Yet the female dwarf showed no sign of flagging confidence. Her wounded leg slowed her down but soon she had taken up a position near the fountain and started waving her arms, trying to draw the demon’s attention.
Morget laughed wickedly and stabbed deep into the demon’s body, then jumped away. Croy pushed forward, slashing shallow cuts in its back with Ghostcutter. The demon was as easy to herd as a sheep, once you knew the secret. It would always move forward to attack whomever had struck it last. Between the two of them they got it to move exactly where the female dwarf pointed, toward a particular flagstone that looked exactly like the others.
“This was meant for that poxy prick with the magic sword,” she explained, “but it might work on yon pimple- leaving as well.”
“Might?” Croy asked.
She shrugged. They all held their breath as the demon flowed over the indicated flagstone.
Nothing happened.
“Blasted buggering bastard! Murin never could set a trap right. You,” she shouted, pointing at Morget, “cut that rope over there.”
Croy turned and saw the rope, hidden along one side of a tower block, but only for a moment. One of Morget’s throwing axes cut through it neatly. The lower end fell instantly to the ground, while the upper part disappeared, flashing up toward an eyelet mounted on the side of the tower. Meanwhile something dark and huge came hurtling down from the ceiling.
It proved to be a sheaf of paving stones tied together in a stack, suspended from high above by the rope Morget had just cut. They came down straight and true, right on top of the demon’s body. With a sickening wet crunch they struck and sent vast wet ripples through the monster’s body. Its blood squirted out through the perforations Croy had made in its skin, hot clear fluid splashing on nearby walls, landing with a grotesque sloshing noise in the fountain. The faces under its skin pushed hard against the fleshy envelope, their mouths open wide in silent howls of torment. The whole creature writhed in pain and rage, slapping wildly at the floor with its tendrils, stretching them out toward the knight, the barbarian, and the dwarf.
It was pinned, trapped, grievously wounded. The blow must have missed the central mass, however, for the demon did not perish instantly. Instead it raged and struggled and threw out wild tendrils, as if trying to crawl out from under the weight by moving in every direction at once. No matter how hard it flailed, however, it could not seem to get free.
“That should hold it,” the female dwarf said, panting for breath. She took a long stride back from the demon, never lifting her eyes from its squirming mass.
“It certainly makes our job easier,” Croy said.
Morget sneered. “A coward’s way. A creature like this deserves to be beaten in close combat, not trapped like a food animal and slaughtered at our leisure.”
Croy found it difficult to agree. Killing demons was a sacred duty-he’d taken vows to that effect. Yet nothing in the oaths he swore ever said he had to do it the hard way. He hefted Ghostcutter and stepped warily toward the convulsing monster, intending to cut pieces off of it until he found the central mass and could finally kill it.
A tendril whipped out toward his leg and he danced back. He started to bring his sword down to sever the tendril, but instead of rising to meet his blow, the appendage reached out farther-past his foot-straining and pulling on the flagstones until its substance was stretched like taffy. Then, with a sudden snap, it broke off from the main mass. The broken-off tendril flattened out and quivered while Croy watched, nauseated and fascinated at once. It formed a puddle on the floor, no wider than his two hands could cover. A single small face peered up out of its skin. And then it started to slither away, a tiny replica of the demon from which it had split.
“Don’t let it get away!” the female dwarf insisted.
Croy did his best to stab the thing, driving downward into its flesh with Ghostcutter’s point again and again until he worried he would blunt the sword on the flagstones. This miniature demon moved far faster and with far more agility than its larger parent had, however, and in moments the thing had escaped him, racing for the gallery. It did not slow as it reached the edge, but instead flung itself into empty space and the water below.
“Oh, for fie,” Croy said, one of the worst profanities he ever used. He leaned out over the edge and looked down but could see nothing but a faint splash, far below.
“Croy!” Morget called. “Beware!”
Croy turned around, not knowing what to expect. He changed his grasp on Ghostcutter’s hilt and ran back toward the trapped demon, only to see that it had spawned more limbs, which stretched and strained outward like the first.
With a series of sickening popping sounds, the arms snapped off and quivered to life on their own. One by one they started rippling across the floor, straight toward where Croy stood waiting for them.
“Any suggestions?” Croy asked, but Morget could only shrug. The barbarian drew Dawnbringer and came running toward the smaller demons, howling in battle fury, but there were far too many targets and they clearly had no intention of engaging him.
Croy whirled and struck as fast as he could, slicing at each of the miniature demons as it came past him. Most merely veered away from his blade. He caught some of them, but managed to do little more than spill their glassy blood, which barely slowed them. Morget smashed one with his boot, but as soon as he lifted his foot the demon reshaped itself and came dashing for the edge of the shaft again. Croy had time only to leap out of the way as an especially large one came oozing toward him at speed. One slid over his foot and he felt its corrosive touch burn into the leather of his boot. He yanked his foot backward and then spun around to watch the horde go flying off the edge of the gallery, to splash into the dark water far below.
“They’re gone,” he called, and Morget nodded. “The main body, though-what of it?” Croy asked.
The two warriors traded a look of horror, then hurried back to see what remained of the demon they’d trapped.
Not much, unfortunately. It had ejected most of its mass, leaving behind nothing more than its skin, which it shed like a snake. The limp envelope of the demon was already fuming and decaying in the cool air.
“No!” Morget howled. “No! This is too much!”
Chapter Sixty-seven
Malden and Cythera each took one of Slag’s arms, but the dwarf had to move his own legs. He stumbled forward, clearly moving only by instinct. His eyes rolled in his head and eventually caught on Malden’s face. “Lad,” he moaned. “Lad. Is that you?”
Malden hoisted the dwarf’s head up so he could see better. “It’s me,” he said. They were marching still through the rough tunnel, with elfin warriors ahead of and behind them. “Are you feeling any better?”
“I think I was sick,” Slag said.
“Many times,” Malden told him.
“Oh. That explains it, then.”
“What’s that?”
“Why my beard smells like somebody’s arsehole.”
The dwarf’s head drifted forward abruptly and he stopped walking. His dead weight was too much to bear and he slid toward the floor, out of Cythera’s hands, even as she tried to grapple him and keep him upright. Malden tried to prop him up again, but Slag had gone completely limp. He wouldn’t take another step. Malden looked over at Cythera and shook his head.
“You,” she said, addressing the elf in front of her. “Our friend can’t go any farther. He’s sick and he needs to rest!”
The elf turned to look her up and down, as if sizing up a horse he was buying. “Carry him. Or, if you prefer, I can run him through and we can leave him here to die.”
Cythera glared at the elf. “Your orders are to bring us in alive.”
The elf shrugged. “Orders! We receive so many of them, honestly. And sometimes they contradict each other. By the time we reach home the Hieromagus will have forgotten why he gave that order. Pick him up, keep moving, and don’t bother me again.”
