Jonathan Strahan - Swords & Dark Magic - The New Sword and Sorcery

It howled—but the cry was one of blunted frustration.

The imp slipped under, over, and around the mob clamoring at the doorway, leapt through to find itself in a room with naught but demons lashing about, gouging the walls in fury.

The lanterns had been kicked against the walls.

The five humans were gone.

Where?

Ah—the imp caught sight of a gaping hole in the floor.

With frantic screeches, it commanded the demons to pursue, and the one closest to the trapdoor slithered through, followed quickly by the others.

Clever humans! But how fast could they run?

Not fast enough!

The imp awakened the rest of its children, and curdling howls erupted from countless chambers.

The first demons swarmed down the ladder to the first subterranean level—there were a half-dozen such levels, a maze of narrow, low-ceilinged, crooked passageways bored in the hill’s enormous mound. Storerooms, cisterns, armories, cutter surgeries, and wards. It had been centuries since the demons last scoured these tunnels.

The imp sensed their sudden confusion—the stench of the humans went off in each of the three possible directions, and then two more at a branch ten strides along the main corridor. They had panicked! Now each fool could be hunted down, dragged to the grimy, greasy cobbles in a burst of blood and entrails.

Chittering with excitement, the imp sent demons after every one of the pathetic, wretched things.

A demon slunk noiselessly down a cramped passage, nostrils glistening, dripping in answer to the sour smell of a human hanging like mist in the dark air. Jagged black jolts ripped through its brain in waves, a jarring hunger that trembled through its elongated torso, shivering down its gnarled limbs to softly clatter its claws and talons.

The long sleep was an ugly, cruel place, and awakening was painful with savage need.

It came upon a foul woolen cloak, lost in the quarry’s frantic flight. The demon crouched and breathed deep, stirring memories of centuries-old slaughter. Lifting its head, it reflexively spread wide its jaws, and crept forward.

At a sound behind it the demon spun around.

A studded, gauntleted fist smashed into the demon’s face, crushing its snout, sending shards of splintered fangs into the back of its throat. The fist drove home again, snapping the demon’s head against the wall. And again, and again.

Sergeant Flapp’s fist was a blur, a rapid mallet that repeatedly pounded the pulped mess that was the demon’s head while his other hand held the thing up by the neck. When the meaty, crunching sounds gave way to the hard impact of a skull plate driven flat against the stone of the wall, he stepped back and let the twitching fiend slide to the floor.

He could hear more coming up the corridor.

Flapp collected his cloak and set off down the narrow side passage he had been hiding in—watching the demon sidle past—only moments earlier.

Three demons skidded around at the intersection and sprinted on all fours, voicing deep growls that would shiver the hair off a pack of wolves. The lead one’s head exploded in a spray of blood and bone as Wither’s quarrel took it between the eyes. Sprawling, its limbs entangled the demons behind it and they howled in fury.

Ten loping strides down the passageway, Wither stepped back out of sight, into the side corridor—a narrow chute barely wide enough to let her pass. Wedging the crossbow crossways at chest height just within the entrance, she took two steps back, drawing her two longswords, and waited.

The first demon’s forelimbs wrapped claws around the corner to slow it down as it lunged into the chute.

The iron crossbow brought it up short, clipping its lower jaw and snapping its head down.

Wither selected that inviting bald pate as a suitable target and swung down with both blades.

Brains splattered the walls.

The demon suddenly crowding behind it shrieked as a quarrel tore through its neck from farther up the main corridor. Gasping red froth, it staggered back and decided on a noisy death.

Wither kicked the virtually headless demon away and, sheathing one sword, wrenched loose her crossbow, and then set out down the chute.

Twenty paces along the main corridor, Huggs dropped the crossbow stirrup, set her boot toe on it, and tugged the cord into lock, wincing as the wound in her shoulder flared with pain. Slotting a new quarrel, she plunged into the gloom. Of course, demons could see in the dark, and some of them could see any hot-blooded beastie, but when hungry, they preferred to follow their noses and that was a savage yank on their leashes (not that they had leashes, not these ones anyway).

And their eyes, why, they blazed and made perfect targets.

She could hear more coming. Some would take off after Wither. The rest would latch on to her tail. She hurried off.

Crowded by four of its fellows, a demon crouched in an intersection. Human trails led into opposing corridors. It hesitated. The one behind it snarled and darted to the left, and then skidded to a halt as it stumbled on a discarded cloak. It grunted in confusion, and then whirled—

The man with the jutting yellow teeth launched himself from the corridor to the right, throwing all his weight behind a sword thrust that punched through the demon in the intersection, piercing both hearts, the hilt slamming hard against ribs. Leaving the weapon there, he ducked down, twisting to drive one scale-armored elbow into the next closest demon, caving in its forehead.

The remaining two demons collided with each other in their eagerness to reach him.

Dullbreath stepped back, and then drove a boot into the heavy balls dangling between the legs of one of the creatures. As it sank back with a grinding groan, the last demon was suddenly unimpeded and with a shriek it flung itself at the man. He caught its throat with both hands and squeezed in a single lightning-quick clench that crushed the demon’s windpipe. Throwing the twitching thing aside, Dullbreath drew his hunting knife and sliced open the throat of the demon he’d kicked, since he was feeling merciful.

Sheathing the knife, he tugged loose his sword, collected up his crossbow, and set off, snagging up his cloak along the way.

One hand trailing along a wall—keeping herself straight as she ran mostly blind in the darkness—Huggs felt the sudden gap to her right. Sliding to a halt, she backed up—fighting sounds from somewhere down there. Savage-sounding stuff, maybe even desperate.

She knew she had a few and maybe more coming up behind her. Whoever she helped out might curse Huggs if she led them down after her—trapping Huggs and whomever else between two slavering mobs.

Oh well. She hefted her crossbow and darted down the side passage.

She heard a solid thunk —like the world’s biggest crossbow—and that worried her, until she heard demonic shrieks of agony and rage.

Someone’s found a new toy?

Clattering claws behind her, closing fast, and that wasn’t good.

Huggs halted, crouched, raised her weapon, and waited until she saw the gleam of the first demon’s eyes. Took that one down easy. Dropping the crossbow, she drew her sword into her right hand, her crack-finder into her left.

Four more sets of blazing eyes rushed upon her.

“Drop flat!”

Huggs did.

A thunderous whoosh raced over her. Sudden mayhem up the corridor, as a huge pig of a barbed quarrel ripped through three of the damned things, gouging a shoulder of the fourth one. Laughing, Huggs leapt to her feet and charged it.

With a squeal, the demon fled as fast as three working limbs could take it.

“Shit.” Huggs halted, jogged back, peered in the darkness. “Who?”

“Wither—listen, found a whole storeroom of these fuckers. Siege arbalests.”