StoneDragon

by Adrian Cross

  A croc swung a hammer at Rhino’s head. He blocked it and lashed out a fist, crushing the croc’s cheekbone. A wolf’s mace glanced off Rhino’s shoulder, and his sword took the Earth warrior’s legs out at the knees. The battle was fought in grim silence.

  There were simply too many of them.

  Not all of the Earth warriors were after Rhino. Some flowed around him and scrambled up the green wall toward Clay. One spider led the others, and Clay snapped an icicle into its stomach. Its legs spasmed and curled, and it fell away in a tight ball.

  Clay lifted the pistol and put the next shot into the melee attacking Rhino. An icicle punched into a cat man about to sink a knife into Rhino’s back. As he gurgled, Rhino spun and took off the cat man’s head.

  Clay looked down the wall again. A dozen creatures were climbing with more on their way. Soon, time to reload would be short.

  He slid fresh chambers into the pistol and then glanced at the Tower. The situation there was worse. Much worse. Bern faced Latine one on one. Bern was unarmed. Unassisted. In desperate need of help. Without a distraction, Bern was going to be dead shortly.

  Blood pounded in Clay’s ears. Boom. Boom. He could do nothing. Boom.

  Clay remembered JP’s warning about the black pistol. If the chambers broke, toss it away. It was too dangerous. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

  A hand closed on his ankle. A rat, grinning in triumph. Clay grabbed it by the throat and heaved it up. Then he smashed the pistol into the rat man’s face.

  Glass and bone both broke. Chemicals hissed. The pistol’s chamber darkened as the cylinders spilled into each other, foaming black and red. The pistol grew hot.

  Clay let the rat drop away. Below him, Rhino bellowed in pain and defiance. It didn’t sound good.

  Clay aimed the pistol at Latine, ignoring the growing heat in his hands. He locked his elbows and sighted down the barrel.

  Agony shot up one calf. New teeth gnawed his boot, clawed hands tried to drag him down. Clay sucked in a breath and squeezed the trigger.

  The pistol exploded. Fire rushed out of the barrel, a red icicle flamed away, and hot glass fragments spat in every direction. Clay twisted his face away, but spots of pain still burned his cheek. Then another explosion lifted him up and backward. For a moment, his boot scraped the edge of the thorn wall. He teetered, arms flailing, as his other boot desperately sought purchase.

  It found only empty air. Momentum carried Clay over.

  He fell.

  50

  Three Down

  Bern was not eager to die. But she was prepared to accept it rather than walk away from the mission she had given herself. As Mama had said, and Bern had learned the hard way, trying to be a hero had unfortunately little to do with shining armor and stirring words. Whether Bern would make a difference was another question, but she would not give in on the principles she had set herself. She would hold the line or die, even if she had to do it with her teeth.

  Admittedly, using her axes would be preferable. She just needed to find a way to get around Latine for them.

  She eyed the huge Earth god. Latine had not made it this far entirely unscathed. Rose’s bolt was still lodged in Latine’s shoulder. She no longer held the pole with the arm Buckland had smashed, even if she’d used it to punch Brock, and blood mattered the fur of her forehead from some other unknown wound. But her eyes flared with rage and determination. She lifted the blood-stained pole in one hand, its length battered and misshapen from the abuse she’d inflicted on it, and stepped toward Bern.

  Bern could think of nothing. No distraction sounded remotely plausible. The other soldiers were too distant and were occupied in holding back the remainder of Latine’s forces. She was on her own. She was going to die.

  A small red flare drew her eye sideways.

  “I will not be fooled,” Latine said. She brought the pole back farther, preparing to swing it at Latine, but then she paused, her eyes narrowing.

  The flare arced up and then dropped toward them. Bern tensed. She had no idea what miracle might have sent this, but she intended to take whatever advantage she could. Her life hung by a thread.

  The air tasted warm and sweet, cooling the sweat on her forehead. She focused on the Earth god before her, the placement of feet, shifting of balance.

  Maybe Latine saw the reflection of the shot in Bern’s eyes, or something else, because she arrested the swing and twisted. “What—”

  A line of fire rolled across her shoulder, knocking her forward. She bellowed and staggered, twisting to look where the blow had come from.

  Bern sprinted, fast and hard, cutting it so close she felt the softness of Latine’s tail as she shot past.

  “Hey…” Latine swung around again, the pole whistling.

  Bern dove and rolled, hearing the scrape of metal on stone behind her. Sliding and grabbing, coming up with her white axes in hand.

  She bared her teeth. “Let’s try this again.”

  Latine charged, maybe determined to end the battle before more flame came down, maybe simply angered by the constant challenges and nearness of Karen. But whatever the reason, this time the Earth god launched a flurry of blows; this time Bern danced smoothly among them. Metal rang occasionally as she caught swings, but never head on. Always with the minimum effort and optimal angle, letting Latine burn hot.

  Everything seemed clear around Bern, even minor details. The fleck of blood spinning off Latine’s neck. The twist of the pole that was meant to catch Bern off guard. The smooth pull of air into her lungs and burn of her calves as she pivoted. She’d never achieved this clarity in battle before. And in it, she saw her chance.

  Instead of fading back, drawing Latine on, Bern burst forward, rolling around the pole, one axe engaged, the other leisurely swiping out.

  Blood burst from Latine’s knee. Her leg twisted sideways, the upper and lower moving differently, a red gash opening between. Bern’s blade had cleaved the connections in the leg, and Latine pitched forward as she tried to follow Bern.

  Confusion and agony slowed the Earth god, and Bern danced in again, metal and flesh moving slowly and smoothly around her, and carved a similar line across Latine’s good elbow.

  The Earth god moaned, spat, a puff of dust spinning out from her saliva-streaked mouth. She lay chest down, arching up. She spat and tried to claw her way forward, as if becoming an embodiment of rage.

  Bern stepped back.

  “I will kill you all!” Latine frothed. “I will heal and teach you what it’s like to break. I will—”

  A shape limped up beside Bern, its silver armor dirt stained and streaked with blood. One of Brock’s arms hung uselessly, but the other held Buckland’s hammer, heavy and pitted. Brock stared down gravely at the Earth god.

  “You will not pass,” he said and brought the hammer down on her skull.

  Bern stared numbly at the remains of the last Earth god, then at her uncle, then finally at the Earth army below, which continued to froth, dark and furious, against the thinning wall of defenders. All humanity was absent in the faces of the attackers, but it didn’t take humanity to kill, she realized. Just rage and strength.

  “We will hold the line,” Brock said. “While we stand.”

  She nodded. “We will.”

  51

  Fires of Hell

  Fear thundered through JP. He crouched under the trap door, staring at the sword tip that had driven through. It wiggled, chips of wood drifting loose, and then jerked back up.

  If he didn’t move away, he risked his skull being the next thing with a hole in it. He shot a fast glance around, saw steps descending from the platform, and half-crabbed, half-slid down their bumps, sprawling at the bottom on another cold stone floor.

  Another crack above announced that the angel hadn’t given up on digging JP out. He suspected they’d never intended to let him get that far. He wondered if their game above was aimed at him or the impaled man. JP would guess the latter.

 
He needed a plan, and fast. He took a more deliberate look around.

  The room was a similar size and shape as the one above, with a couple of differences. The first was the most positive. No dark angels were present, although JP didn’t think that would last long.

  This room was also more purposeful in its design, which hit JP hard in the chest. Circular patterns were etched in the floor with specific metal coils, ones he’d become familiar with in his research for Clay’s black pistol. They spoke to the physics that still worked in StoneDragon, as well as a few interesting features unique to it alone. The glittering lines ended at four great windows, their arched frames as big as JP. Before each squatted a thick stone basin, holding in turn a clear thick liquid that appeared to be on fire, flames snaking overtop.

  The windows were one-way glass; this room was invisible to the residents of StoneDragon below. But JP immediately grasped what this room was. It was the control room for whatever secrets the Tower contained. And looking at the metal designs, he had a vague idea what those secrets were.

  He wondered if the angels knew what this room was. He was certain they hadn’t intended him to get this far. Although they couldn’t be sure of his skills, they must have recognized his resemblance to their captive. JP had a reluctant theory that the man above must have been the one who built this place. Dear God, how old was this Broken Tower? Could that actually be possible? How could he have any sanity left, if so?

  The slam of a weapon against the trap door jerked JP out of his thoughts. Someone above keened. JP prayed it was a black angel expressing rage, rather than his alter-ego being tortured.

  This room had a trap door, too. JP stared at it for a long moment, before shifting his gaze back to the windows. He could see the Earth army from here, the battle that raged on the ground below. He moved closer, until he could see the last desperate stand the residents of StoneDragon made at the base of the Tower. It looked like the great trees that were holding the tear open in the Wall were crumbling, but the sheer numbers of Earth warriors beneath and on the stairs told the story and its ending. StoneDragon as Clay had known it was coming to an end.

  JP shifted his gaze to the flames licking over the basins. The prisoner had told him to make them burn.

  He had an uneasy feeling he knew what that meant.

  A sword appeared again in the trapdoor, then another, a large hole opening. A black-clawed hand appeared, scrabbling for the bolt. It was still too far away. But JP’s time was running out fast.

  Make them burn.

  Was this his war?

  How could it not be, with what he’d seen above? JP wasn’t sure what his actions would mean for the man on the spear of crystal, but the look on that man’s face had said any change would be good, even if it was just the end.

  JP felt like throwing up. He remembered the Prophet’s words. To survive what you have built, you must die. Had he built it? Was that him up above?

  He yanked off his jacket and wrapped it around his left forearm, leaving his fingers free. He had known what the flames meant as soon as he’d seen them. Great power should have a price, a reason to hesitate before unleashing a weapon. The burn of flame was a good focus for thoughts and whether something was really necessary.

  JP plunged his hand into the fire-filled basin. The pain was intense but brief, as his fist sunk into the cool liquid underneath, but the flames still gnawed at his upper arm, chewing on the jacket and searing his shoulder and cheek, even as he leaned away. The pain made his fingers spasm. But they had already closed around the handle they sought, locking on it.

  JP moved his hand. The handle was a simple joystick. As he shifted it, a massive stone protrusion moved with it, redirecting down. JP squeezed.

  From the stone turret, great cables of fire lashed out. They swept along the base of the stairs, immolating the forces that milled beneath, flame washing out on either side, then reaching out to the great trees, smashing them down.

  The trapdoor above exploded with the force of many swords. A hand gripped the bar and slammed it sideways, and the door dropped open again. An angel’s face appeared, twisted in rage.

  JP turned the handle and let go, falling backward. Flame shot up from the basin, higher than before, beating at his face, his hair. His hand burst into agony as it trailed through the flame. He rolled away, whipping at the flaming coat, trying to escape the building flame. It consumed the entire quarter of the room the basin had occupied.

  Flame rolled across the ceiling and washed over the unprepared dark angel. He cried out and disappeared.

  With a crash, all four windows blew apart. JP ducked his head and crawled through the other trapdoor he had seen.

  Flame rushed up into the room above. He heard roars and screams. A human voice bellowed above all, high and wild, triumphant in its release. Then it ended with an awful finality.

  JP fell through the door, yanking it shut behind him. This time, he didn’t bother with the bar, but rather twisted and ran as fast as he could, finding a downward-heading staircase. He moved fast and watched for any stain of red light.

  The dark angels wouldn’t have stayed inside with the fire. They would be hunting him, from the exterior of the Tower. He would have to use guile and his growing understanding of the building to stay alive.

  The old man’s scream of release echoed in JP’s ears as he ran, and tears burned his cheeks. What had he done?

  52

  World Flares Red

  The thorn wall flashed up around Clay as he fell backward. Time slowed, his mind spinning image after grisly image: Bern’s body ripped apart, Karen dying horribly, his body smashed and broken on the stone below, helpless to stop it.

  Something crashed into his back—but it wasn’t stone. Bodies crumpled under him instead, yelling, as he smashed into a mass of Earth warriors. He felt hot skin, coarse fur, and slick armor. The Earth warriors under him struggled to drag free their weapons, even as teeth snapped and saliva splashed Clay’s cheek. He found himself looking into bloodshot eyes much too close to his own, full of frustrated rage.

  Incredibly, he made it to his feet first; a hand locked around a wolf man’s wrist, trying to hold the Earth warrior’s sword at bay, even as pain spiked in Clay’s other elbow. A rat man had sunk his teeth in, beady eyes triumphant.

  Clay yanked the wolf’s sword hilt sideways so it smashed into the rat man’s face. Then he drove his newly freed elbow into the wolf’s face. Clay held on to the sword even as the wolf man dropped.

  At that point, Clay began to fight in earnest.

  Enemies surrounded him. He couldn’t see Rhino or Jonathan. A massive cat knocked him back into the thorns, teeth snapping. He rolled along the wall, barbs ripping at his exposed skin, even as claws scraped along the sleeve of the coat. Shredded as it was, it still gave some protection.

  Clay gained a foot of space and chopped into the cat’s neck.

  More rats hit him, pressing him back into the wall, a storm of blows raining down, hitting coat, skin, wall. He ducked and hacked, fighting on instinct, and managed to throw them back again.

  Blood was dripping into his eyes, gumming his eyelashes and turning the world red.

  Clay pushed forward, no longer willing to just defend himself, but instead savagely attacking: chopping, cutting, getting knocked to one knee and then surging up again, blade driving into the gut of the bear who’d brought him down. He spun his sword in a vicious circle, legs spread, howling a challenge.

  The Earth warriors roared back, coming at him in numbers too great to count. Clubs, blades, and teeth cut Clay, bruised him, buffeted him around. His attackers were hampered only by their very numbers, the shreds of his coat, and how Clay killed them, one after another, until his arms burned with exhaustion.

  But he wasn’t invincible, wasn’t healthy. Blow after blow hit him, weakening his knees until his vision compressed.

  Something dove into him from behind, driving him to the ground. He rolled, avoiding the mace that would have crushed his
skull, but couldn’t find the space and leverage to regain his feet. The sky filled with the furred faces of Earth warriors, twisted in blood lust. The world seemed to stand still.

  Then it flared red—literally.

  The ground bucked, throwing the Earth warriors from their feet. A sound battered Clay’s ears, like a train collision. Wind hammered him, knocked down everyone still on their feet.

  Silence returned, color leaching slowly back into the shocked and shaken world. Clay’s ears rang.

  He staggered to his feet, not knowing what had spared him but still ready for one last chance to take more enemies with him to the final Gate.

  He waited for the next attack, but it didn’t come. The Earth warriors were scattering, snapping at each other, then turning to face something behind them. Clay frowned. What the hell?

  Earth warriors crumbled, panicked, fell. A new force had hit them from behind, coming in through the gap in the thorn wall, deadly and efficient. Clay backed up until he hit the thorn wall, sword ready.

  A massive wolf sank down, not far from him, life stolen away, as a dark figure slipped past him. Clay realized there was more than one shadow. They wove all around, cutting down attackers with vicious precision. The attackers ran or melted away, leaving only empty space around Clay.

  As if his attackers had been all that were holding him up, Clay swayed. He found himself on one knee, not quite sure how he’d gotten there.

  The rat man beside him wasn’t quite as dead as he looked. He tried a weak stab. Clay backhanded him—and the rat must have been hurt worse than Clay because the rat didn’t get back up again. Luckily.

  Coughing, Clay planted the tip of the sword against the cobblestones and tried to lever himself up again, through sheer willpower. That didn’t end well, with his sword skittering away from his hand. He fell, cheek to stone, unable to move. Pain swelled through him, and he tasted blood.