it just remained to execute the second half of his plan. Survive long enough to see if Ripper was offended by the Spartan’s presence and made an appearance. And then survive that too. Even to Clay, the plan felt flimsy.
He gripped the blue dagger at his back. If Ripper didn’t show, it was going to be up to Clay to protect JP. Clay didn’t think he’d survive the effort, but he would do his damnedest to make sure JP did. “Get ready to run if this goes bad,” Clay said.
JP was quiet behind him. Clay hoped it was the silence of agreement, but he couldn’t take the time to dwell on it. First, he needed to buy some time. A familiar white anger rose in him. If he was going to go down here, he didn’t plan on doing it quietly or by himself.
“You know what I wonder, Mendonia?”
The Spartan leader tilted his head.
“Are vampires related to mosquitoes? Maybe I should replace the pistol with a fly swatter. What do you think?”
“I think it’s not funny,” Mendonia said ponderously. “This time, the joke will be ours. Although no one will laugh when they hear it. People will remember this spot for its horror.”
“You’re a little late on that one.”
Mendonia frowned, apparently missing the reference, and then shook his head. “You don’t know how much I hate you,” he hissed. “You chased us into hell, into the black night where monsters feed. But we refused to give up. We survived on the flames of vengeance. How sweet it will be to humble your kind, make you taste what it’s like when the other side cheats.” He smiled, lips pulled tight against the thick fangs. “That time has come.”
Irritation swelled in Clay. Despite his own goal of buying time, he had to restrain the urge to charge at the Spartan. He had to think of JP and Karen, not just himself. The more time he could buy, the better. “Understood. You’re going to suck our blood and kill us. Original.”
“No!” Mendonia’s smile shone cruel as a blade slipping in. “I have other plans. Would you like to hear them?”
Clay guessed he might not, but he needed time. He shrugged.
“First, I’m going to break your bones, one at a time,” Mendonia said happily. “Then I’m going to eat your limbs while you’re still alive and watching. That is easier than you might think, if I feed you some of my blood. Not enough to infect you, just enough to make the pain last. Then I’ll do the same to your little friend. In fact, maybe I’ll do him first.”
JP’s breathing was fast and harsh behind Clay. Rage enveloped Clay so it was hard to hear. His own voice sounded thick and distant. “No.”
Mendonia’s smile spread. “Yes. And I haven’t even told you the best part yet.” He looked around him. “Are you hoping for rescue? It seems like you’re waiting for something. But no one’s coming. The monstrosity’s castle is burning, and the dwarves don’t know where you are. And I don’t think you have any other friends, cowboy, not ones that would be looking for you tonight.”
“What is it you want to tell me?” Clay asked thickly.
Mendonia drew
his sword. He examined the bronze blade, charred slightly at its tip. He spun it in one hand, loosening his wrist, then the other. The sword blurred with his power.
“Back home, in our lair, we’ve dug out a pit. When you’ve watched your little friend die, I’m going to carry your limbless body with me, still breathing. I’m going to drop you into that pit. Then I’m going to let your girls fight for you.”
Clay’s windpipe closed. It was all he could do to scrape the sound out. “Girls?”
“Didn’t I mention?” Mendonia smirked. “I have both girls you’ve spent time with lately. The blonde and the brunette.”
The world swayed around Clay for a moment, and there was a rushing in his ears. Karen and Bern. Dear Lord. Mendonia had them. Clay didn’t doubt for a moment the Spartan spoke the truth. They could have chopped that tree down and taken Karen. And he could picture Bern chasing him into the darkness, into the hands of the Spartans. Guilt and rage roared up in Clay’s chest, making his hands tremble. He couldn’t save anybody.
“When I say they will fight over you, I don’t mean to save you, of course,” Mendonia continued. “By the time you see them, they won’t be as you remember. Infecting someone is easier when they’re near death, so my soldiers are going to help them along with that. Then, at the right time, we’ll give them a little of our blood and…” He shrugged. “They’ll be starving for flesh by the time you arrive. At least you won’t have to worry about funeral arrangements.”
Clay felt like throwing up. His hands trembled. He wanted to kill Mendonia so badly he could taste it: throw himself at the Spartan, draw the dagger, go down under a tide of infected bodies. It was suicidal. Clay knew it, but it was hard to care under the avalanche of rage sweeping over him.
Mendonia smiled happily. “Oh yes, this was a good plan.”
Clay looked back at JP. The teenager stood straight and still, eyes inky pools of shadow. He didn’t look young. If Clay died, so did the girls and JP, even if he took Mendonia with him. Clay drew in a rasping breath, then another, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t throw his life away. He had to survive, if only for them.
“I might keep one alive,” Mendonia added, “if she asks nicely. As a slave of course, but you’d be surprised at what people will do to survive. And of course, only if she killed the other prisoner first. She’d have to earn it.”
Time. Time was more precious than air. Surely Clay’s hope wasn’t misplaced.
“I understand you hate me,” Clay grated. “But why take it out on them?”
Mendonia stepped close enough Clay could see the pebbled texture of the Spartan’s skin, the pink webbing of veins in his eyes, and the twine cord that swung out from his massive chest as he leaned forward. A dark bone dangled at the cord’s end.
“You need to suffer,” Mendonia whispered, “as I did. To be helpless to save those you care about. To know it’s because of you that they will die a horrible death. Because you are not strong enough to save them. Do you understand? That’s why I’m doing this. That is what I want.”
Clay almost lost track of what Mendonia was saying as he stared at the bone bouncing against his bronze chest-plate. The bone was dark and curved, just like the object he’d seen sticking out from Karen’s boot—
Realization rocked him. It was the Golden Rib. Mendonia had taken it from Karen. According to Resh, it was one of Horan’s most powerful tokens. That was why Karen had stolen it. Clay looked at the Spartan’s odd fangs and swollen body and wondered if the Rib was the cause of his unique infection. Did the Spartan know what he had? Karen wouldn’t likely have told him. But somehow he must have sensed its power, or it wouldn’t still be around his neck.
Time. Clay needed time.
“What about the Earth gods?”
Mendonia laughed. “What about them? They’re doing me a favor. They can kill whoever they want in this rotting cesspit of a city for all I care. Once StoneDragon Shifts, it will leave them behind, and I’ll take over whatever’s left. And if those half-cooked half-gods make the mistake of messing with me, I’ll kill them, too.”
Mendonia’s voice held no ounce of doubt that he could do it. He was truly scary.
Clay heard a scuff of sand. It sounded like it came from the top of the wall. Hope surged. He fought it down, forcing his voice to stay casual. “What then?” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that one of the Spartans was gone. No one else noticed; they weren’t looking for it.
Mendonia jabbed his sword at the blood-red sky. “People will bow to me, or I will make flags of their salted skins. StoneDragon will worship me like a god!” The Rib bounced on his chest, and Clay wondered if he was more right than he knew.
A wind swirled around the courtyard. Clay noticed two Spartans were missing. The splay-footed soldier to Clay’s left looked confused, turning slowly in a circle.
Mendonia dropped his sword point to aim at Clay. “But before all that, you will die.”
Clay grinned. “I don’t think so. You’re still an embarrassment to your people.” Then he jumped back as Mendonia’s sword hissed past his throat. The tip tugged at the collar of Clay’s coat, just missing his throat. Mendonia was extremely fast.
Clay shoved JP one way and dove the other, dragging out the blue dagger. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the splay-footed Spartan fly up and backward, like a boneless puppet.
Oh yes, Ripper had arrived.
Clay figured their odds of surviving had improved. But only slightly. Ripper hadn’t earned his reputation by saving kittens and coddling grandmas. He might be as dangerous as Mendonia. But any improvement was welcome.
Clay brought up his blade just in time as Mendonia fell upon him in a flurry of sword strokes. Mendonia seemed unaware of Ripper’s actions behind him, blinded by his fury.
Clay backpedaled. He was fast. He always had been, faster than anyone he’d ever met. It had kept him alive as a gunfighter back home, then as a Fist in StoneDragon, the most dangerous city the world had ever known. But Mendonia was fast too, inhumanly strong, and his blade outmatched Clay’s in reach. Clay was in trouble almost immediately.
He chopped the dagger around to deflect a sword thrust, metal scraping metal, but Mendonia’s blade disengaged immediately, snapping up and back in preparation for a new blow. The world slowed, and Clay’s vision narrowed to the few square feet in front of him, the dance of metal and muscle as he desperately evaded Mendonia’s blade, whipping back and forth.
Then the dagger slid a fraction of an inch too far, and Mendonia’s sword leaped for Clay’s face.
Clay dove sideways, the faintest burn of metal brushing his cheek, and landed hard, shock jarring his elbow. Mendonia jumped after him, grunting as he chopped at Clay’s head.
Clay rolled. Gravel stung his neck as the blade crashed into the ground beside him. Clay lashed out with the back of a fist, trying to snap the blade, but Mendonia was too fast, jerking the sword out of reach. Then he chopped it back down, with brutal power.
Clay deflected it with the dagger—mostly.
Mendonia’s sword caught Clay’s shoulder, parting the scales of his coat. Pain erupted in a hot line.
Clay drove a boot up into Mendonia’s chest. The Spartan staggered back, breath bursting out in a harsh exhalation that turned into a snarl as he lifted his weapon, preparing to finish Clay off. Then he made a small sound of surprise. He looked down—
To see a blade protruding from his chest. It was thin and pale and had carved right through the bronze of his breastplate.
A memory flashed unbidden into Clay’s mind: Rhino’s painting of the Last Great War. The figure behind Mendonia was familiar: tall and pale, with crystalline armor and large dark eyes. Shock rolled over Clay.
The Ripper was a Creeper. Humanity’s greatest enemy.
Time re-accelerated. JP pulled Clay to his feet. The last couple of Spartans, who must have grabbed JP initially, converged on the greater threat, attacking Ripper in a spinning mist of swords and blood—most of it their
s.
Ripper had pulled his sword out of Mendonia’s chest. The Spartan staggered a step, clutching his wound and coughing, so close Clay could have reached out and touched him.
Without thinking, Clay slashed, grabbed, and jumped away. He hadn’t aimed for Mendonia’s throat, but rather the cord around it. The Golden Rib rested in Clay’s hand.
Mendonia straightened, taking a shuddering breath. Clay wasn’t sure the Spartan had noticed the missing Rib yet. Through the gaping tear in tunic and armor, Clay saw Mendonia’s skin and muscles pull and knit together. He was healing even from that terrible wound. The Spartan turned—
Just as the last of his soldiers slid off the Ripper’s blade. The other Spartans didn’t seem to have Mendonia’s awful resilience. They stayed down.
The two huge warriors faced one another, Mendonia’s eyes hot and furious, the Ripper’s alien and cold.
Clear blades curved out from the Ripper’s carapace at shoulders, elbows, and calves, like panes of shattered glass or as if he were some demented god of knives. He was nearly eight feet tall but insect lean. His armor flowed over his form like faceted crystal, as if he’d been formed whole out of the deep metals below the earth. Blood dripped from his blade into the thirsty soil.
“Mine,” he said.
Mendonia shook his head. He was huge and hunched, an elemental power rolling through his body and his eyes blazing with a fanatical light. “Mine,” he replied.
They crashed together, in a clash and moan of metal.
Clay stared, mesmerized, until JP grabbed his arm.
“We need to go!”
JP was right. They wouldn’t want to be here to face either one of the combatants, when the winner was decided. Clay let himself be pulled away.
29
The Caves
Bern hurt. A low throb pulsed in her right jaw, and her shoulder and stomach ached. She vaguely remembered struggling in her attacker’s grip, getting an elbow free, and connecting briefly, with a satisfying smack, before a rain of blows had driven her to semi-consciousness. She had a vague memory of her axe left carelessly in the ash of the street, disappearing behind them as she was carried away. Acid burned her throat. Bastards.